#it's neat to see its words though! :D

[britishchick09]

i'm watching a german movie called 'ruby red' and the font used here is just like the ag years! :o

[physicallyimprobable]

what's the 3-dimensional number thing?

Well I'm glad you asked! For those confused, this is referring to my claim that "my favorite multiplication equation is 3 × 5 = 15 because it's the reason you can't make a three-dimensional number system" from back in this post. Now, this is gonna be a bit of a journey, so buckle up.

Part One: Numbers in Space

First of all, what do I mean by a three-dimensional number system? We say that the complex numbers are two-dimensional, and that the quaternions are four-dimensional, but what do we mean by these things? There's a few potential answers to this question, but for our purposes we'll take the following narrative:

Complex numbers can be written in the form (a+bi), where a and b are real numbers. For the variable-averse, this just means we have things like (3+6i) and (5-2i) and (-8+3i). Some amount of "units" (that is, ones), and some amount of i's.

Most people are happy to stop here and say "well, there's two numbers that you're using, so that's two dimensions, ho hum". I think that's underselling it, though, since there's something nontrivial and super cool happening here. See, each complex number has an "absolute value", which is its distance from zero. If you imagine "3+6i" to mean "three meters East and six meters North", then the distance to that point will be 6.708 meters. We say the absolute value of (3+6i), which is written like |3+6i|, is equal to 6.708. Similarly, interpreting "5-2i" to mean "five meters East and two meters South" we get that |5-2i| = 5.385.

The neat thing about this is that absolute values multiply really nicely. For example, the two numbers above multiply to give (3+6i) × (5-2i) = (27+24i) which has a length of 36.124. What's impressive is that this length is the product of our original lengths: 36.124 = 6.708 × 5.385. (Okay technically this is not true due to rounding but for the full values it is true.)

This is what we're going to say is necessary to for a number system to accurately represent a space. You need the numbers to have lengths corresponding to actual lengths in space, and you need those lengths to be "multiplicative", which just means it does the thing we just saw. (That is, when you multiply two numbers, their lengths are multiplied as well.)

There's still of course the question of what "actual lengths in space" means, but we can just use the usual Euclidean method of measurement. So, |3+6i| = √(3²+6²) and |5-2i| = √(5²+2²). This extends directly to the quaternions, which are written as (a+bi+cj+dk) for real numbers a, b, c, d. (Don't worry about what j and k mean if you don't know; it turns out not to really matter here.) The length of the quaternion 4+3i-7j+4k can be calculated like |4+3i-7j+4k| = √(4²+3²+7²+4²) = 9.486 and similarly for other points in "four-dimensional space". These are the kinds of number systems we're looking for.

[To be explicit, for those who know the words: What we are looking for is a vector algebra over the real numbers with a prescribed basis under which the Euclidean norm is multiplicative and the integer lattice forms a subring.]

Part Two: Sums of Squares

Now for something completely different. Have you ever thought about which numbers are the sum of two perfect squares? Thirteen works, for example, since 13 = 3² + 2². So does thirty-two, since 32 = 4² + 4². The squares themselves also work, since zero exists: 49 = 7² + 0². But there are some numbers, like three and six, which can't be written as a sum of two squares no matter how hard you try. (It's pretty easy to check this yourself; there aren't too many possibilities.)

Are there any patterns to which numbers are a sum of two squares and which are not? Yeah, loads. We're going to look at a particularly interesting one: Let's say a number is "S2" if it's a sum of two squares. (This thing where you just kinda invent new terminology for your situation is common in math. "S2" should be thought of as an adjective, like "orange" or "alphabetical".) Then here's the neat thing: If two numbers are S2 then their product is S2 as well.

Let's see a few small examples. We have 2 = 1² + 1², so we say that 2 is S2. Similarly 4 = 2² + 0² is S2. Then 2 × 4, that is to say, 8, should be S2 as well. Indeed, 8 = 2² + 2².

Another, slightly less trivial example. We've seen that 13 and 32 are both S2. Then their product, 416, should also be S2. Lo and behold, 416 = 20² + 4², so indeed it is S2.

How do we know this will always work? The simplest way, as long as you've already internalized the bit from Part 1 about absolute values, is to think about the norms of complex numbers. A norm is, quite simply, the square of the corresponding distance. (Okay yes it can also mean different things in other contexts, but for our purposes that's what a norm is.) The norm is written with double bars, so ‖3+6i‖ = 45 and ‖5-2i‖ = 29 and ‖4+3i-7j+4k‖ = 90.

One thing to notice is that if your starting numbers are whole numbers then the norm will also be a whole number. In fact, because of how we've defined lengths, the norm is just the sum of the squares of the real-number bits. So, any S2 number can be turned into a norm of a complex number: 13 can be written as ‖3+2i‖, 32 can be written as ‖4+4i‖, and 49 can be written as ‖7+0i‖.

The other thing to notice is that, since the absolute value is multiplicative, the norm is also multiplicative. That is to say, for example, ‖(3+6i) × (5-2i)‖ = ‖3+6i‖ × ‖5-2i‖. It's pretty simple to prove that this will work with any numbers you choose.

But lo, gaze upon what happens when we combine these two facts together! Consider the two S2 values 13 and 32 from before. Because of the first fact, we can write the product 13 × 32 in terms of norms: 13 × 32 = ‖3+2i‖ × ‖4+4i‖. So far so good. Then, using the second fact, we can pull the product into the norms: ‖3+2i‖ × ‖4+4i‖ = ‖(3+2i) × (4+4i)‖. Huzzah! Now, if we write out the multiplication as (3+2i) × (4+4i) = (4+20i), we can get a more natural looking norm equation: ‖3+2i‖ × ‖4+4i‖ = ‖4+20i‖ and finally, all we need to do is evaluate the norms to get our product! (3² + 2²) × (4² + 4²) = (4² + 20²)

The cool thing is that this works no matter what your starting numbers are. 218 = 13² + 7² and 292 = 16² + 6², so we can follow the chain to get 218 × 292 = ‖13+7i‖ × ‖16+6i‖ = ‖(13+7i) × (16+6i)‖ = ‖166+190i‖ = 166² + 190² and indeed you can check that both extremes are equal to 63,656. No matter which two S2 numbers you start with, if you know the squares that make them up, you can use this process to find squares that add to their product. That is to say, the product of two S2 numbers is S2.

Part Four: Why do we skip three?

Now we have all the ingredients we need for our cute little proof soup! First, let's hop to the quaternions and their norm. As you should hopefully remember, quaternions have four terms (some number of units, some number of i's, some number of j's, and some number of k's), so a quaternion norm will be a sum of four squares. For example, ‖4+3i-7j+4k‖ = 90 means 90 = 4² + 3² + 7² + 4².

Since we referred to sums of two squares as S2, let's say the sums of four squares are S4. 90 is S4 because it can be written as we did above. Similarly, 7 is S4 because 7 = 2² + 1² + 1² + 1², and 22 is S4 because 22 = 4² + 2² + 1² + 1². We are of course still allowed to use zeros; 6 = 2² + 1² + 1² + 0² is S4, as is our friend 13 = 3² + 2² + 0² + 0².

The same fact from the S2 numbers still applies here: since 7 is S4 and 6 is S4, we know that 42 (the product of 7 and 6) is S4. Indeed, after a bit of fiddling I've found that 42 = 6² + 4² + 1² + 1². I don't need to do that fiddling, however, if I happen to be able to calculate quaternions! All I need to do is follow the chain, just like before: 7 × 6 = ‖2+i+j+k‖ × ‖2+i+j‖ = ‖(2+i+j+k) × (2+i+j)‖ = ‖2+3i+5j+2k‖ = 2² + 3² + 5² + 2². This is a different solution than the one I found earlier, but that's fine! As long as there's even one solution, 42 will be S4. Using the same logic, it should be clear that the product of any two S4 numbers is an S4 number.

Now, what goes wrong with three dimensions? Well, as you might have guessed, it has to do with S3 numbers, that is, numbers which can be written as a sum of three squares. If we had any three-dimensional number system, we'd be able to use the strategy we're now familiar with to prove that any product of S3 numbers is an S3 number. This would be fine, except, well…

3 × 5 = 15.

Why is this bad? See, 3 = 1² + 1² + 1² and 5 = 2² + 1² + 0², so both 3 and 5 are S3. However, you can check without too much trouble that 15 is not S3; no matter how hard you try, you can't write 15 as a sum of three squares.

And, well, that's it. The bucket has been kicked, the nails are in the coffin. You cannot make a three-dimensional number system with the kind of nice norm that the complex numbers and quaternions have. Even if someone comes to you excitedly, claiming to have figured it out, you can just toss them through these steps: • First, ask what the basis is. Complex numbers use 1 and i; quaternions use 1, i, j, and k. Let's say they answer with p, q, and r. • Second, ask them to multiply (p+q+r) by (2p+q). • Finally, well. If their system works, the resulting number should give you three numbers whose squares add to 15. Since that can't happen, you've shown that the norm is not actually multiplicative; their system doesn't capture the geometry of three dimensions.

[bedoballoons]

Oh wow fantastic I loved it!! now I kinda want a part two to the whole short post what did happen after finding out there darling likes tall guys how will they comfort there rival

I'm assuming you meant confront! I hope so at least cause that's what I wrote! If not I can totally write a second one! Thank you so much for your request!

─⊰⁠⊹ฺ✿𝔾𝕖𝕟𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕟 ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕠𝕟𝕤⊰⁠⊹ฺ✿─

{༻~Yanderes confront their rivals~༺}

This is a Part 2! Part 1:

CW: Fighting, using their obsession to get information, a knife is mentioned, Freminet trains you to like him, descriptions of blood, slight gore, confronting, yandere themes, some angst, and Lyney call reader mon amour!

(Includes: Lyney, Tighnari, Venti, Freminet, and Aether!)

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𑁍༄Lyney:

You knew Lyney was the reason Neuvillette had gone missing, it was obvious and yet no one could arrest him because there wasn't enough evidence, not to mention without the Chief of Justice...how could you have a trial? The whole of Fontaine was now in disarray, searching for Neuvillette everywhere and anywhere Lyney could have taken him, but not a single place had any results.

You didn't even know if he was still alive...but you just couldn't give up, thats what led you to this moment, honeyed words slipping past your lips and your arms around Lyney, batting your eyes at him..."Lyney, I'm all yours, Neuvillette is no longer a threat to that I promise. Let him go..." The magician sighed softly, so tempted, so enraptured by you that he almost gave it away from your beautiful eyes alone, "You know as well as I do mon amour, if I do as you ask...I'll be taken away to Meropide. Away from you..."

You bit your lip, wandering how deep into this act you'd have to go in order to convince him, "Not if they don't catch you, we can run away together... just you and me..." You kissed his cheek and he caved...unable to resist you any longer, "I can't say no to that..."

He reached out his hand, a card between his fingers...but it wasn't like any of his others, it was blue with a a outline of Neuvillette. "Neat isn't it?" Lyney asked when he'd caught you staring and with a snap of his fingers the card began to change, blue smoke circling around a spot on the ground until it sudden disappeared, leaving Neuvillette in its place...

"Neuvillette!"

He seemed perfectly healthy, shaken to say the least, but otherwise fine. It felt like you could breath again like everything would be okay...he could save you...right?

𑁍༄Tighnari:

You hadn't heard from Tighnari in over a week and you felt so guilty...after how hard it must have been to confess his feelings, you shot him down without even a moment to think if you really wanted to,... just because he wasn't exactly your type. Now he was probably in his home, regretting his decision to ever tell you how he felt in the first place...ever be nice to you at all for that matter.

You sighed, opening the door to your humble abode, only to see one of the most terrifying things even your nightmares could have prepared you for, "T-tighnari?" The fennec fox looked up at you with a crazed smile, a small hunting knife tightly gripped in his hand...the blade of it against against what looked to be a drugged Alhaitham, "You're finally home! We've been waiting for you...sorry to barge in uninvited but I had to show you that I was better than him. Let you see that I can overpower him, even though he's stronger and...taller."

You felt your chest tighten with fear, your hands shaking uncontrollably, "What... d-did you do to him Tighnari?" Meanwhile Tighnari was acting as if this was a casual hangout between the two of you, his tail swaying behind him and his ears twitching in delight, he even chuckled when Alhaitham attempted to mutter something, "Don't worry, he's just poisoned. I asked if he wanted something for a headache he was having and then I gave him something, it just wasn't what he had in mind..."

"Tighnari...let him go. T-this is crazy!" You felt tears welling up in your eyes, your body screaming at you to run for help and yet you felt frozen, unable to move a muscle. "I'm not crazy, I'm dedicated,...to you. I want nothing more than to be with you and if I have to make sure the scribe isn't able to interfere to have that, then I will." His eyes sparkled at the mention of being with you...

"...just let him go. Give him a antidote and I'll s-stay with you. Please Tighnari, don't hurt anyone more than you already have, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shot down your confession so quickly, but I'll m-make it up to you" You reached your hand out and he wasted no time accepting it, wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug, all of it seeming so innocent..

"As long as you stay with me...no one else will ever get hurt."

𑁍༄Venti:

You'd never seen such a war before...archons battling against eachother, destroying the land with power far greater than you ever could have imagined, all of this...because you couldn't see yourself with someone short, what was Venti doing! By now there was a large crowd of people, some from Liyue, some from Mondstat and each of them cheering for their own Archon. There were even fights breaking out over who was better....

This had to stop. "Venti! Venti listen to me! I know you're angry and that's okay, but starting a war just because I said I wasn't into you isn't the way to feel better!" You shouted as loud as you could, but he wasn't able to hear you, the sound of large rocks crashing into the ground and highwinds ripping trees right out of the land impossible to talk over. Was it a lost cause...?

You shook your head, unable to give up at the thought of your friend getting hurt...even if he was stupid for starting it in the first place...you cared about him. You swallowed your fear and gathered up all of your courage, running into the danger zone, barely able to keep your footing while you continued to call to the anemo archon. "Venti! Vennntii!!"

Suddenly the part of land you'd been running on ripped away from the rest of the ground, flying upwards with you holding on for dear life, "Venti! Hellpp!!!" You felt your grasp slipping and then you were spinning, falling back down at such speed you'd die on impact, you shut your eyes tightly, praying for everything to be okay.

Then there was a gentle breeze surrounding you.. lifting you upwards, the entire battle out on pause when you came face to face with Venti, shocked to see him in his archon outfit, "Venti please, I'm sorry. Don't take this out on Zhongli, don't make such a big mess because of me. I'm... not worth it." You looked down at all the dilapidated area beneath you...all of this for you?

"You're worth more than every world or star in the entire universe...I'd fight to the end for you." The anemo archon touched your cheek softly.., making you feel something you never had before..

𑁍༄Freminet:

Freminet wouldn't leave your side, keeping you away from Neuvillette at any costs... pampering you with romaritime flowers and ocean shells, convincing you in ever way he could think of that he was better. He'd be there in the morning with warm breakfast and a nice hot beverage, he'd walk with you anywhere you needed to go so he could keep you safe and...people were noticing. Most thought you were dating. Even congratulating you two...but he always answered before you could, thanking them happily.

Truthfully...he was training you to only want to be around him and it was working...

𑁍༄Aether:

"ITTO!" You screamed, your skin paling at the sight of the Oni you had been crushing on so much, taken down to the ground with dark crimson blood dripping from his head onto grass beneath him, his face badly bruised and beaten up. You couldn't even tell if he was breathing, your heart racing as you looked to the culprit... his face speckled with deep red flecks of blood and sickening smile on his lips..

"W-why...Aether, you're supposed to be a hero why would you...he didn't...h-he didn't deserve this!" You rushed to Ittos side, holding his large hand in yours and staring at the damage someone you thought you could trust caused.

"I did it for you. Now he can't take you from me..., now there's only one hero for you and it's me." Aether grabbed your wrist harshly, pulling you close to him while you tried desperately to shove him away, "No! Let go of me! Help! Someone help!!" You screamed frantically, searching for any other signs of people...but nobody was around? How was that possible! It was the city?!

Aether smiled at you sadistically, "Being a famous hero and knowing important people means I can say there's a need to evacuate...and everyone will just leave. No one...can hear you now..."

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ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ♡‧₊˚*⁠.⁠✧

[viharbinger]

ahhhh!!! it’s so exciting finding writers to write for jin sakai <3

can we have jin sakai x reader ( married au ) in which the reader gets kidnapped and jin does everything in his power to get his partner back? it’s unlike the feeling of freeing his uncle bc jin becomes scary looking for them.

“where is my wife?!” kind of vibes ( though not necessarily have to be fem! reader )

+bonus points if he calls his partner “beloved” :3

a/n: I gotchu anon... i GOTCHUUUUU (I hope U like it :D )

pairings: (ghost of tsushima) husband!Jin Sakai x gn!reader (married au)

tags: ...erm fluff? It's definitely fluff at the end idk about the first part tho😹

warnings: married au, mentions of blood, starvation, reader is kidnapped, no pronouns are used, usage of the word y/n (I honestly felt the ick writing that but I had to)

Hero

It was terrifying. Getting caught in an ambush while you were out with Jin was not in your plans. You were captured before Jin could even turn to look at you, driven away on the back of a horse. You can't understand a single thing they're saying, but you keep hearing the same thing over and over, "Ghost". Was that what your husband was being called now?

You've been on the move for days ever since you've been captured, riding on a caged carriage behind a horse. Certainly an upgrade from a horse's back. It looks like they want to cover all of their tracks so he can't find you fast enough. Do they want to bring you to Khotun Khan? The thought just gives you goosebumps.

You've heard of all of the stories. Everything he's done. He's already killed more than a hundred samurai on Tsushima island without mercy, what could he do to you who's just the spouse of the ghost?

Your clothes were muddy from how much you've been tossed around on the ground lately, and your stomach was already digesting itself. Finally, they settle you into a new cage. To say it was filthy was an understatement. You don't want to admit it, but you're not used to this sort of life compared to the clean and neat home you worked so hard to keep back at Omi village with Jin.

Well, everything's got to change now, huh? You sat in silence for hours until you heard a familiar language you could finally understand. It was one of the straw hat ronins, oh you've heard of their betrayal to your husband, alright.

"—Seen him myself! He's tracking us down like a wolf to its prey! He's killed at least a few dozen of us already!" A ronin clearly afraid, exclaims to one of his fellow members.

"Oh shut up. You're just feeding into the rumours the peasants have been yammering about. What harm can one man do against an army of us right here?" He's right. It looked like one of the biggest camps you've ever seen so far into your abduction. There were enemies everywhere from top to bottom and archers from miles away watching for flanks.

"I'm serious. I'm sure he's coming for a certain someone." He points to you, to which the other ronin just glares at you. They walk away from your line of sight, continuing their conversation till they were out of earshot.

You could barely think about that right now, you were so hungry. The last thing you ate was a piece of pity bread given by a straw hat ronin and the only drink you'd have was rainwater. They've never beaten on you before but it was cruel enough they didn't bother feeding you anything.

Soon, the moon was in the sky, you could barely see a thing but the torches illuminating the faces of the invaders. Just as you were lost in your thoughts, loud terror screaming could be heard. Before you knew it, a lot of the men started investigating and picking up their sharpened weapons. One of them stood right in front of your door, guarding you.

Next thing you knew, there was so much chaos. Other fellow captured prisoners ran away to safety, screaming and explosions could be heard in all sorts of directions. Could this finally be the time for you to be saved?

"Where is Y/n?" You hear Jin. He sounded so angry and not his usual soft-spoken self. You peek through a hole to try to find him. If you yell, surely they'll finish you off before he gets to you. He's standing in front of the camp leader, in a stand off. "You killed my men. Destroy my territory. For that, you will pay!" The leader is prideful, intimidating yet your spouse shows no fear and draws his blade. They fight for a few moments and before you know it, the leader drops dead on the mud.

The man guarding your cage shudders in fear and opts to run away with the rest of the scared shitless army. Jin sheaths his sword seeing as nobody else dares to stand against him. He was definitely not one to mess with. You take this as an opportunity to call for your husband. "Jin!" You yell, your throat felt like it was being scratched. God, you were so parched.

He immediately looks for the source of your voice, running over to you. He wastes no time in opening your door. "Are you okay? What did they do to you?" He holds your cheeks gently, turning your face in different angles to look for injuries.

"Jin. I'm fine. I missed you so much." You teared up, hugging him. He hugs you back, tightly. Inhaling his scent which smells like blades of grass, you're content. You haven't felt like you were going to die every second you were in this god forsaken camp until this moment with your husband.

"I'm so glad you're here." It was your turn to cup his cheeks now, you pull him into a sweet kiss to which he returns. When you finally pull away you use whatever energy you have left peppering kisses all over his face which made him laugh and turn his face away. Hugging him again one last time again, he pets your hair lovingly.

"I'll get you home, my beloved." He whispers to you softly, tucking a stray hair away from your eyes. His once angry and frustrated voice at the standoff replaced with one of love. Clearly you've been through too much that you uncharacteristically gave him this much affection. You could care less he's killed hundreds just to get to you, you just want to love the hero who's just saved you.

Finally, you were on your way back home with Jin. Your hands were wrapped around his waist and head was pressed against his back as you rode back home. Boy, the thought of eating some rice just makes your mouth water. And of course, finally being home comfortably with your husband is great too.

[cherrywhite]

TSV Fan Favorite Survey Results

Last week I made a small TSV survey for the heck of it and ended up getting way more results than I originally expected!! Wanted to share the results.

When I'm in a "Who's your favorite TSV main character" competition and my opponent is Carpenter 🤯 (Okay but.. is anyone surprised?)

Fun fact: for a while Hayward had only one or two votes and idk why that surprised me so much. Though I'm shocked he got more than Faulkner overall

Top 5 minor characters, as voted: Val > Shrue > Sibling Rane > Gage > Sid Wright

Also unsurprising! Though I regret that I didn't word the question as "Pick up to 5" instead of top 5. Val almost got 100% of the votes in this category... off by 4.. I respect you but also who are you 4 I just want to know

Top 5 side characters, as voted: Acantha > Nana Glass / Greve > Charity / Elgin > The Homesick Corpse > Chuck Harm (though Cross came very close to tying!!)

Acantha at the top is also unsurprising! Though.. looking at the top one.. looks like we all have a thing for old ladies, huh? Definitely my mistake in that I didn't add Em and Vaughn in there to begin with💦 Shoutout to the one person who voted Helen. Also, we love to see that Daggler got 0 votes.

Favorite God, as voted: Th Cairn Maiden > The Many Below > The Trawlerman > The Watcher in the Wings > The Saint Electric

The Beast that Stalks in the Long Grass and The Last Word each got one vote. Also, The Chitterling got a vote. Henge, the god Hayward mentions in s1, the one that takes things people wish to lose, got two votes! :D Idk why, but it's such an unexpected pull to me, it makes me happy to see it was remembered!

Top 5 s1 episodes, as voted: Chapter 4 > Chapter 7 & Chapter 15 > Chapter 1 > Chapter 13 > Chapter 3, 8, 11, & 12 (tied with 3 votes)

Fun fact: of season 1 episodes, only 4/15 episodes weren't picked as someone's favorite!!

Top 5 s2 episodes, as voted: Chapter 24 > Chapter 29 > Chapter 19 > Chapter 17 > Chapter 23

Also not surprised because chapter 24 is also my favorite (probably my most relistened to episode and it still makes me cry). Though, I will say, I was surprised chapter 20 didn't have more votes since that one also seems to be a favorite writing wise!

Fun fact: of all s2 episodes, only 1 episode wasn't picked as someone's favorite! (okay, idk why it's important to me to point out, I just think it's interesting!! Though I can admit I could probably phrase it better. I think the fave episodes are spread out pretty evenly for each season though, which is really neat in my opinion.)

Top 5 s3 episodes, as voted: Chapter 46 > Chapter 38 > Chapter 37 > Chapter 36 (we are not immune to a good tragic love story, I see) & Chapter 43 > Chapter 44

For a while, Chapter 38 had the most votes which I thought was.. idk how to better phrase it, but.. sweet. Because Carpenter's returning home episode was the fave of s2 and if Faulkner's returning home episode had also been the fave... something something we sure do love these terrible siblings, huh? But! Unsurprisingly the finale is the big fave of the season. How many of us have recovered from it??

Fun fact: Of season 3, only 3 episodes weren't chosen!

Boooo I shouldn't have given y'all the option to abstain from picking!! "Don't make me choose," you cowards!! /lh

mandatory link to this recommendation

Favorite episode title:

Hi. So, um. I'm an idiot. And didn't realize that Google Form automatically turns short answers into a bar graph. So unfortunately, the results for this one is..well

And half of these are the exact same title with slightly different phrasing 🙃

BUT I'm nothing if not determined so I went through and organized everything though I didn't make a pie chart. Needless to say. I think we all know the favorite episode title (care to make a guess?)

Favorite episode title: But We'll Never Be Rid of Each Other (25%)

Its Wrath Shall Scald the Sun came second with only 9% of the vote. We sure do love our doomed siblings, huh?

[sweet-honey-tears]

Will you go to prom with me?

How they ask you to prom.

Characters: Shinso, Sero x GN!Reader

The poll and people have spoken! Here you guys go, I hope you like it!! And thank you all for your support and request! And as always request are open!

If you want another character done, feel free to ask! 🤍

Shinso

Shinso wouldn’t have a promposal sign, but he also wouldn’t just walk up to you and ask you out flatly. He would really only do that if he wanted to dance with you but you where both in public (not making a huge deal of it- that would be embarrassing)

“Care to dance darling?”

OR you guys were dating for many years or even married. But even in that instance, he comes home with a giant thing of flowers and asks if you wanted to go out to the hero’s Galla, or even chaperon the prom/dance at Eris school.

In late high school, you get ask by though Shinso’s cat( Aizawa cat but pretty much his- everyone in that household has a cat at this point). So Miku(Shinso let Eri name her- And Eri choose the name Hatsune Miku due to the blue hair at the time) comes running toward you, like every time you enter the house. Expect this time a dainty little flower and note are hanging from her bright blue collar.

“Hey there Miko, watch’s got there?” You question, kneeling to the sweet grey cat. Miku rubs against your knees, before all but throwing herself into your palms. She lets out a rather loud chirp as the small flower and notes get in her way.

“Let me get this for ya Miku-“ you whisper to her, scratching the white patch under her chin before grabbing the flower a note.

“Will you go to prom with me, kitty?”

You whisper out yourself, you’re fingers brushing over the laminated paper. The writing is neat, cursive and you tell Shinso spent time on it.

Miku chirps at you, angry at the lack of affection. Your fingers mindlessly comb the underside of her chin. Your heart is swelling, sending vibrations through your chest and causing the area to tighten.

A moment or two passes and you hear someone clear their throat. You peer up, seeing the man himself, his face reddened, and his eyes staring down at you. Shinso’s dressed in baggy sweatpants and a loose tank top. His hands are gauzed up, and his capture weapon is hanging unevenly off his neck. He must have been practicing when you came in, his chest still heavy breaths- but regardless he managed to stay quiet.

“So… what do you say?”

You slowly stand up, much to Miku's dismay. You start to walk before almost sprinting toward him. Hugging him tightly,

“Wait I’m all-“

“Yes” you speak to his shoulder, allowing yourself to be lifted slightly by him, “I would love to go with you, Shin!”

Sero

Sero goes a more creative route, finding someway to incorporate his tape into it. He does ask you straight up sometimes to go dancing with him. The days you’re swaddled in his hoodie, he can’t help it. Sero will engulf you in his arms, squeezing you as he hums lightly into your hair. “Care to dance.” And it’s just the two of you swaying to whatever music he puts on.

For prom tho- different story.

You walk into the training room and your jaw just falls open. Written in tape, something similar to charlottes web, the word “Prom?” is written out. Its sharp, the circles are like a triangles and there are many ‘strings’ of tape attached to each side. To a point that if you stood too close you'd probably get lost in all the stands.

“Oh! I didn't think you be up so early.” there's a light voice behind you. Seros's voice is surprised, but wavers near the end. “I was actually about to take it down-”

“Why?”

You asked, turning around to fully face him. Sero looked slightly tired- dark bags staring to form under his eyes. He wore a loose white shirt, it was one you had bought him. A giant bowl of Ramen being on the back, with the words “Heaven Noodles” circling around it. You had gotten it a size to big by accident- which didn’t stop the hero in practice from wearing. But due to the lardge size, he enjoyed it more so as asleep shirt (when he did ware one). Sero also had flip flops on and black sweatpants that had yellow triangles going up the legs. It was sleep ware- you saw him in it last night when you both went to your separate dorms. How long had he been awake doing this? Did he sleep at all?

“It was too messy, I was redoing it. Or honestly try something different.” Sero sleepily chuckled, his arms stretching on reflex. A nervous habit he seemed to get while in UA.

“Please don't,” you spoke, walking up to him. “And J would love to go with you.” Seeks tired eyes seem to widen a bit at your answer. His smile stretching wide as he reached out for you. Cupping your face.

“Mi Amor- I am the luckiest man alive” he smiles before kissing your forehead.

@call-me-copycat

[caubool]

Transformers One fic WIP:

Isn't it crazy how much work Sentinel's "The Truth is What I Make It" spiel would actually take to follow through on and how much stuff "he" did that would require many many many more bots to carry out? Isn't it wild that Orion was searching for answers Everywhere in that archive and never found a stray hair out of place in the story Sentinel spun?

I’ve started writing out my own answer to the questions I kept coming up with while thinking way too hard about this movie! The first bit below:

In his spark, Optimus Prime is a mech of action. But never without strategy. Contrary to popular belief, he did look before he leapt. He just tended to assume he would land flawlessly on the other side. He wasn't called Optimus because of his dedication to realism, after all. And if all else fails, he knew he was fraggin’ lucky.

In the wake of Sentinel’s execution, Iacon stands on shaking, new-build legs. In just 50 cycles Cybertron lost a war, lost all of its Primes, nearly starved, and went into hiding at the call of a charismatic mech who pulled cogs from freshly sparked chambers. In less than that, Optimus himself onlined. Now, he stands as the sole Prime of Cybertron. Primus’s chosen. He and Iacon reel in tandem. So much in so little time. His servos still buzz with the vibrations of splitting D- Megatron’s canon. As if it'd been mere kliks ago and not a several phases.

Elita helps in the aftermath. B, too, but the little bot seems more preoccupied with exploring these days. Optimus can’t blame him. Though he privately wishes he could get out of all these blasted meetings and go exploring with the minibot rather than just hearing about his adventures after the fact.

In his office, Elita pushes another neat tray of holowork into his servos and levels him with a look. Her optics narrowed and lip plates pressing together so tightly there’s the faintest scrape of metal.

Optimus lets her stare for a few nanokliks before restarting his voice box. “Can I help you, Elita?”

The scraping sound twists up sharply as her look intensifies. "You're no help to anyone right now, Optimus."

He blinks. The words take longer than he'd like to admit to fully process. When they do, he jumps to his pedes. "What do you mean? Have I missed something? Has there been a Quintesson attack?"

"Sit back down, Prime." She ex-vents sharply and walks around to the other side of his desk.

He slumps into his seat and turns tired optics out onto Iacon, vast and crumpled before him. He had tried so hard to deny this office. With its gold trimmed windows and grand desk and personal energon fountain. It was all too much. But he was the Prime and this was a Prime's seat, it's tradition it's- he shutters his optics and terminates that line of thought. "Elita, please tell me what I've done wrong."

Leaning against his desk she watches him out of the corner of her optics. "What do you see there?" She gestures to the windows.

"I see Iacon, in pain. Bots, still unsure of where they fit now. I see a Cybertron uncertain of itself." He says.

"Do you know what I see?" She asks and Optimus doesn't so she continues, "I see a very tired bot working himself to the wire." He startles, but she isn't done yet. "I see a mech spreading himself so thin that he can't actually step up where he's needed."

Optimus has to work hard to get his jaw struts to function correctly. "I- Elita, I can't turn away from Cybertron, even for a nanoklik. They need a leader and that's- Primus chose me to do this. I can't undermine Primus's will."

"You can't jump in front of every canon blast aimed at Cybertron. And frankly, I don't want you to. Primus knows doing it that first time has only made your recklessness worse." Elita says.

"It is not reckless to try to build a better future for all bots." He shoots back.

She rolls her optics and sends him another look. "No, but it is reckless to avoid self-maintenance in the name of being a good leader. You can't be the mech Cybertron needs if your processor is half fried."

He ex-vents and he knows she's right. She often is. "Still, what do you suggest I do? Everywhere I turn there are more bots who need me."

"Find someplace quiet, keep all the lights off, and take a fragging break." Elita knocks her pauldron against his as she says it.

Optimus can feel a smile coming on and he doesn't fight it. "Is that advice, Commander?"

Elita smirks back at him. "That's an order."

--

For as often as he visited the Hall of Records—or, more accurately, was chased out of the Hall of Records—Optimus Prime had never seen another bot actually wandering the stacks. Security bots, sure, but they only showed up if they got tipped off by a roaming drone.

It feels odd to walk through the front doors of the Archive, nobody on his heels. Walking among the shelves of holovids that used to dwarf him and now seeing all the dust caked on their tops. It feels forbidden.

When he had dismissed the security at the entrance he had asked them to leave the lights off. Something he appreciates, even as it adds to the uncanny feeling building in his core. He knows the paths in the dark, the way his headlights snake around corners and up walls. Keeping one thing the same, just one…it's helping.

He starts where he left off last time. The projector screen was still set up with the history of Cybertron queued up. He spins the cartridge tray idly as the holovid starts. It breezes through the history every bot knew forwards, backwards, and inside out. He can feel his actuators depressurizing as the narration continues. He can almost pretend he's still Orion Pax, trying to solve an epic mystery and prove himself as more than just some cogless miner.

"-The Matrix of Leadership. Lost, with the Primes, to the surface." This is where he'd gotten found out last time. Optimus watches as the Matrix fades out into the globe and shakes his head, almost fond. He's already reaching for a new holovid when the narration continues. His optics narrow, hadn't he gotten to the end already? "Cybertron's only hope rests with our final, tireless leader: Sentinel Prime. But he cannot protect us alone. That's why Sentinel needs every bot in Cybertron to do their part and pull their weight. Cybertron needs you, your Prime needs you." The holovid projects Sentinel smiling, waving to an unseen audience, with the light glinting off of his helm.

He looks regal.

Optimus feels his fuel lines twist.

As the holovid finishes, it flashes a few final lines of text. "The Modern History of Cybertron - by ID-A. Sponsored by the Cybertronian Well-Being Initiative."

"What?" the word flies out of him as he reads, then re-reads the text. The Cybertronian Well-Being Initiative? Out of all the branches of government he'd had to get acquainted with recently, he hadn't ever heard of something like that. Optimus ran an internal search of his memory just to be sure but, no, this was the first time he'd seen the name.

Frowning, he swaps out holovids and let the next one play. The screen glows with colour as each of the Primes getts introduced. It's a basic history of the rulers of Cybertron and is similarly scant on details. The holovid once again ends with a shot of Sentinel and a call to work hard for the mech. The credits read: "Who Are the Primes of Cybertron? A Summary - by Thundercracker. Edited for clarity of purpose by ID-A and sponsored by the Cybertronian Well-Being Initiative."

Optimus slides in another vid. "The Quintesson War - by Gearstrike. Edited for clarity of purpose by WR-N and sponsored by the Cybertronian Well-Being Initiative." Then another one. "Energon: Its Sources, Uses, and Necessity to the Cybertronian Ecosystem - by Quarkkey. Edited for clarity of purpose by ID-A and sponsored by the Cybertronian Well-Being Initiative." And another one. "Iacon's Sub-Levels and You: A Guide - by WR-N. Sponsored by the Cybertronian Well-Being initiative."

Optimus spends the rest of the chord looking through any and every holovid he can get his servos on in that archive. By the time Cybertron starts its hum again—the signal for recharge to end and for first shift to begin—he's an island among the piles of holovid cartidges. Each of them branded by the Cybertronian Well-Being Initiative. And none of them ever explaining just what that initiative is.

This bothers him, more than Optimus thinks was strictly logical. It's more than likely that it's just an educational branch that created basic informational holovids. Yet, just reading those four words fill him with a dread that has become all too familiar. On the edge of a cliff, searching brassy, yellow optics, and knowing that no matter how much he hoped for the best, the worst is already staring him in the face.

[rosesloveletters]

1971!Willy Wonka SFW Alphabet.

Pairing: 1971 Willy Wonka x Reader

Word Count: 2,319

Warnings: no major content warnings apply.

Summary: Filled out SFW alphabet template.

Author's Note: Just a little something-something since my next full fic won't be posted until Wednesday.

divider created by @/saradika on Tumblr.

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Once he has settled into the relationship, the amount of affection his partner receives from him is boundless. He prefers private intimacy rather than PDA – casual touches, chaste kisses and quick hugs are alright, though. He also likes to kiss the back of your hand. 

When you are alone, you can expect a lot more from him. He will cuddle but prefers to do so in bed before you both fall asleep rather than at any other time. If you’re sitting by him, occasionally he’ll just drop his head onto your shoulder. 

He is casual and somewhat indifferent; he is comfortable with any kind of affection if his partner is as well. 

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Willy has not had a best friend since boyhood. He has been isolated inside his factory and therefore has not had the opportunity to make friends as an adult and, even if he had, he was far too busy and concerned with his business and inventions. That being said, it would take him some time to settle into having and/or being a best friend. 

Whether you had met him in your youth or were lucky enough to befriend the reclusive chocolatier later in his life, he would always be considerate of you and would do his best to make sure that you were comfortable and safe. He is a bit unpredictable, so you can expect some surprises along the way and it would take quite a bit of time for him to show you his true nature, but once you’ve achieved mutual trust in each other, being friends with Wonka is very rewarding and one of the most exciting and fun aspects of your life. 

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

In short, yes.

Willy Wonka is a very private person and would appreciate the intimacy of cuddling. He likes when his partner lays on top of or against him with their head on his chest. Sometimes he’ll spoon you, but when he does that he almost always falls asleep. 

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

I think settling down is something he never gave much thought to. If the right person came along, he would be open to it, but he does not prioritize finding a relationship. 

Since he has spent so much time alone inside his factory, he is responsible for his own meals and cleaning, even though he could easily hire someone else to do it or have the Oompa Loompas take care of him, he much prefers doing it himself. 

He is an excellent cook – his skills of making delicious confections extends to making proper meals. 

He keeps his living space very tidy. Despite the mess that is his Inventing Room, if his living area was that messy and disorganized it would drive him crazy. He keeps his person and his home very neat and clean. 

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

Willy would take this very seriously. He values honesty at its core and he would want to be upfront about ending things.

If he chose to end things, you most likely would not see or hear from him again. 

When Wonka makes up his mind about something, especially something this serious, usually a tremendous amount of thought has gone into it. 

He won’t make this decision lightly.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Once Wonka trusts you implicitly (and it takes a long time to get to that point with him) you won’t be able to get rid of him. He holds fast to those he trusts because it is so rare that he finds someone who is not out to get him or make a profit off him or his ideas. 

However, the idea of getting married is somewhat daunting to him. As someone who does not trust easily at all, marriage would be a huge step and he would want to be absolutely certain it was what he and his partner both want. He would not want to rush and would take his time, but if and when he proposes, his partner would know without any doubt that he meant it. 

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Willy is very gentle. 

His natural speaking voice is very soft; he has always been tenderhearted, for the most part. 

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

He adores hugs. 

Innocent acts of affection are his favorite. 

His hugs are usually warm, tight and all-encompassing. Sometimes you’ll get a brief, almost hesitant little hug or side hug if the two of you are in someone else’s company; the lingering hugs are saved for when it’s just the two of you. 

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

It takes Willy a long time to say it, but when he does, there’s no regret or doubt behind his words. He never does something so serious on a whim; it takes him quite a while to build up trust in a person, but hearing him say “I love you”, no matter how long it takes to hear it, is proof that he feels comfortable and that his feelings run deep. 

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

A bit surprising, but Wonka is extremely territorial. 

What’s his is his and he is not sharing. 

He doesn’t mind if you have friends, even if they are the opposite gender. The only time he gets jealous is if he notices someone trying to flirt or showing romantic interest in you. If this happens, he never gets upset with you and is quick to put an arm around you or any other innocent touch to assert that you are taken. 

If it happens in front of him, expect him to make snarky little quips like he did throughout the factory tour. 

His voice is always so polite that there’s always a delayed reaction to his insults. 

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Willy is a little stingy with kisses, especially on the lips. 

Chaste pecks are okay, but he keeps the full-blooded make out sessions to a minimum. 

He prefers cheek kisses or to kiss the back of your hand. 

When he’s feeling especially affectionate, he’ll kiss you anywhere that you’ll let him. 

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Willy is good with children who are respectful, sweet and polite (i.e. how he treated Charlie at the end of the film.) 

He doesn’t mind being around kids, but if they are disrespectful and don’t heed his warnings or follow his instructions, he’s swift to deliver consequences. 

He knows how to speak to children and how to interact with them, but he does not have plans to have any of his own. The best part about being around children that aren’t his is that he can spend time with them and play with them, but they go home at the end of the day and he then has time to himself. 

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

You won’t usually see much of Wonka in the mornings. He is an early riser, sometimes even waking up before dawn. His mind is fresh early in the day and he does his best work when he’s wide awake. He’ll head down to the Inventing Room pretty early to get started, especially if he’s on the brink of some new creation. 

If you’re up early, you might catch him, but if you prefer to sleep in, you won’t see him unless he pops in to check on you or you go looking for him. 

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Willy’s schedule is practically nonexistent, so it really depends on whether he’s in a creative mood or not. On nights that he doesn’t stay up inventing till all hours, he’ll spend it in your company. 

He doesn’t like to watch television very much but will watch it if you’ve got it on. 

He loves reading and will sit for hours with a cup of tea and a good book (he might even read to you if that’s something you like.) 

He likes cuddling in bed with you at night until both of you fall asleep.

Sometimes he has a bit of trouble winding down, especially if he’s been tinkering or has ideas for new treats, so on those nights you might have to help him settle. Run him a bath, read to him, tell him about your day, etc. Anything helps, as long as it’s quiet and relaxing. 

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

You’ll get bits and pieces from him, but it takes a while to connect all the dots. 

Wonka is an enigma and never gives away all his secrets at once. It takes a very long time before you start to see his true personality shine through. He likes to keep people on their toes and trying to guess his next move. 

You can learn a lot about him if you listen, so pay close attention.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Patience is a virtue that Wonka has plenty of.

He is extremely patient; it takes a great deal to get him to the end of his rope. 

He can be pushed to his limits and he still won’t snap, but once that fuse is lit, he has quite a temper. 

When he does break, he shatters.  

He does not yell or shout very often, but when he does is almost frightening. At these times is he incredibly blunt and brutally honest, which can and has offended people in the past.

Once he calms down, though, he will be extremely apologetic. 

Fortunately, it is rare that his anger ever gets to that point.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Wonka’s mind is his greatest gift. 

He never forgets anything that you tell him, which is both a blessing and a curse. 

He might seem scatterbrained when he’s working, but that isn’t because he has forgotten. If his mind is preoccupied with other things, it might make him seem forgetful, but you best believe he remembers everything. 

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

Willy does not pick favorites when it comes to the people he loves and trusts; there are not very many people allowed into his inner circle, so he considers every moment a gift. 

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Willy is very protective. 

Security is very important to him, not just for you, but for him too. 

You are safe inside his factory. No one gets in or out without his knowledge and direct approval. 

He does not leave the factory often because of his status; he would be swarmed by adoring fans, which would not offend him, but when he wants to spend time alone or with his partner, this would get tiresome. 

He’s at his most comfortable inside the world of his creation. 

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

When Wonka does something, he goes out of his way to take things to the extreme i.e. the construction of his Chocolate Room. 

He would put much effort into dates and anniversaries. His gifts would be thoughtful and considerate of your likes and interests. You can almost always expect some sweet treat of some kind. 

He is helpful with daily tasks, having been used to taking care of himself on his own and enjoying his own independence. 

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Willy has a bit of trouble being open, especially about himself. 

All things considered, it is understandable, given that he has been taken advantage of. So many people have tried to use him for their own gain and it is sometimes difficult for him to put things into perspective and understand that not everyone wants something from him. 

He is not very forthcoming with information about himself and this might lead to disagreements. He does his best to listen to you and communicate, even if it is hard for him to open up to you. He wants your relationship to be as healthy as it can be and that means learning to trust that you have his best interests at heart. 

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

He is a bit vain. 

He cares about his appearance and his outfits, though eccentric and somewhat extravagant, are tasteful. He likes to match garments i.e. his shoes with his hat or he’ll pick accessories to match his eyes. 

Sometimes he tries to style his hair a little bit, but his curls are so unruly that most days he’ll just wear his hat and leaves his hair alone. 

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

I think that Wonka would not have realized how incomplete his life was until he met you. 

The irony is that his imagination has imprisoned him. He became so successful that his competitors tried to take advantage of him and he was betrayed by those whom he trusted. He can do absolutely anything that he wants and yet he will never be able to truly be free because he must isolate himself so that the world does not ruin him. 

Wonka could never be free in the sense that he might someday have a normal life. All his happiness and joy are manufactured; he does not know a life outside of the factory. 

Nothing is an impossibility for him and yet the one thing he cannot do is create love. 

Love is something that must be found and cultivated over time. 

A romantic partnership with him would take a while to grow, but with time, it would blossom into something beautiful and he would come to realize how much he had been missing. 

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Willy says in canon that his Chocolate Room is where his dreams become reality and some of his realities become dreams…

What if the boat ride scene are his nightmares?

It would make sense, considering that every room in the factory contains things that he has invented or dreamed up out of his own head. 

It would only be right to assume that the boat ride scene is something that has manifested from inside his mind. 

These are the things which frighten or torment him. He purges them and gets them out of his mind so that he can focus on more wholesome things. We all have troubling thoughts from time to time and we can either put them out of our head or bottle them up; Wonka chooses to store them away where he can confront them by healthy means and step away when it gets to be too much. 

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

In general, Wonka hates: bad manners, questions, untrustworthy people and people with no imagination, to name a few. 

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

He doesn’t sleep very much.  He would be fine with seven hours of sleep at the most, but he’s capable of running on no less than five. 

[raplinesmoon]

The House The Sea Built (KNJ x F!Reader)

Inspired by the Korean film Il Mare, and Namjoon’s album Indigo

pairing: rapper!namjoon x artist!reader

genres/aus/rating: strangers to lovers, angst, smut, magical realism au, time travel au, 18+

summary: It was meant to be a simple, yet practical request - leaving behind the seaside cottage meant you had to find a way for your mail to get back to you. But the response you receive from the previous resident, a man named Namjoon, dated two years in the past, is anything but simple. With extraordinary circumstances allowing you to write to each other, your tired souls find solace in your shared loneliness, and friendship blossoms. But what happens when that isn’t enough? When the ability to change life before and the future ahead becomes too tempting to resist? Will you and Namjoon find the fulfillment you crave, or will the aftermath leave you even lonelier than before?

warnings: lots of pov switches, heartbreak, references to mental health, drinking, swearing, lots of little coincidences, mentions of breakups, lots of Indigo references, Namjoon gets angry, minor accident and injury, Taehyung cameo, character d*ath, happy ending!, smut warnings: masturbation (m and f), erotic letters, squirting

word count: 13.8k

a/n: It’s finally here. This literally has to be one of the most intense labors of love I’ve undertaken, but I love Kim Namjoon, and Indigo, and this is the result of that love. I hope this fic can help you believe in the magic that exists in our mundane little world, and that it can help some of your loneliness go away, or just be understood, much like Indigo did for us when it came out. I hope you enjoy!

Present Day, 2022

What was it about saying goodbye that made it so hard? People always reminded you that you’d have the memories to hold onto, cherished moments engraved in the delicate fabric of your mind. Still, they seemed so fleeting, easily doomed to fade into oblivion as their delicate threads tore off and disappeared into the fabric of your mind.

Lost in your thoughts, you hardly notice the slip of your pen across the cardstock, leaving a garish ink stain amongst the neat print. Sighing, you decide it’s best to end your letter here, hoping the next recipient wouldn’t mind the evidence of your daydreaming staring them down on the page.

Shivering, you wrap your arms tighter around you, taking in the surrounding sea one last time. While there had been many clear blue days during your time at the seaside cottage over the past year, today was not one of them. Today, the fog was so dense the mist clouded the horizon as far as anyone could see, the only sign of the water being the gentle sound of the waves lapping against the shore. Your toes itched to take one last walk on the feather-light sand and to feel it squish between your toes, but you didn’t want to get your shoes dirty before making it to your new apartment.

A soft meow calls your attention, and you look over to see a pair of curious green eyes studying you from the shadows. Smiling, you slip the postcard into its envelope, reaching for the heavy box of art supplies - the last imprint of yourself remaining in the house, and rising to your feet.

“Alright Bokboki, it’s time to go,” you whisper softly, your boots thudding against the gangplank that kept the house elevated from the rising tide. Handing your box to the movers, you remember to pick up the card, holding it tightly to your chest with one hand, while scooping up Bokboki with the other. The wind whipped around your face, your hair flying in all different directions as you stepped back to take a look at your home. 

Slipping the postcard into the rust-covered mailbox, you hoped the next resident would appreciate the place as much as you did. More importantly, though, you hoped they honour your request in the note - the letter you were expecting was too important to miss. 

Climbing into the taxi with Bokboki, you wave a final goodbye to the cottage, turning your gaze away to await the promise of the new life that lay ahead.

. . . 

Groaning you turn against the scratchy sheets of your new bed, temples throbbing with pain as you’re greeted by the rays of sunlight upon rising. You missed the dense fog of the house by the sea, allowing you to sleep in as long as you wanted. Here, in this lonely box of an apartment, you were a slave to everyone else’s clock, awakened by the unforgiving light that signaled it was time to have another productive day. You cover your face with the blanket, burrowing back into the sheets.

Five more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

. . .

Those five minutes had unexpectedly turned into twenty, and now you were tripping over the boxes you had yet to unpack, slipping and sliding on the cool tile as you struggled to put your heels on and smooth down your hair. First impressions mattered when it came to finding work in your field, and you had to present the polished, sophisticated image that won the hearts (and the pockets) of most gallery owners.

Locking the door behind you, you see the woman from across the hall step into her own apartment as you’re leaving yours.

“How are you today?” you ask with a smile, only to feel the wind from the door slamming shut in your face. Dejected, you make your way down the staircase with your shoulders slumped.

Passing by the mailbox, you wonder if it’s worth taking a look for your letter, but decide against it. It had only been the first day after all. Who knew if Taehyung was even awake right now, halfway across the world?

Shaking your head, you ward off the intrusive thoughts in your mind, knowing that the letter would come, and all your worries would be eased. For now, you had an interview to go to. 

. . . 

The cold glint of the gallery manager’s eyes is all you remember, his booming laugh echoing in your ears, the sound seeming less like the jolly joke he intended it to be when he called your work unrefined, and more like a mockery that made your skin crawl. All you’d wanted to do was curl in on yourself in that moment, your feet itching to run to the corner and collapse. Instead, you’d politely wished him a good day, waiting until you were outside to let the first tears fall.

With your eyes trained on the ground as you walk through the brightly lit streets, you barely take a moment to notice the joyful spirit that permeated the air, couples and families all out for a stroll in the chilly weather, enjoying each others’ company. It only made you feel more alone as you ascended the stairs to your apartment, Bokboki’s soft meows greeting you upon opening the door.

Looking at your phone, you see a missed call from Hyung-seo, your best friend, asking if you wanted to hang out tonight. Slumping onto your couch, you try to figure out the best excuse, when your eyes came across the picture of you in Taehyung in the corner, cheeks red from the cold and arms wrapping each other in a warm embrace. Your fingers tremble over the phone buttons, hesitating but never daring to press call. 

What was it about feeling sad that only made you want to be even alone? Humans were strange in that way.

Giving Bokboki a few scratches between the ears, you change into your pyjamas and brush your teeth. Tomorrow you’d go back to the house and check if the letter from Taehyung had arrived. You needed some kind of sign that things would be better from now on.

2 years ago, 2020

Namjoon looks at the tree with its vibrant leaves hued in red, orange and gold, and a twinge of sadness goes through him. As beautiful as they were, he knew he’d only get to enjoy them for a short while before the wind lifted them up and away, and winter settled in on the coast.

He hadn’t actually been inside yet. The company had dropped off all his things in the cottage, but Namjoon had been too scared to step over the threshold, because that meant accepting this new phase of his life. One where as the world had shut down and gone to sleep, he hoped that people wouldn’t notice how he faded into obscurity, never to be heard from again.

Quite frankly, Namjoon was tired of being heard from. As a performer and a rapper, he was used to thousands of eyes on him every second, whether it was at a concert or even through his pictures on the internet. The mask that he’d chosen to don as his alter ego, RM, had become heavy, the strings threatening to snap and reveal the tired, fragmented soul that lay underneath. He’d chosen to intervene before anyone could see him, the real him. He didn’t want to disappoint them.

Staring out at the sea, the wind ruffles the strands of his hair, and he knows he should get a haircut. But then again, who was gonna see him out here anyway? At most, maybe Yoongi or Hoseok would stop by, or his parents. They were the type of people who wouldn’t care if his hair was a little bedraggled, or if he gained or lost a couple of pounds. They’d love him anyway.

The garish ringtone of his cellphone jolts him awake from his thoughts, and he pulls it out of his pocket to see Hoseok’s name light up the screen, hitting the answer button.

“Namjoon-ah,” Hoseok’s voice rumbles through the screen. “You said you’d call when you got there.”

“Sorry, just unpacking,” Namjoon lied, hoping Hoseok wouldn’t catch on. “The house is nice. Do you know who designed it? It doesn’t seem like it was built by some generic construction company.”

He knows Hoseok is rolling his eyes on the other side of the phone, babbling that it was some architect, but Namjoon’s question had been sincere. He wondered who could have wanted to hide from the world bad enough that they’d design a house on this isolated beach, where the winds were wild and the sun shone rarely, and how someone who he’d never met could have understood his desire to not be found so deeply.

“Thanks for the Kaws figurine by the way,” Namjoon gives out at small smile when thinking of Hoseok’s parting gift. “I’ll find a nice place for it.”

Hoseok’s infectious laugh echoes through the speaker, and Namjoon feels his gut lurch, missing his friend.

“You better send me a picture of what you’ve done with the place, and don’t forget to call, huh? Me and Yoongi-hyung are gonna hold you to it.”

Namjoon remains silent on the other end, staring out at the vast horizon, nothing and no one around for miles.

Hoseok clears his throat on the other end, his voice becoming serious.

“Stay happy, Namjoon-ah, talk to you soon.”

“You too, Hob-ah,” Namjoon finally musters before the line cuts dead, leaving him alone once more. Staring at the open door, his new life waiting for him inside, he rises to his feet, walking towards the house that was now waiting for Namjoon to make it a home.

. . .

The first thing he had to tackle was his massive collection of books, the numerous volumes waiting to be homed on the weathered shelves. He knew they wouldn’t stay tidy for long, with his habit of taking one down every day to read and somehow never putting it back. Staring at the walls, he tries to assess the light filtering in through the window, wondering where he could hang his paintings. 

The entire house was blue, from the well-worn wood to the sunlight reflecting off the sea, casting a cerulean glow over the walls, matching the dark blue jeans he was wearing. Instead of being eerie, it reminded Namjoon of those dioramas of a ship in a bottle. This was now his space, his spot to look upon the world, instead of having the world look at him.

As he hung up the art on the wall, he stared at it, hoping it could look back at him, and offer him the inspiration to create he so desperately craved. Studying the strokes of the Lee Bae piece, the splotches and strokes only served to remind him of the dark abyss his mind had become. 

It seemed silly, the job Namjoon had. Who the fuck cared about him and his silly rhymes when the world outside was falling apart? When lives were changing like they never had before? At least for artists, their works could live on to be admired and reflected on without the pressures of the context it was created. For Namjoon, context was all that mattered - how he dressed, what he said, who he spoke to. Never how he felt.

Turning away from the lone painting hanging on the wall, he feels his temples throb with the beginning of a headache. Unpacking could wait. For now, he craved the fresh sea air, the whole reason he’d moved away from the city in the first place. 

The sand on the beach squished against his feet as he ran, feeling the wind blow through his hair, and Namjoon felt freeer than he had in months. Pausing by the oceanside, he panted, hands on his knees, and drew in his chest, screaming into the great beyond, his voice hoarse and tears streaming down his face.

. . .

Returning to the house, Namjoon paused outside the rust-covered mailbox. He probably should check if there had been any important communication from the label. After all, this break was not completely a break. At the end of it, Namjoon would still be pressured to show that the time off had been worth something. 

Reaching inside, he’s surprised to find an envelope within, feeling heavy cardstock in his hands. Curious, he opens it, finding a generic greeting card. Who could have sent him this? He flips the page open:

Hello there!

I’m the person that lived in this house before you did.

I have a favor to ask.

I’m waiting for a letter, actually.

So if you get anything addressed to me, could you please send it to this address?

Wishing you lots of luck in the new place.

Thank you again.

My best,

____

2022.

P.S. those pawprints by the door? They were there before I moved in. I tried my best to get rid of them, but I couldn’t. I hope you can forgive me.

Turning the letter in his hands, Namjoon is confused. The stamp was dated 2022, but it was only 2020. Whoever sent it had to be playing some kind of practical joke on him. As far as the realtor had explained to him, he was the first to live in the cottage, the architect’s lost labor of love away from the city appealing to his desire to get out of his hectic life. And there were no pawprints anywhere.

He pulls out his phone, ready to search your name on Google, but hesitates at the last minute. He knew what it was like to have his privacy invaded, to live a life under scrutiny in the age of the internet. Your letter seemed well-intentioned and even if you were a stranger, perhaps he could just do this one kind thing for you without expecting anything in return. 

Lost in thought, he almost misses the sound of a car crunching on the gravel outside, looking out the window to see a sleek black vehicle he knew all too well rolling up. Throwing his coat outside, he runs to it, a surprised expression on his face.

“Hyung!” he calls out to the two figures that exit, their expressions taking in the isolated area with nothing but the sea surrounding them. “What are you doing here?”

“So this is where you’re hiding from us,” Yoongi whistles, Hoseok nudging him in the stomach. 

“We brought some of your stuff from the studio,” Hoseok says cheerfully, his heart-shaped smile piercing through the fog.

“Do you want some tea?” Namjoon doesn’t want to invite them in, but feels like he has to.

Yoongi studies him, his dark eyes glimmering, and Namjoon senses something is up. They’d known each other for too long to keep secrets from one another. 

“This came for you,” he holds out a piece of paper. “It’s from Ji-hyeon.”

Namjoon flinches at the mention of his ex’s name, and instantly the walls he’d built up in his mind to keep them out of it crashing down, the bitter end of their relationship causing bile to burn in the back of his throat.

“Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it,” he spits out, and he watches Yoongi glance at him. He knew his hyung blamed Ji-hyeon for everything going south, for Namjoon needing to get away, but it hadn’t been just that. There was more going, more Namjoon wasn’t sure he was ready to share with anyone.

“The house looks great,” Hoseok interrupts the tension. “You’ll have to invite us in some other time. Hopefully you can actually learn to cook and clean up after yourself.”

He puts a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder, beckoning them to go, and Namjoon watches them leave, alone and finally able to breathe again. He hadn’t realized how stifling the presence of other people had become, even those closest to him. He just wanted to be alone.

Namjoon hears a whine from his side, looking over in surprise to see a kitten staring up at him with huge eyes, like it wanted something from him.

“Hey little goyangi,” he chuckles. “Who are you – Hey!” 

The kitten stares up at him for a few moments longer, before running towards the house, knocking over the can of paint by the entrance, Namjoon chasing after it. 

He walks in to see little black pawprints all over the entry, and is immediately reminded of the letter from earlier. 

P.S. those pawprints by the door? They were there before I moved in.

Namjoon runs to his study, tripping over boxes on the way, desperately searching for where he kept his pen and paper. He had to know how you knew about the pawprints, and whether you really were from the future.

Sitting against the wall, he’s unsure how to start - responding to yes your request seemed so trivial, limiting the ability to ask all the questions he wanted answers to. Instead, he decided to take a simpler approach, speaking from his heart:

Dear ____,

I’m fucking lonely…

Present Day, 2022

Curling tighter into your coat, you take in the old cottage, still standing as proudly and as empty as the day you moved in, a lone display piece against the backdrop of the sea. You’d contemplated coming back for a little while now, not having heard from Taehyung or the new resident. Taking matters into your own hands, you’d been surprised to hear that no one new had moved in, lying to the realtor that you’d left something behind. 

Key in hand, you open the door, greeted with the vast space that seemed cold and sad without the warmth of a human being and their possessions to fill it. Things had been rough lately, a few more visits with gallery owners and exhibitions not going the way you’d expected them to, and it made you remember why you loved this place so much.

Here, no one could remind you that you weren’t enough, that you’d have to try again. You were just free to be as you were, the ocean your silent partner. Throwing the sleeping bag onto the floor, you scoop up Bokboki, cuddling him in your lap. The two of you remain silent, watching the sky change and the clouds shift, until night falls and you drift off to sleep.

. . . 

You open your eyes with a start, the hard wood that you’d fallen asleep on causing pain to explode across your back. Turning, you see Bokboki snoozing off right next to you, his tiny body moving up and down with each breath. The first rays of sunlight have begun to break through the window, and you know it’s a sign that the weekend is almost over, and you’ll have to leave soon. 

Stretching, you wrap your sweater tight around yourself, slipping on your shoes to go check on the mail outside. The air is crisp and the fog dense. Slipping your hand inside the mailbox, you’re surprised when you feel an envelope in there, one that hadn’t been present at the start of the weekend. 

Taking it out, you open the envelope to find a plain piece of paper, the messy scrawl of black ink all over the pages. Could someone have responded to the card you’d left? Your eyes scan over the page:

Dear ____,

I’m fucking lonely. Sorry for the abrupt introduction, but I just had to get that off my chest, and as you probably know, there’s no one around for miles. As much as I want to help you, since it seems like you’re waiting for something (or someone?) important, but I think you sent that letter to the wrong address. I’m the very first person who’s lived here. I apologize for not being able to help more, and wish you the best of luck with your search.

Sincerely,

Kim Namjoon

Glancing at the stamp on the right hand corner, you see that it’s dated from 2020, and your eyes widen. Was this some kind of sick prank? Whatever it was, you weren’t going to put up with it. You’d been pushed around and dismissed by too many people in your life to stand for it with some stranger.

Rifling through your bag, you find your small sketchbook and a pen, tearing off a sheet. As much as it pained you to rip what could house a potentially new piece of art, this warranted a response and warranted one now.

Listen,

I don’t know why this letter sent to you, but if you’re playing some kind of joke, can you please just leave it where you found it? Thanks.

___

P.S. you’re not seriously sending me letters from 2020, are you? That has to be a typo. Also, the weather is getting colder outside, please make sure to bundle up.

Stuffing the letter back into the mailbox, you feel tears prick at your eyelids. Why couldn’t anyone ever take you seriously? You weren’t just some doll or plaything to be tossed around and abused. You were a real person, with real feelings, and it seemed like no one ever got that about you. You didn’t know why you’d ended with another well-wish, now this Namjoon guy would just think he could use you again.

Suddenly, you feel a cold splish! on the tip of your nose, looking up to see a soft scatter of snowflakes descend from the sky. You feel Bokboki brush against your leg, and smile, your anger of a moment ago forgotten. The tension in your shoulders eases as you close your eyes and make a silent wish that despite the bumpy start, the incoming snow would treat you kindly, and perhaps all that you deserved would finally come your way.

2 years ago, 2020

Namjoon shivers with his hands in his pockets, standing outside the mailbox once again. You’d sent another letter. He’d seen it on his way out to the nearby small village this morning, his empty fridge taunting him. While his fingers had itched to tear open the envelope, he needed time to sit and process whatever your response would be. 

Opening it, his eyes fall at your cold response, the only thing keeping his frozen tears at bay your request for him to stay warm. Maybe you did have a heart after all. Sighing, he shoves the letter into his pockets along with his hands, breaking into a run as he ventures to escape the frigid winter air.

Shaking the snow from his hair, he strips off his winter clothes, teeth chattering from the cold. He walks down the hallway to the bathroom, stripping the rest of his clothes and filling the tub up with warm water. At the sound of the dripping, his new cat friend comes pattering in. Namjoon had decided to keep the curious creature after much contemplation. Just because he felt lonely, didn’t mean he wanted to be completely alone.

He sighs as he steps into the tub, the water instantly filling him with warmth. Closing his eyes, he reaches for his phone on the bench nearby. His eyebrows furrow when he sees dozens of messages from Yoongi and Hoseok, asking about how he’d settled in. There was another text too - one from the company’s head, asking how the progress on his new album was going.

Namjoon wanted to bang his head against the wall. He’d barely had a break and already, people were demanding things of him again. He wondered when this all became so painful - when the fame began to feel like shackles, when everything began to seem forced. Namjoon swipes on the message, deleting it for good. He wouldn’t let the pressure get to him again. If he wanted to write music, he would. If he wanted to make poetry, he would. If he wanted to throw paint against a canvas, he would. But no one could tell him what to do.

His phone clatters against the bench, Namjoon dropping it in favor of the wineglass that rests by the tub. Taking a sip, he sighs, the hot water restoring life to his body and the alcohol numbing his brain. 

“I do wish me a lovely night,” he chuckles to himself.

Present Day, 2022

Dear ____

Like you predicted, the weather got colder. It even snowed! I’m afraid though, that with the wintertime cheer, I’ve gotten a cold. I don’t know what to make of this – I can’t tell whether you’re a prophet or a fortune teller or just someone who owns a lot of crystals. But somehow all of those are easier to believe than the fact that you’re from the year 2022. 

Best,

Namjoon

Clutching the letter to your chest, you sigh heavily, unsure why you’d decided to keep writing back to the strange man who seemed to live inside the mailbox at the cottage. He seemed less harmless than you thought he was, his words so sincere, you could almost imagine the smile that lit up his face as his messy scrawl danced across the page.

Reaching across your desk for a piece of paper, you dig through your collection of pens, finding your favorite one. You smile as you pen a quick response, refraining from telling him I told you so about the cold weather. It seemed extraordinary to be writing to him. Although you still couldn’t fully wrap your head around the fact that he was from the past, you hadn’t realized how lonely your life had become.

Ever since Taehyung had moved away, you’d only had Hyung-Seo. The life of an artist was lonelier than people realized. There were no glamorous gallery openings or art parties in dimly lit rooms. Many of the other artists you came across were cold and unwelcoming, preferring to stick to their already existing circles, and showing no interest in you or your pieces. Hyung-seo was the only friend you managed to hold on to, but even she had her own life to worry about.

Maybe that’s why it felt so right to be writing to this Namjoon guy. You’d been denying it, but there was a void in your life - you had no one to talk to, no one who would really listen to you. Even Bokboki couldn’t say anything back. But Namjoon listened to you - he wrote to you even when you’d been rude, searching for ways to prolong the conversation. And his words, despite how brief they were, made you feel just a little bit less lonely.

. . . 

2 years ago, 2020

Namjoon guzzles the last of the beer, the rush hitting him while he waits for Hoseok to come out of the convenience store. Pulling his mask up and his hood over his head, he looks down at the ground, hoping no one recognizes him at this hour. He didn’t have the capacity to deal with a fan sighting right now. In fact, he’d been hesitant to agree to Hoseok’s offer of hanging out in the city at all, preferring the peace and solitude he’d come to associate with the beach house.

He had a love-hate relationship with the place, the tall buildings and masses of people in the street only serving to make him feel lonely. For a place full of people, the city was full of sorrow. In the days he’d lived here, Namjoon’s only solace had been bike rides on the river, the briny smell of the water being the impetus that had spurred him to move out to the oceanside in the first place. While he missed it, he didn’t miss the feeling of being a wanderer, not having a place to belong in this vast metropolis. 

Hoseok comes out with his haul of snacks, the two of them ready to head back to his apartment. In the car, Namjoon reaches into his pocket, fingers brushing against the last letter you’d sent, and he has a spark of realization. The address you’d been writing him from was near Hoseok’s place, maybe five or ten minutes away. Maybe he could finally meet you, the mysterious woman who occupied most of his thoughts and activities these days, the one who made him feel a little less alone in the world. 

“Can we take a detour?” Namjoon asks suddenly, prompting Hoseok to look at him with raised eyebrows. “I have somewhere I need to see.”

Hoseok nods silently, and Namjoon is thankful he doesn’t question him. He gives the directions, and Hoseok drives, coming to a stop a few minutes later. Namjoon can stop himself from bolting out of the car, running up to where he know you live—

Only to find a construction site and a half-finished apartment complex, and his face falls. Taking a look at the exposed beams and the planks of wood, it finally hits Namjoon that you’re a real person. A person who’s going to live here. He wonders what you look like, what you do for work. He wants to know more about you, know where you are in the world, and when your paths will cross. 

“Why are we at a construction site?” Hoseok comes up beside him, concern etched in his features for his best friend.

“No reason,” Namjoon sighs. “I just thought there’d be something else here. Let’s go.”

2 years ago, 2020

Namjoon looks at the kitten, studying it with the utmost scrutiny. A tortoiseshell coat, and striking green eyes, and a little triangle patch of black hair in the middle of its head. 

He hadn’t known the little guy was supposed to have a name already, but now he’d just found out: Bokboki. Namjoon is unable to speak, sitting there stunned with his little companion after reading the letter you’d just sent, ranting about how you’d spent the entire day just lounging around with your cat, whom you’d found when you moved into the house. 

Namjoon hadn’t seen many other cats strolling around the beach, and since this one seemed to have a particular connection to the beach house, he realizes that in some strange twist of fate, the two of you owned the same pet, the fortuitous connection between you two only building and building. So, you really were from the future.

You’d sent him something else besides the letter, something that had shocked Namjoon even more than the revelation about little Bokboki. The piece itself is tiny, printed on a sheet even smaller than the one you’d written your letter on, but it’s nothing short of stunning. The simple flowers, not unlike the ones he’d seen growing by the beach, are shaded in different hues of blue. He can see where the acid caused the paint to stratify, feathery strokes running over the page, and the once vibrant flowers are now washed out to nothing but white, obliterated by the dark midnight of the background. In the very corner lies a small signature, and Namjoon realizes the neat scrawl is of your name. 

You were an artist. Just like him. 

Namjoon feels a pang within his chest, unable to reason why the tiny painting you’d shared affected him so. You hadn’t said anything about it, hadn’t bragged or even gone into detail about what it meant or why you’d chosen to paint it, or send it to him. And yet, Namjoon felt as if through this painting, he knew more about you than he had through the course of all your letters sent to each other. 

You understood him. You understood what the pressure to create was like, how hard it was to condense the vast world around you into a set of lyrics, or a single painting, and to still invoke a full-bodied spectrum of emotions. He wondered if you understood the burnout too - when art no longer felt like freedom, and more like a set of shackles. How when what once made your heart beat no longer touched it at all, it felt like dying your very first death. 

He doesn’t realize the tears have fallen down his face until he sees the paper he’d picked out to write back splotched with wet spots, and he sniffles.

Scrolling through his library of guide tracks until sleep makes his eyes heavy, Namjoon glances over occasionally at the painting, at a loss of words for how he could even begin to repay the beautiful gift you’d shared with him.

. . . 

Dear Namjoon,

Are you for real? A still life that does not stop, keep my flower blooming again. It’s like you wrote this about my painting!! But how could you, when I hadn’t even sent it to you yet? The song was amazing by the way, even though I had to go out and buy a CD player to listen to it. You’re very talented. You should release it! I’m sure it would go viral on Spotify.

I had an inkling you were an artist too. That’s why I sent you my piece. I’m glad you appreciate it, even when others don’t seem to. But enough about me, I want to talk about you! Your music is so addictive, I can’t stop listening to it. Do you like making songs? I know sometimes it can be hard to create things and not see them get the appreciation they deserve, but I have full faith that if you were to share your talent with the world, you’d find an audience for it (okay maybe the audience would just be me, but isn’t that reason enough?). It seems we’re living in a strange thread of time right? Our previously separate lives are intertwining, thread by thread, and I can’t help but think that there’s something bigger going on. But I’ll save you from my rambling. For now, I wish you good luck with your songwriting!

Sincerely, 

____

Namjoon stares at the letter, his eyes rimmed with red from tears and a lack of sleep. He wants to pull at the threads of his hair and yank them from his scalp. When he’d scrolled through his guides on a whim, choosing to send you a CD burned with Still Life, he’d never expected this reaction. He had never meant for you to hear it, or for anyone to hear it for that matter. It wasn’t the kind of music anyone expected from him, or the dark, sexy kind of song that made any money, and so he’d let it sit on his computer, abandoned.

Until now. 

Namjoon wants to tear up the letter into a million tiny pieces. How dare you say that to him? How dare you give him this fragile sense of hope, knowing any moment, this cruel world could snatch it away? You were wrong. In this day and age, no one was actually interested in music. Sure, they blasted songs through their headphones on the way to work, or while running outside, or in the clubs, but did anyone actually listen to what the artists were saying? No. The lyrics remained lost in the back of their brains, no one ever stopping to think about the conversation that he was trying to initiate. Everybody talked about him, but no one ever talked to him.

Finding another piece of paper, Namjoon nearly rips through it with the force of his pen scratching across the surface.

Dear ___,

You asked me if I like making music. I don’t know anymore. I just don’t know.

Present Day, 2022

Dear ___,

We’d like to thank you for your time spent applying to our gallery. Unfortunately, we regret to inform you…

You toss the letter in the trash before you can even read the rest, covering your mouth to stop the tears from spilling out while you were in the middle of the street. It hadn’t been a good week for you. Not only had Namjoon written you an abrupt response, leaving you to wonder whether he was angry, but you’d finally gotten the letter you were waiting for from Taehyung. Except, instead of the response you’d expected, you’d been greeted with nothing but a big red stamp - return to sender.

You shove your hands in your pockets, staring blankly ahead as you walk wherever your feet will take you, uncaring of people scolding you to get out of their way or to watch where you’re going. Eventually, you find a bench, plopping down on it with a sigh, only to be met with the rude stare of some old man who promptly gets up and leaves. You weren’t good enough for anyone it seemed.

From across the bench, you can see a rusty telephone booth, a relic you thought didn’t exist anymore, and an idea sparks in your brain. A very bad idea. But your mind is powerless to stop the way you rise, feet walking towards the phone booth. 

The door creaks when you open it, and you give the buttons of the phone a cursory tap, just to make sure they still work and you aren’t about to have your credit card eaten. Although it wouldn’t matter much if it was - it’s not like your name was worth much. Dialing the last number you knew to be Taehyung’s, you wait as the dial tone rings and rings.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice answers. “Hello?”

“Who is it?” a deep voice rumbles in the background, and you slam the phone back onto the receiver, your heart beating out of your chest. 

Running out of the booth, you don’t stop until your feet carry you all the way home.

. . . 

Shoving your coat and your shoes off, you strip off the rest of your clothes, throwing them against the wall with a thud. You want to scream. You want to break something. But you have nothing of value. Nothing that would equal the pain and the heartbreak you feel right now. All you have is yourself. And you’re completely alone.

You slam the door to your room shut, ignoring Bokboki’s soft meows, and collapse to the ground, sobs wracking your entire body. You lay there with your head against the door, wondering why the world had chosen to be so cruel to you, to leave you so lonely. 

That was the hard part about getting older. When you’d been in high school, everybody had told you your adult years would be the best of your life, with so many milestones to look forward to - getting a job, entering a relationship, getting married, buying a house, having kids. And that you’d have so many people by your side to witness it all. But the reality was, none of that was true. Instead, you felt more like you were wading through the wide open ocean, with no one around to see you struggle to keep your head above the surface. 

You muster enough strength to get up, stumbling over the desk, head in your hands as you stare at the piece of paper you’d chosen out to write your next letter to Namjoon. Tracing your hand over the edge, you pick up the pen, beginning to write.

I thought falling in love would make me so happy. But all it did was break me inside. It gave me fleeting happiness, only to snatch it away and laugh in my face, telling me that I’m not enough. That I will never be enough. Why though? Why does it have to be me who feels so lonely? Why do I have to go through this pain? Am I not worthy of being loved? Am I undesirable in some way? Once, just once, I wish I could love someone and have them love me back. And not in the transient, fleeting kind of way. No, I wish I could be loved, wholly and completely. I wish to know what it feels like to have someone who’ll sleep beside me every night, to wake up warm instead of freezing. To feel another pair of lips against my own, to have those lips both soothe me and undo me. To feel someone’s fingers inside me, bringing me to highs I can never reach alone. To know someone else’s body as well as I know mine, to lose myself in them completely while we make each other come.

As you write, an image flashes in your head, one of a faceless man. You have no idea what he looks like, but you can hear his voice. It’s the same voice that writes to you nearly every day, that hears your deepest thoughts, and you want him to know your darkest desires.

Your fingers slip underneath the waistband of your panties, warmth pooling in between your legs, and you resist the urge to rub your thighs together to relieve some of the pressure between them. You let out a staggered breath when you swipe through your folds, fingers sliding easily against the wetness that has begun to pool, and your hand rises to circle lightly around your clit.

You let out a moan you didn’t know you’d been holding in, closing your eyes and leaning back against the chair, your legs spreading on their own as the deep voice in your mind continues to talk to you, to repeat what you’d written in the letter, and you feel yourself clench involuntarily thinking about the faceless man in the back of your mind. 

Sinking a finger inside of you, you grind your hips, your throbbing clit catching the palm of your hands. You tremble at the wet noises you can hear, accompanied by the soft staccato of your whines, and your thumb circles back around your needy bud, increasing the pressure, the pleasure rapidly building as you slide in another finger, fucking yourself against your hand. 

It takes a split second for your walls to tighten around you and the taut knot in your stomach to snap, your body convulsing as your slick spilled all over your fingers, soaking your underwear and the chair below. 

You open your eyes, huffing breathlessly as you remove your sticky fingers from inside of you, your heart pounding in your eyes. Looking down at the piece of paper, you shove it to the side, shame flooding your entire body at the debauched fantasy of Namjoon you’d just gotten off to. He was your friend, not some cheap rebound attempt. Your fingers tremble as you grab the pen, trying to write another letter to him to quell your racing thoughts, hoping calm would find you again after the storm that had just ensued.

. . .

2 years ago, 2020

Namjoon shouldn’t be reading this. This clearly wasn’t meant for him. But wasn’t it? You’d put the letter in the mailbox, knowing it’d go through to him, knowing he’d read the very words that had his face flushing red and his cock stirring underneath his grey sweats. He felt like a total perv, getting hard when you were clearly vulnerable and sharing something personal with him, but he’d be lying if he hadn’t thought about how you looked, how you felt, how you tasted.

It’d been too long since Namjoon had sex, and he’d forgotten how strong and persuasive desire could be, leading him to do the most fucked up things. Namjoon reads the letter again, and again, and again, wondering if you touched yourself while you wrote it. Wondering if that’s why the words sounded so rushed, so frantic, spilling out of you like he’d never heard you speak before. He wonders who could make you feel that way, and jealousy stirs in his chest when he realizes it’s most likely someone else. Not him. 

Still, it doesn’t stop him from tugging his sweats down, his hard cock springing out, and he wraps one hand around it, leaning back against the bed. His eyes close as he pumps himself, imagining you behind his eyelids - your lips, your breasts, your pussy. But also your smile, your eyes, your hands. And Namjoon aches to touch you, to touch anyone, to banish the deep-rooted loneliness within his heart.

A bead of precum escapes the tip of his dick, and Namjoon slides it around himself, stroking harder, and faster, thrusting into his hand imagining it was you instead, just like you’d wished for him to do. Underneath him, the bed begins to creak, and Namjoon lets out a low groan, throbbing as he bucks his hips in time with his hands. 

“Fuck,” Namjoon growls as he explodes, curses falling from his lips as he slumps into the bed, chest falling and rising with heavy breaths. Sparks tingle under his skin, Namjoon’s body coming alive like it hadn’t for months. 

At the same time, the guilt settles in, and he feels as though a lead weight is pressed against his chest, crushing his lungs until he can’t breathe. He feels sick inside for taking your moment of vulnerability and using it for his own selfish gains. The gross feeling remains even after he’s gotten up and cleaned himself off, his head buried in his hands when he sits at his desk. 

Grabbing a piece of paper, he begins to write, words of apology flying off the page, hoping it’s enough to excuse his depravity, that you’ll forgive him, that you’ll still want to write to him. He doesn’t know what he’d do if you didn’t.

Dear ___,

I’m sorry you’re feeling this way. I don’t know if you meant to send me those vulnerable words, but if you did, I want to thank you for thinking that I’m trustworthy enough to share them with. I know nothing I say can completely heal the sadness within your heart, but maybe I can offer some wisdom from my own up-and-down experiences with love.

The reason we’re so tormented in life is because love goes on, not because it goes away. But even after we lose that love, the life of a person who’s been in love is more beautiful and vibrant than that of someone who’s never experienced love at all. Cheer up. Everything will work out the way it’s meant to.

- Namjoon

Namjoon stares at the letter for a few moments, unable to believe the poetic words that had just left him in this moment of shame when he’d been struggling to write for months. His brain churns with an idea, and he opens his mixing software, grabbing the notebook he uses to pen his lyrics, and beginning to write. 

If love ain’t for us

I’ll be satisfied with this

I don’t need your touch

I just need your love

Come closer, come closer

Present Day, 2022

Perusing the piece of paper, you wonder if Namjoon’s been drinking the past couple of days. He’s never opened up this much to you, preferring to keep your interactions surface level and friendly. But his last letter hadn’t been just friendly, it’d been poetic, reassuring you that love was worth it. You wonder if he’d been thinking of someone specific when he penned the words. Now, with this next letter, you finally had your answer.

Dear ____,

It was Ji-hyeon. Ji-hyeon was their name. I thought we had it all - the perfect chemistry, thought we wanted the same things. But I was a fool to think that love was for me. I’ve been trying so hard to let the memory of the breakup go, but it haunts me every day. Every day, a little piece of me chips off and withers away when I realize that I’m losing myself. I’m losing my sanity. I’ve ceased to be a human and instead become a prisoner to this industry. To making music. And I just want to let it all go. To quit. That’s why I moved out here in the first place, to find some peace away from the hectic city. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t. I can’t let it go because music is who I am, art is who I am. And it breaks me because the pull of creative expression will always overtake anything, or anyone in my life. I can’t live normally, as much as I yearn to. I can’t love anyone.

- Namjoon

You clamp your hand over your mouth to stop the tears from falling, Namjoon laying himself bare on the page, and your heart hurts for him. Not only because of his sadness, but because his loneliness is the same loneliness you feel, both of you wandering souls in this unforgiving world. 

Watching your clothes spin in the washing machine, you think of Taehyung, and how he was your Ji-hyeon. Except, it was different. You’d known love, you’d known happiness unlike Namjoon had.

Grabbing your notebook, you scribble across the page, telling him that it doesn’t have to be that way, that real love is like the beauty of an amazing art piece. Something can be both beautiful and full of love, it doesn’t have to be full of ugliness and heartbreak for it to inspire you to create. Pausing, you think back on a story from a while back, deciding to divulge it to him. 

The watercolor I sent you? It’s from two years ago, I was painting a whole series on wildflowers in cyanotype. But I went through so many different renditions, so many different drafts, that I ran out of my favorite watercolors, the . I ran to my favorite store, hoping, praying that the creative streak I was on wouldn’t leave me, that if I just had those watercolors, I could keep going. I could make something of myself. But they weren’t there. Someone had bought them just moments before I entered the store, the last set. After that, I just gave up. I was strapped for money and couldn’t afford another set, let alone the time it would take to scour the city looking for them. I haven’t touched the paintings since. 

. . . 

2 years ago, 2020

Namjoon throws his coat over his shoulders, stopping only to scratch Bokboki between the ears before he runs outside, stumbling into the taxi as he frantically tells the driver to take him into the city. The roads pass him by, the serene landscape becoming dotted with more and more buildings, more people as the minutes go on. He asks to be let off at a random intersection, tipping the driver generously before he’s off running again.

There were a million art stores here. Surely one of them had to have the watercolors you were looking for. Namjoon didn’t want you to become like him, paralyzed and unable to do what you enjoyed. No, he wanted better for you, and he’d make sure it happened, so your beautiful wildflowers could see the sun’s rays once again.

Finding one on the corner of a narrow street, he slips inside, greeting the store owner warmly before heading to the back wall full of paints. 

His eyes scan through the rainbow of tubes and pans, until he sees them, the Kuretake ones you’d talked about in his letter. And there was only one left. Grabbing it, he rushes over to the cashier, paying for it, and running back out into the cold air, excitement coursing through your veins when he thinks of how happy you’d be when you saw him.

On his way out, he brushes against a shoulder, apologizing to the woman he’d accidentally bumped into. She gives him a polite smile before continuing on her way inside, and Namjoon smiles back, continuing on his way until he can hail a cab.

When he reaches back home, he slips the colors in the mailbox, and waits. 

It’s a few days later when your response comes back, your joy evident in the way the ink bleeds across the page, telling him you’d sobbed happy tears when you saw the watercolors. You’d immediately gone to start another painting, and Namjoon feels joy bloom inside his chest at the kindness he’d done for you. 

Reaching inside the mailbox, he’s shocked when his fingers close around something soft and wollen, pulling it out to see a scarf, indigo in color. The deep blue and violet fabric warms him instantly, as well as the note attached.

They say indigo is the color of intuition and perception. This scarf helped me find wisdom when I was struggling. I hope it does the same for you.

Present Day, 2022

It was a stupid mistake.

Looking at the letter again, you roll your eyes. Men. They could be so emotional sometimes, and yet they’d blame women for not having control of themselves. A small smirk makes its way onto your face as you read Namjoon’s sheepish request, asking that you send him a new tape recorder, since he’d destroyed his in a fit of rage before moving to the cottage.

Part of you wanted to laugh at his impulsiveness, but the other part of you felt sorrow for all the work he’d probably lost, just because of one rash mistake. You didn’t want him to feel sad. You wanted him to feel empowered to create, to make music again. And so, you set out on your quest to find one. The winding city streets took you on quite a journey, passing by various cafes and bookshops and parks, but you didn’t let yourself get distracted. You were a woman on a mission. 

Your search finally took you to a little electronics store on the outskirts of your neighbourhood, and you look through the various tape recorders, wondering which color Namjoon would like. You wonder if he’s finally ready to start making music again, and smile when you think about being able to hear his songs again.

Paying for the tape recorder, you gather your things and walk out into the street, headphones in your ears. You’ve just stepped into the intersection when you hear a scream, feeling something slam into you from behind, sending you hurtling to the ground. Your ankle twists out of position as you topple over, and pain explodes across your entire leg as you hit the ground, scratching your hands.

Lying there, your mind chooses not to focus on how much pain you’re in, or the fact that you’re now bleeding. Instead you hyperfixate on the tape recorder that lies a few feet away, wondering how you were ever going to help Namjoon make his songs now. 

You don’t know how many moments pass like this.

Waking up, you hear the beeps of a blood pressure monitor, pain trickling from the back of your head down to your ankle. You’re not in your room. It’s a hospital bed, and across from you, you see Hyung-seo looking at you with concern, jolting up out of her seat when she sees your eyes are open.

“Here, drink some water,” she offers you a cup, and you accept, the liquid soothing your parched throat. “You sprained your ankle, please take it easy.”

“Hyung-seo,” you croak to her, still worrying about the tape recorder and Namjoon. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

. . . 

2 years ago, 2020

Namjoon can’t stop running. He’s probably run further down the beach than he should have, the house disappearing until it’s ceased to be a speck in the distance, disappearing completely from his view. He stops himself, bracing his hands on his knees, and heaves in a few deep breaths, suddenly realizing he forgot to feed Bokboki before he went out. 

He hadn’t been able to think straight for the past few days, opening the mailbox every couple of hours anticipating a tape recorder and another letter from you, but instead, he found nothing. At first, he was worried that something had happened to you. But as the days went on, an ugly feeling settled inside Namjoon’s chest. One that convinced him that you were ignoring him, that you’d purposefully grown tired of your interactions, and now wanted nothing to do with him. Maybe you’d found someone new.

Namjoon stumbles towards the ocean, feeling the waves lap at his feet, soaking through his running shoes. Fury floods his mind when he thinks of how open, how honest he’d been with everyone in his life, sacrificing his own damn mind to make them happy. And now, he didn’t even get the same back.

He wades deeper into the water, his waterlogged feet meeting resistance, and screams, his hands pulling at the strands of his hair. And then he screams again, louder this time. But no one is there to hear him.

It’s at least an hour before he returns to the house, shoes soaked with mud. Before he goes inside, he decides to peer inside the mailbox, knowing it’ll probably be worthless. As he opens the rust-covered door, his heart sinks with guilt when he sees a letter from you, and the tape recorder he’d so anxiously been waiting.

He wants to punch himself for his impatience when he reads the note, explaining that you’d met with a small accident and had been in the hospital for a couple days. His heart aches with concern for you? Were you okay? Did his selfish request cause you to get hurt?

Closing the door behind him, Namjoon looks at the tape recorder, wondering if it had even been worth it to ask for it from you. Would it really get him to work on his album? Or would it just taunt him as another reminder of his failures in life.

Sighing, he clicks the play button, ready to make the most of it no matter the outcome. But then he pauses. The sound of the tape is faint, but he can hear a voice on it. Your voice. You’re singing. Your voice is raspy, sounding unpolished, yet also rings clear and sweet. You riff a little melody, adding words that sound like a lullaby and Namjoon feels a pang in his chest. You sound so beautiful.

You end the brief recording with a laugh, apologizing for wasting space on the recorder, and telling him he can delete it. But Namjoon doesn’t delete it.

Bent over his desk, he takes the sincere melody and crafts it into a beat of his own, his low voice joining yours in perfect harmony.

With numerous thorns

The morning that comes and goes

In my own way

I'm gonna anesthetize myself, yeah-yeh

Present Day, 2022

Ride the A1 bus all the way until the second last stop. 

When you get off you’ll find a tree-lined street on both sides. 

If you cut through the patch of trees on the southwest, and walk exactly 1,632 steps, you’ll stumble upon something extraordinary.

I hope you like walking.

Holding the piece of paper with directions to your chest, you fight off a sheepish smile, heart pumping loudly in your ears as you think about Namjoon’s directions for your little “date”.

It wasn’t a real date, you see. The two of you had decided to send each other on adventures in your own time, but Namjoon had called it a date. The thought made you absolutely giddy. You hadn’t been on a date since Taehyung. As strange as it felt to be going somewhere on your own and calling it a date, it felt like Namjoon was with you, his spirit trapped in the letters of the page, leading you to somewhere wonderful.

You count your steps carefully as you walk, the trees lining your path on both sides, just like Namjoon had said. You marvel at their height, the blue sky peeking out from the canopy of their lives. Continuing to count each precise step, you look down at the ground until you reach 1,632. When you look up, you suck in a breath.

It’s a field full of wildflowers, the vibrant colors peeking through the grass like the twinkling of stars in a midnight sky. Your smile widens as you run into the field, laughing at the smell of the beautiful blooms, tracing your fingers along their delicate petals.

Finding a spot to put your bag down, you pull out your notebook, and begin to sketch, the wind ruffling your hair and Namjoon’s field of flowers keeping you company.

. . . 

2 years ago, 2020

Namjoon steps through the gallery, keeping his head down to avoid being recognized, sipping the coffe from the café you’d told him to go to before ending up here.

I think there’s an artist you’ll like, your letter had read, and Namjoon, like the smitten fool he was, was powerless against his own two feet as he immediately set off in search of the mysterious paintings. 

He hadn’t meant for the word date to come out. It just had. He knew you were lonely like this, and even though he couldn’t be there to erase your loneliness in person, he figured sending you to the wildflowers would be the next best thing. And it was. You’d excitedly written back, explaining that you’d come back with at least a dozen new sketches, ready to paint and turn into cyanotype. Namjoon had leaned back in his chair, his grin wider than the ocean, his heart pounding in his chest and his palms becoming sweaty when he thought about your smile, and remembered your beautiful laugh from the tape recording. 

The gallery isn’t busy this time of day, but he avoids talking to anyone, instead making a beeline for the corner you’d talked about. When he comes upon it, his jaw drops open in shock.

The strokes of the piece are ragged, burnt umber and ultramarine blue blending into a series of minimalist lines, the points where they blend creating a black deeper than any night sky Namjoon had seen.

Moving closer, he studies everything, from the worn canvas, to spots where the paint appears thicker in one area than another. The simplicity of the piece blows Namjoon away - the honesty portrayed within, showing him that he doesn’t need to be flamboyant or ostentatious to make an impact. Minimalism spoke words.

Glancing down at the artist’s title card, he sees the name. Yun Hyong-keun.

Namjoon comes home and fires up his computer, looking up interviews and more about Yun, mesmerized by the artist’s perspective on life, emphasizing his own humanity before his duties as an artist.

After his research, Namjoon pens a thank you to you for showing him the work. Coming up on the end of the letter, a bold thought crosses his mind, and he dares to write it down.

___, I’d like to meet you in person if that’s okay? Can we meet here, on this very beach? I’ll give you a day, closer to your time, so you don’t have to wait. How about December 13, 2022 at 3:00? Let me know if that works.

- Namjoon

Present Day, 2022

You slam the dress onto the countertop, the cashier looking at you in surprise.

“Aren’t you going to try it on?” she asks, one eyebrow raised. 

“Nope, just pack it up, please,” you implore her, blushing at the bold red fabric you’d picked out. Namjoon couldn’t miss you in this.

You were losing it. The date he’d given you was in three days! Not nearly enough time to prepare. How was it fair that he got a whole two years and you only got a couple of days. You wanted to meet him, but you also weren’t ready. You wondered what he’d be like. If he’d be the same as you imagined him to be, or different. Whether his voice would sound as deep and melodious as the strings of a cello, or if he had short hair or long hair. In any case, you were sure he’d be wonderful.

The next couple of days pass by in nervous anticipation, with you talking nonstop to Bokboki about your hopes and fears for the foretold meeting. You re-read all the letters you’ve shared with Namjoon before bed, wanting to impress him with how well you know him.

When the sun rises two days later, you rise bright and early with it, hopping in the shower, making sure your hair is styled to perfection, and not a smudge of makeup is out of place. You feel shy putting in so much effort, but you didn’t want Namjoon to think you were a slob. Finally, you slip on the red dress, amazed at how it fits like a glove. 

Studying yourself in the mirror, you can’t help but notice that your skin looks brighter, your cheeks rosier, your hair shinier. You look like life has found its way to you once more, imbuing you with an overall glow that hadn’t existed since before you broke up with Taehyung. Your cheeks flush when you realize Namjoon is the reason for the glow, and you shake your head, banishing all your intrusive thoughts from your mind before slipping on your coat and running out the door.

It feels like the cab ride to the beach is longer today, your leg bouncing up and down in anticipation. When you finally see the beach come into view, you ask the cab driver to stop then and there, not even waiting for them to take you all the way up, instead throwing a handful of bills you hope will cover the ride.

You leap and sprint down the beach, until you reach right behind, the house, where Namjoon said he’d be. Looking around, your face falls. No one is here. Not wanting to give up, you spend a few minutes combing up and down the beach, looking for another human in sight. But there’s no one.

Returning to the house, you let out a soft gasp when you see a man there, his messy black hair blowing in the wind. Dread fills you as you realize you don’t even know what Namjoon looks like. But maybe this was him? You decide to tread carefully.

“Excuse me?” you ask him, and he turns to study you, his eyes reminding you of Bokboki, looking right through you. “Are you here to meet someone by chance?”

His polite smile turns into a grimace, and he shakes his head.

“Whoever your Tinder date is, it’s not me, I’m afraid,” he says. 

“Why are you here then?” you question him, looking around at the abandoned beach. “No offense, but this isn’t exactly a tourist hotspot.”

“I had a friend who used to come here, said it inspired him to make art about the woman he loved,” the man says sadly, and you decide not to press on, giving him his privacy.

“Hey!” you hear from behind you, looking to see him waving at you. “Good luck with whoever you’re looking for. I hope you find them.”

. . . 

2 years ago, 2020

Namjoon wants to yank at the strands of his hair. He pushes his glasses back up onto the bridge, looking at your letter. He’s so fucking confused. He can imagine your small tears dripping onto the paper when you returned home from the beach, disappointed that he didn’t show. But Namjoon is bewildered. 

He wouldn’t have missed meeting you for the world. There was no single excuse, no event, that could have caused him to miss such an important day. Unless, of course, it wasn’t up to him.

Namjoon takes a walk outside the house, descending the stairs to the beach, the indigo scarf you’d given him wrapped tightly around his neck. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and sending a wish out in to the vast world, a wish for your paths to finally connect.

It hadn’t hit Namjoon until he procured the bouquet of wildflowers in excitement for your date, going to the very field he’d shown you. His excitement had been palpable, until he’d returned home to Bokboki staring him down, and he realized he still had two years to go, and the flowers were going to wilt.

His chest had ached with the realization that it would be a long time before he ever met you, and even then, your meeting wasn’t guaranteed. Running a hand through his newly cut hair, Namjoon was struck finally with the revelation that had been creeping up on him through all these months - he’d fallen in love with you. He couldn’t pin it down to a specific moment, but rather the momentous collection of all the times you’d talked to each other. He was in love with you, despite having never seen your face or talked to you in person. His heart was many things, but it wasn’t a liar.

Which is why it broke him to think that he may never have a chance to tell you how he felt in person. That you’d never realize the depth of his feelings, because maybe your paths weren’t meant to converge. But that didn’t stop him from wanting to show the world his love, in the chances that maybe one day, you’d see it and come looking for him.

Fingering the scarf, he looks at its mellow hue, so like the sea before him, and a single thought occupies his mind.

“Indigo,” he whispers. His new album would be called Indigo.

Present Day, 2022

Sipping on your coffee, your ears perk up when you hear a voice behind you, one you hadn’t heard in a long time.

“Seojin, I’ll make it home for the engagement party, you have nothing to worry about,” Taehyung’s deep voice fills your ears, the hairs on your arms coming to stand up as he talks to someone on the phone. Your coffee cup falls out of your hand, tipping over and spilling onto your shirt.

“Shit!” you curse as the hot liquid burns you.

“___? Is that you?” you hear Taehyung’s voice call out, and you turn away, gathering your things and hiding your face.

You hear footsteps come up beside you, Taehyung’s tall figure looming over you, and you inhale the scent of his cologne, closing your eyes.

“It is, isn’t it?” Taehyung looks over at your turnt figure, reaching out an arm to pull you to face him. You can’t even look him in the eyes, instead looking at the floor. You want to tell him to go away, to fuck off, but you feel powerless and weak.

“Can we talk?” he says softly, and you don’t know why you nod. Maybe it’s finally to get the answers you’ve been searching for ever since you decided to wait for his letter in the mail.

You follow him listlessly to a table, looking out the window while he orders another coffee. Looking at your disinterested figure, you hear him let out a heavy sigh, before beginning to speak. 

“It wasn’t easy being abroad, having to study there all alone,” he begins, slipping off his coat. “At first, your letters gave me something to look forward to. But then I got tired of feeling so alone. I grew close to one of my colleagues, who was by my side the entire time. We’re getting married soon. I’m so sorry ___.”

Looking up at him, you know he can see the bloodshot look in your eyes, tears threatening to spill over the edge. You don’t say anything, throwing your coat over your shoulders and running out of the cafe, your feet aching in your heels until you’re all the way home.

Slumping onto the floor, you lean your head against the window, watching the rain fall softly outside. Bokboki piles into your lap with a soft meow, and you stroke his head, continuing to watch outside. Opening the drawer to the coffee table, you reach inside, finding the framed photo of you and Taehyung, your smiles taunting you from the other side of the frame.

Things had been so simple back then. You’d loved each other, you’d wanted to spend the rest of your lives together. So why hadn’t it worked out?

Immediately, your thoughts drift to Namjoon, and how you hadn’t been able to connect with him. Were you just doomed to be alone for the rest of your life?

No. You get up, traveling to your desk to pull out another piece of paper. You could change this. You could fix things between you and Taehyung. You could cure this crippling loneliness you felt. And you knew just the person to ask.

. . .

2 years ago, 2020

I thought I could forget him. But, from the moment I heard his voice, it all came back to me. The fact that he loves someone else, and the fact that I’m aware of that, and I still love him, brings me more pain than I can ever admit. I’m sorry that I’m asking you this, but please help me. Please help me not to lose him. I’m sorry, Namjoon.

Namjoon stares blankly at the letter, unable to process the words on the page that you’d written. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and clears his mind of all the thoughts currently at war with one another. He couldn’t think about what you’d just asked of him. He didn’t want to think about it, knowing his heart would splinter even further at the fact that you loved someone else. Someone who wasn’t him.

Leaving the safety of the beach house, he decides the fresh air will help him clear his head, catching a cab to the city. When he bids the driver goodbye, he wanders aimlessly through the streets, people all around him, and yet Namjoon can’t stop thinking about you.

You, who was never meant to be in his life except as a fleeting presence, as transient and ephemeral as the trains that stopped at each station, before continuing on their journey. He knew now that your paths were never meant to cross, and that he had to make his own way in this world, as alone as he’d been before he met you.

The dreadful realization hits him that he needs to leave the beach house - he couldn’t stay there any longer. It was too full of memories, ones he’d made while writing to you, and as painful as it was to forget them, it was time to let go.

He decides to catch the bus on his way back, standing alone at the stop, until suddenly, he’s joined by another person. Turning around, he sees a woman next to him. Her eyes meet his, and widen at his indigo scarf, looking closely at it. Namjoon coughs, and she averts her eyes. Something about her seemed familiar, but she was probably just another stranger. Namjoon wants to talk to her, to be able to talk to someone else besides you. He opens his mouth to make a comment about his scarf, but is interrupted when a tall, well-dressed man swoops in, his arm wrapping around the woman. 

The bus chooses that moment to arrive, and he watches the two of them climb on, the women looking back at him with a frown on her face when he fails to join them, his feet glued to the ground.

Not wanting to wait for the next bus, Namjoon walks towards the nearest cab, falling asleep on the ride home.

When he’s finally in the safety of his room again, he decides to write you again, knowing this will be the last letter he ever sends you. Because he loved you, and he wanted you to be happy with who you loved, he knew it was time to let you go.

Present Day, 2022

Holding your portfolio in your hands, your fingers tremble with excitement as you get off the bus, stepping right onto the street where Cypher Labels was located. You’d had a creative breakthrough, and someone finally wanted to hire you!

You would write to Namjoon and tell him the good news, of course. You bite your lip, worrying about him. You hadn’t heard from him since he sent the later saying he’d help you reunite with Taehyung. You had nothing but immense gratitude and affection for him in your heart. He was truly a good person, and you hoped only the best would find him in life. 

Do you remember the very first letter? You wished me luck in the house the sea built. This time, I wish you luck. I hope I can help you find what you’re looking for.

You step into the offfice, and the only two people there are two hushed men whispering to each other. At the sound of your heels clacking against the floor, they look up. The shorter of the two studies you curiously, and you can’t help but feel like he’s familiar. Maybe it’s his eyes which pierce through you.

“___! It’s you, right?” the other one gives you a heart shaped smile, his bubbly demeanor immediately putting you at ease. He beckons you to take a seat at the third chair.

“I’m Hoseok, and this is my business partner Yoongi. We’re so glad you could make it. Your artwork has us very intrigued.”

You blush at the compliment, holding your portfolio to your chest.

“Do you mind telling me a little bit about the album and the project itself?”

Hoseok looks over at Yoongi, his face suddenly falling, and Yoongi gives him a tilt of his chin.

“This project is, uh, it’s special to us,” Hoseok says softly. “It’s for a friend that we lost. He used to work with us here at the label, and we were so excited when we got the drafts from him. He’d been struggling to make music, but he moved out to the beach and began talking to someone, and he finally told us he was ready to share the music inspired by his time out there with the world. The album is called Indigo, named after a scarf he was given by the woman he loved, who inspired most of the pieces on the album.”

Your face pales at Hoseok’s description. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be true.

“We lost him in a car accident nearly a year and half ago. He was on his way to meet someone.”

“W-what was his name?” you manage to choke out in a whisper, and you see Yoongi’s nostrils flare at the tears that have collected in your eyes.

“His name was Namjoon.”

You’re up and running out of the studio before you can even process the news, sobs pouring from your body as you keep going, unable to keep the tears at bay.

Namjoon had loved you. He fell in love with you through the letters he wrote, and now he was gone. Gone after he was on his way to meet someone. You do the math in your head, and realize a year and a half ago was the day in Namjoon’s life after you’d written to him, asking him to help bring you and Taehyung together.

Your heart clutches in your chest, and you double over in pain. The album had been for you. It had all been for you, every little thing Namjoon had done. And now he was gone, and he’d never know the truth.

The truth that you’d realized after reading Namjoon’s response, after hearing his willingness to sacrifice his own happiness to ensure yours. That you’d fallen in love with him too.

Sniffling into your sleeve, you pull out your phone, calling a cab. When it arrives, the driver asks you for your destination, and you hesitate, not able to give the address to your apartment. That’s when it hits you. You could change things, just like you’d asked him to. You could write him a letter and deliver it to the mailbox, so hopefully, he wouldn’t go out that day to meet you and Taehyung. You could save him, so that he’d have a full and complete life like he deserved, even if it would never be by your side.

Giving the driver the address to the beach house, you pull your sketchbook out of your pocket, scribbling furiously on the paper.

Namjoon, please listen to me. Please don’t go to wherever me and Taehyung are, I’m begging you. Please listen, please stay home. 

The driver zooms towards the beach, sensing the urgency caused by your tears, and you nearly sob in relief when you see the house coming into view, not even waiting for the car to come to a full stop before you’re running towards the mailbox. Panting, you struggle to breathe against your tears, shoving the letter in the mailbox, hoping, praying that you’re not too late.

You collapse on the ground, whispering a silent prayer against the sand, hoping it wasn’t too late to show him your last act of love - saving his life.

Namjoon’s timeline, 1.5 years in the future

Namjoon never thought he’d return to the beach house, resolving to abandon it the moment he’d let go of you. But then he’d gotten the mysterious letter in the mailbox, telling him to stay home, and he figured he had to go investigate. Coming up upon the rickety house, it’s the exact same as he left it - the worn wood and creaky boards of the walkway. The sea around hasn’t changed either, the waves as calm as the day he’d moved in.

Except for the boxes. Namjoon’s eyes widen in surprise when there are a dozen or so boxes outside the door. Someone was finally moving in. Namjoon clutches the letter and waits by the mailbox, suddenly frozen. He didn’t know why he’d come here. As much as his feet wanted to turn back, he couldn’t.

He hears the door open, and a woman steps outside, wearing the same indigo scarf that he had around his neck, and in an instant, he knows it’s you. You’re even more beautiful than he could have imagined, and now he’s finally found you.

“___,” he calls out to you, and you look up to see where the deep voice is coming from,lips parting when you see Namjoon making his way towards the door.

You stare at him in silence for a few moments, and Namjoon is worried you don’t recognize him, that in this timeline, he means nothing to you, and his heart curls into itself, preparing for the inevitable heartbreak.

“Namjoon?” you whisper. “Is it really you?”

“I got your letter,” he shudders with a sob, holding out the piece of paper. He feels a raindrop splash on his head, and then another, before the heavens open and it begins to pour soaking you both.

Namjoon stays where he is, marveling at the fact that you’re finally here, right beside him. You step towards him, reaching for his scarf to pull him towards you, your lips pressing gently against his own. His arms come up to wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to him, his lips parting to engulf your own in a more passionate kiss, his cold fingers stroking your warm cheeks. Despite the raging storm around you, Namjoon finally feels at peace, the two of you finally finding your shared moment of forever, here in the house the sea built.

A/N pt. 2: Well now I’m fucking sad. But in all seriousness, I hope you enjoyed  reading this as much as I did writing it. And again, I hope it can provide some comfort. As always, any feedback or comments are much appreciated, but I appreciate you all anyway. Lots of love, Isi 💜

taglist: @miscelunaaa @luaspersona @whoisbts @blumenfeld @rapmonie2047 @little-dark-empress @lovemepie67 @ggukkieland @joonsytip @namjooningelsewhere @chrisellaxxjung @jub-jub @outro-kook @kamilamb @coffeedepressionsoup @fujinogf @wecanpretendit @lovely-joon @rkivian​ @rebloginfics​ @firesighgirl​ 

[gumnut-logic]

Along the Way (Part 7 and The End)

Sweetapple | Dear Mr Tracy | Along the way - Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

It's finished! ::runs around the room like a loon:: Though I have to say that I doubt this will be the last we see of Mr Sweetapple as there are several threads that need a good neat tie up :D

All the wonderful thanks to @onereyofstarlight for staying up extra late and answering my poke across the Tasman Sea for a last minute read. I hope Alex gives you some nice sleep ::hugs tight::

Also, special thanks to all of you for supporting my geeky fanboy Alex :D There will be more as someone sent me some OC asks about Alex and I've realised that the only way I can answer them is by writing fic. (some other OCs of mine might pop up in fic at some point,too, for that exact same reason) ::so many hugs to all of you for being so kind to me::

But anyway, I will stop my excited rambling and present you with the last chapter of this fic....which has taken so long to write - so many apologies. Though I am excited that I'm writing again :D

I hope you enjoy this :D

-o-o-o-

Alexander Sweetapple’s head was spinning.

Not so much from the concussion he had no doubt he had, thank you, Mr Holographic Scott Tracy, but more from the fact that Virgil had just kissed him.

Not Mr Virgil Tracy, Head of Research and Development at Tracy Industries, no….more ‘ohmigod, I finally found you and you’re alive, I want to hug and kiss your brains out’ Virgil Tracy.

The man was covered in concrete dust and grime, there was more grey than blue on his uniform bar the scratched patches where his now discarded exosuit had sat.

Alex had proof Virgil had hugged him via all the dusty patches on his damp clothes, on his arms, and in his hair.

Virgil Tracy had hugged and kissed him.

For real.

Alex stood beside his mum while Virgil assessed the condition of her ankle and she went about embarrassing her son every way possible.

To be honest, it had been such a day that she was welcome to show Virgil Alex’s naked baby pictures for all he cared. She was safe and that was all important.

A glance over at the remains of the museum building prompted his heart to add a few extra beats per minute to its routine.

Alex let his jaw drop as he watched the roof float away.

Oh god.

“Alex?”

Virgil’s voice was so rich and deep.

“Alex?” And then Virgil grabbed him. Was he trying to hug him again. That would be nice. “Whoa! I think you need to sit down.”

Okay.

He folded himself smoothly down onto the pavement beside his mum.

“Hey, honey, look at me.” Her fingers were suddenly in his hair. “Allie, how the hell did you do all that with a head injury?” She peered closely at him. “Virgil, what do your scanners say?”

And yes, Virgil was waving a yellow light over Alex. “Concussion, bruising…” He frowned. “You’re both wet. You’ve been in the river?”

“Nearly drowned. My foot got stuck and Allie pulled me out. Some water, possibly sewage, may have been inhaled. My recommendation is to watch for symptoms of infection. In both of us.” Dr Sweetapple was in the house.

He turned to Virgil only to find his friend’s eyebrows fully deployed.

They were very nice eyebrows.

Virgil caught his stare. “Thunderbird One, I need to leave the danger zone. Ten minutes there and back for patient transport.”

“FAB, Thunderbird Two. Make it quick, we need your help in the industrial sector.” A pause. “How’s Alex?”

“Concussion, but well enough…and safe.” Virgil still had his eyes.

“Good to hear. Thunderbird One out.”

“What are you doing, Virgil?” The words slipped out without thought.

Virgil looked down at his wrist control poking it. “You both need medical supervision. I’m providing it for you.”

A good hundred metres away, Thunderbird Two rose up on her struts and her module door slid smoothly open. Two hoverstretchers darted out across the road, gliding around obstacles until they reached Virgil’s side. He pulled out a control surface and reconfigured them into hoverchairs. “Sorry to rush this, but time is short. Alex, stay put while I help your mother.” He held up a gloved hand and Alex was forced to settle back and obey.

Besides, the world was spinning again, and after all, Virgil was technically his boss.

He let his head fall into his hand and closed his eyes, suddenly ever so tired.

So this was what an adrenalin drop felt like.

Ugh.

“Alex?” Virgil’s voice was soft and his gloved hand gentle on his arm. That was really nice. “Alex? You with me?”

He blinked. Oh. “Yeah.”

“Let’s get you up.” Virgil nudged him, both hands holding his arms to steady him.

The world wobbled, but a few steps and Virgil had him snug and safe, strapped into the hover stretcher…chair…whatever the hell it was.

Virgil was running, Alex and his mother beside him, until they were all swallowed by the green of Thunderbird Two.

At some point, Virgil must has triggered the chair back into a bed because Alex was lying down and Virgil hovering over him, once again with a scanner flickering yellow light. “You can go to sleep, Alex. You’re okay and you’re safe.” A gloved hand gently brushed away the hair from Alex’s forehead. He knew this should mean something, but he was so tired.

Thunderbird green danced as his eyelids drifted closed.

Somewhere something was roaring just like a Thunderbird launching, but he had no energy to care.

-o-o-o-

Jeff stepped into the elevator only to almost collide with his mother. “Mom?”

“I’m meeting Thunderbird Two.”

“Why?” Was Virgil hurt? Why hadn’t John told him?

A hand on his arm quelled the sudden panic. “Virgil is fine. We have visitors.”

“Who?” Did he have to draw the information out bit by bit?

“Do you remember Alexander Sweetapple?”

“Of course, I do. Gordon thinks Virgil might be…interested.”

“He is.” She held up a finger so close to Jeff’s face, his eyes crossed. “And you are not going to say a thing. Yes, he’s breaking protocol, but he has good reason.” She looked away and let her finger drop. “The poor boy has been terrified all day. Thank god, they finally found Alex. And I don’t blame him for not wanting to let him out of his sight.” His mother stared up at Jeff with all the fire he knew she possessed. “Your son is bringing home his first romantic interest ever and you are not going to spout security blather all over him. This is our house and we can have guests. Especially important guests.”

Jeff took a step back. “I wasn’t going to say anything!” Virgil was bringing home Alex? As a love interest? “What the hell happened?” He really needed to speak to John about keeping him updated. He knew his orbiting son was selective, but this was ridiculous.

The elevator doors opened and his mother glared at him. “Something good. Don’t ruin it.” She stomped off into Two’s hangar, detouring into the medical supply cupboard on the way, just as the hangar doors started their opening sequence.

Jeff stepped cautiously out of the elevator. He had no idea what warranted his mother’s ire. Okay, maybe he had had some words with his eldest at one point, but that was nearly a decade ago.

His priorities were a little different these days.

Two roared in, a little faster than the norm. Virgil was obviously in a hurry. She spun on her turntable and the moment she settled, her forward hatch was lowered, Virgil standing between two hoverchairs.

Jeff hurried after his mother, cursing his cane, as Virgil strode with the two chairs towards them.

“Grandma, this is Doctor Lolly Sweetapple. Doctor Sweetapple, this is my grandmother, Doctor Sally Tracy, she and my father will be taking over your care.”

The two doctors exchanged greetings and slipped into medical babble two seconds later.

“Dad?” Virgil gestured him over. “You remember Alex?” Why was there so much hesitation in his son’s voice?

“Certainly, the creator of Siliwrap.” The man was obviously asleep. “How is he?”

“Concussion, bruising, he and his mother need monitoring for possible lung infection. They were caught in contaminated water.” His son swallowed; his expression hesitant. “I wanted them here, Dad. Grandma has the skills and the tools.” He looked away. “I just couldn’t leave them to the system.” His eyes fell on Alex and Jeff’s heart clenched.

“We will look after them.” He dropped a consoling hand to his son’s shoulder.

Vulnerable eyes looked up at him. “Thanks, Dad.” His hand was squeezed and Virgil was again moving. This time running back to his ‘bird.

His mother immediately took over and bustled them all into the elevator before they could acquire new coiffures a’la rocket engine.

As the doors closed, Thunderbird Two accelerated out on to her runway and the elevator shaft roared as she took to the sky.

-o-o-o-

Alex rolled over in bed and sighed into his pillow. He was extremely comfortable. Temperature was perfect. Pillow was soft. “Mmmmm….”

“About time you woke up, Allie. You were starting to worry me.” His mother’s voice was always reassuring.

“He’s fine, Lolly. Concussion is healing and there is no sign of any lung infection. See, look at the scans.”

Alex frowned. That was a female voice he didn’t recognise. Also, why was his mum in his bedroom?

“You’re giving me equipment envy, Sally. My god, the science behind this is amazing.”

“Virgil has them in development, don’t you worry. A good percentage of our breakthroughs do get filtered down into the market. Unfortunately, there is a difference between the ability to make a device for International Rescue and making devices in efficient, ecological and economic mass production. Our teams do their best.” A snort. “And your boy is part of that team. His devotion to Siliwrap is all to his credit. Alex is saving lives as much, if not more, as any at Tracy industries. You should be proud.”

“Oh, that’s a given. He’s always been a little obsessive, especially regarding the Thunderbirds.”

Wha-?

Alex flung his eyes open to find his mother lying on a bed beside him, smiling. She had her ankle wrapped and raised and was obviously talking to the owner of the other voice, an older lady dressed in a purple jumpsuit.

Both were smiling at him.

“Where am I?”

Yes, that’s the first question out of any alien abductee’s mouth, no doubt about it.

“You’re on Tracy Island, Alex. You and your mother are safe and our guests.” When Alex didn’t respond as his brain automatically overloaded. “I’m Mrs Tracy, Virgil’s grandmother.”

“Watch it, Sally, he may combust on the spot.”

Thanks, mum.

His mother was grinning at him. “I swear he’s been looking for the location of this island since he discovered his first Thunderbird.”

“Mum!”

“Shhh! You’ll wake him up.” His mum was pointing behind him.

“Lolly, don’t worry, Virgil sleeps like the dead. Especially after a rescue like that.”

Virgil? What?

He twisted around and found a third bed behind him. Virgil lay sprawled face down on it, snoring softly into his pillow.

“Don’t worry, honey. He’s just tired. Our boys exhaust themselves and then wonder why their bodies shut down.”

It was only then all the events leading up to his current situation fully loaded into his brain.

Virgil.

Virgil had kissed him. His chocolate eyes held such relief and joy…

The scene played back in his head over and over, declaring that it had happened. That something Alex may have dreamed about but never really considered actually possible, had happened.

He stared at Virgil.

Gone was the uniform and in its place a simple black t-shirt outlining a lax bicep hanging off the edge of the bed. Alex’s eyes tracked down the length of Virgil’s arm to his hand.

Such strong hands.

The emergency responder had a blanket draped over him, obviously placed there after the advent of slumber, likely by his purple grandmother.

“Why is he here?”

Mrs Tracy walked around Alex’s bed so she could face him. “Now, don’t you start worrying your head off, young man. He is fine. He’s in the bed because otherwise he’d be asleep in a chair and that is not acceptable self-care. He wanted to stay here with you and it was the bed or out. Exhaustion did the rest.”

He stared at her a moment, his thoughts spinning.

“How are you feeling, Allie?”

Huh? He turned back to his mother. “Mum, your ankle…”

She waved him off. “Hon, I’ve done worse tripping over kids in the waiting room. Nothing to worry about.” She frowned at him. “How’s your head?”

How was his head? How was he in general?

There were aches, yes, now that attention had been drawn to them, but generally, considering that he’d just been through a major disaster, he felt okay. “I’m okay.”

His eyes drifted back to Virgil.

“Don’t you think of getting out of bed just so you can sit at his bedside, Alex. I know how you boys think, so don’t think you can pull one over on me.” Virgil’s grandmother was proving to be as bad as Alex’s mother.

“Don’t worry, Sally, he’s been very well trained from birth.”

“How did you manage that? I’ve been trying for nearly thirty years with the grandkids. Their father is just as bad.”

Alex’s eyes widened. Their father? Jeff Tracy. The Jeff Tracy who gave his name to Tracy Island. That Tracy Island that was ever so secret and Alex was currently resting his butt on. Well, the bed his was resting his butt on was on the Island. It was simple transference of molecular ownership.

Perhaps this was not the best moment to realise that he was wearing a black t-shirt very similar to Virgil’s and that it was not one he owned, nor was it one he was wearing the last time he was aware and conscious.

He pulled up the blanket and found black shorts. “Where are my clothes?” Perhaps the step up in octave was a little ridiculous on his part, but it had been a very stressful day.

“Your clothes were ruined, Allie. Jeff and Mrs Tracy were kind enough to supply and dress you in some replacements.” His mother was ever so matter-of-fact, as usual.

“Jeff Tracy saw me naked?!”

Okay, he had to admit, that was supposed to be inner voice and not shouted at the top of his lungs. In any case, it proved that it was possible to wake up Virgil Tracy, no matter what his grandmother said.

“Alex? What?”

He turned to find Virgil pushing himself up off the bed, hair sticking in all directions, obviously still half asleep.

“Honey, the man brought up five boys. One more is nothing new.” Mrs Tracy was as matter-of-fact as his mother.

Great. A team up.

“Virgil, go back to sleep.” Mrs Tracy bustled over to her grandson and attempted to get him to lie down.

But Virgil had caught sight of Alex. “Alex! You’re awake!”

Mrs Tracy actually rolled her eyes as Virgil threw off his covers and climbed out of bed. He closed the distance between them on bare feet. “Hey, how are you feeling?”

Alex couldn’t help it. “You look adorable.” Because he did. Big tough rescue operative with puffy eyes and hair sticking up all over the place, not to mention the black t-shirt and shorts that hid absolutely zero anatomical detail. And above all, he was smiling, as if ever so happy to see Alex…which was some kind of miracle and honestly how hard had he hit is head?

“You’re not bad yourself.” That smile turned to one of appreciation.

What?

His mother did mention a concussion…

“Okay, it’s obvious Virgil is not going to listen to his doctor’s advice, so Lolly and I will leave you two boys alone.” Mrs Tracy poked at his mum’s bed and it detached from the wall, hovering quite happily and easily nudged out of the room.

“Allie, take it easy, love. You are recovering from a concussion, after all.”

Yeah, yeah, mum, whatever. Virgil’s eyes were such a beautiful shade of brown.

Both women muttered to each other as they left the room, closing the door behind them.

Virgil was poking Alex’s bed controls with his fingers. “Good. You’ve rested.” His eyes were tracking over medical readouts. Alex’s medical readouts.

“I’m okay, Virgil.”

The man looked up at him again. “Good.”

Alex frowned as Virgil lifted a hand up and gently brushed Alex’s hair clear of his left temple and the abrasion there. “Grandma’s treated you well.”

Alex wanted to fall into that gentle touch. His eyes may have at least partially closed.

“Are we okay?”

Alex’s eyes snapped open.

“I mean…” Those eyes looked down and away. No, come back! “…we haven’t talked about-“

Alex was suddenly kissing Virgil. There had been space between them, but now it was gone, Alex had his arms around those truly magnificent biceps, and startled lips were pressed up against his, ever so warm, and god, Virgil was kissing him back…

There was a brain whiteout for a moment as Virgil’s arms returned Alex’s eager embrace…and then Virgil’s tongue was in his mouth and…

“Whoa! My bad.”

Alex pulled back.

“No! No, you two just keep doin’ what you were doin’ and I’ll just put this coffee down and-“

“Gordon, what do you want?” Virgil hadn’t let go of Alex, but his head did turn towards his brother.

Alex was busy dying on the spot. Why did he do that? Kiss Virgil? Him?

“I brought you coffee! You know, life blood and all that.” Coffee? “Uh, you might want to get back to that tonsil hockey you were playing. Alex looks like he’s might dump you for the coffee.”

“Go away, Gordon.”

“Going away, leaving, like a tree. Happy for both of you. ‘Bout time, Virg.”

“Gordon!”

“I’m gone!” And he was, the door sliding shut behind him.

Virgil turned back to Alex. “Sorry about that.” A slight shrug. “I have brothers.”

Alex blinked. “I have sisters.”

Virgil’s smile was a sight to behold. “So, we’re okay?”

Alex had had a very hard day, his head was a bit of a mess and there were several truths he was ignoring to keep his sanity. But right now?

He tugged Virgil closer. “More than okay.”

“You want some coffee?”

But Virgil’s lips were brushing his and… “No, I’m good.”

The coffee went cold.

-o-o-o-

FIN

[alicesadventuresinffxiv]

FFxivWrite2024 Prompt #29 (Free)

Title: Changing Tack

Wordcount: 1150

Spoilers through: Shadowbringers 5.4

Relationships & Characters: Merlwyb/Kan-E

Summary: When the Admiral receives a message from the Elder Seedseer taking her to task for her reckless actions, she knows how to read between the lines.

(I really enjoy the variety of women FFXIV has, and therefore the variety of relationships I’ve gotten a chance to write this month. There’s everything from innocent new crushes to complicated old tangles like where I went with this! :D)

.

“Letter for you, Admiral. From the Elder Seedseer.” The Grand Storm Marshal handed over the sealed envelope after knocking twice on the door to the command room.

The admiral of the great ship Limsa Lominsa raised an eyebrow at the neat, rounded script. A personal letter, then, not one dictated. “Already written, has she? News does travel fast these days.” Merlwyb gave a sharp nod. “Thank you, Marshal. I’ll read it at once. Can’t be too careful with those Garlean towers looming over the horizon.”

Her second in command tossed off a quick salute, then headed to the lift as the admiral prized the seal off with her knife and limped back to her desk. With a grimace, she sat back down and rubbed at her injured leg. She’d gotten lucky the other day with the kobolds. Very lucky indeed. A few gashes and bruises were a pittance to pay for a fresh start to negotiations between them.

Now then. The letter.

“My dearest Merlwyb,

Have you perchance taken leave of your senses?! Even I should not dare walk into a nest of tempered sylphs, and I count their elder amongst my closest allies. To wager one’s life upon the whims of an enemy with naught but a handful of adventurers at your back was a recklessness unbefitting of the steady hand with which you’ve steered your nation!

Did you not think to call upon Gridania’s conjurers? Full gladly would I have lent mine Adders’ assistance to the cause of peace. Had you but sent word more, our finest healers - in whose number I myself include - would have been at your prompt disposal.

Merlwyb let out a hearty chuckle. Despite her counterpart’s flowery language and excuses about responsible governance, the true message was clear: Kan-E, Navigator bless her adventurous heart, was hopping mad she’d missed all the fun and fireworks.

Nevertheless, though I must needs condemn your thoughtless methods, I do greatly applaud the results of your efforts. I had feared your determination to stay the course of violence would preclude any cessation of hostilities within our lifetimes. But I see now that the rock of your convictions may be weathered by the gentle river of my persistence…

Oho. Not so angry she couldn’t feel smug, then. Trust the girl to be too sweet and polite to say “I told you so,” in that many words, but aye, she was thinking it. And truth be told, Merlwyb deserved it! Many a night she’d argued with the seedseer until she’d been blue in the face that her calls for negotiation and compromise would never come to pass.

But here Merlwyb was, gambling her life and legacy to make Kan-E’s wish happen.

Mayhap, then, I have a chance to persuade you on the matter of our second longstanding disagreement. Thus do I remind you: my invitation remains ever-open, awaiting your reply. Should you find yourself in want of the succor and safety of Gridania’s bosom, the Twelveswood welcomes you with open arms.

And there it was. Merlwyb sighed ruefully and sat back. Kan-E chided her for her recklessness now, but in times long past, that accusation had held far more weight. 

In those times, Merlwyb had been a different woman. A woman who’d seen Gridania as merely another ship to be plundered, a target which had much vexed her with its impenetrable supernatural defenses. 

A woman who had, once the Elementals saw fit to appoint a new seedseer, made a point of stealing away with their treasured Hearer’s heart.

Or, should your mind be seized by yet another bold whim, you could do far worse than to counter mine invitation with a proposal of your own. You have taken the first steps towards mending relations between the peoples of your lands, but what of those beyond Vylbrand’s shores? A more permanent and stable arrangement between us, regardless how inelegantly advanced, could prove far more beneficial to our citizens and the Alliance than our wont to tiptoe around the buried rot left by our feckless histories.

And Kan-E had welcomed it. For all that the Elementals’ role for her shackled the girl to the Twelveswood, her letters never failed to overflow with a desperate wanderlust and longing for freedom. Their brief tryst had but heightened these waves of desire in Merlwyb’s wake.

Of course, Kan-E would never leave her woods, no matter how thinly she concealed her fantasies of being spirited away as a dashing admiral’s bride. But neither would Merlwyb leave her fleet. 

Indeed, the metaphors practically wrote themselves. The sea was in Merlwyb’s bones. Putting down roots simply wasn’t in her nature. She’d charted her voyage, and the seedseer hers, and apart from those fleeting nights of moonlit passion, their routes were not like to meet again.

All I ask is that you give mine suggestions the consideration they are due. As the Seventh Astral Era waxes and the long shadow of Garlemald’s empire wanes, we find ourselves with a bounty of opportunities to begin relations anew. Why should we let paths unwalked still define the contours of our futures, when we instead have this chance to forge a fresh path together?

Surely it couldn't work. As nice as Kan-E made the idea of quickening the embers of their old love sound, they were both mature women with bustling city states to run and interminable politics to navigate. It was one thing to speak of beginning relations anew, but in these days of calamity and war, when had they last had but a single moment to discuss aught beyond official Alliance business?

Given enough time, Kan-E would realize a youthful indiscretion did not the foundation of a fruitful relationship make. The healer would learn to mend her own heart. She had to know Merlwyb had taken many lovers since, some for the span of a night, some for the span of years. 

…Although it was true Kan-E was the singular soul who’d kept writing. Who had, as the seasons cycled again and again, never quite left Merlwyb’s thoughts.

A gentle river, eh? Compared to the stormy winds Merlwyb surrounded herself with, that soft pull should have held no bearing upon her heading. And yet… 

As such, when next you are unoccupied by urgent matters of state, I would much like to discuss the momentous developments of late in person. Or perhaps diplomatic topics of a more discreet nature, should you find yourself amenable to mine desire for a more enduring friendship between our nations.

May the Twelve keep you always,

Kan-E-Senna

A short visit couldn’t hurt, Merlwyb decided. Just a courtesy call, to ensure Gridania’s overtures to its neighbors were going as well as Limsa’s. 

And if she just so happened to make time afterwards indulge in Kan-E’s ideas of discreet diplomacy? Well, Limsa had changed its tack to fit the new wind blowing, so perhaps this old pirate could too.

[oodlekode]

TRANSFORMERS ONE SPOILERS!!!

Spoilers and rambles under the cut!!!

So I saw the movie and I'm absolutely in love with it!!! My thoughts about it are scattered and possibly hard to read so excuse that.

First and foremost, I was a little surprised that they made Orion a miner along D-16. But it got me thinking that because of the way Orion is and all his chaos; it would make sense if he used to be an archivist and got demoted for being crazy. The implementation of Orion still having his name and not a miner name like D-16 was just a little confusing was all. Secondly I absolutely loved the word building and the Idea of Cybertron having organic life on the surface and animalistic beings. The little red lights on the horns of the deerlike animals was really neat. I liked being able to understand a bit more about Cybertron and its many surfaces, even if it was brief subtle implications of it.

I was really surprised to see Alpha Trion turn into a dinobot!! I don't know if anyone picked up on that but it was really interesting to see.

And even though I saw the betrayal coming, It absolutely broke my heart. The thought put into it, the last words from D-16 to Orion, the way he slipped out of his grasp. AGH!! Just every little bit of that was so good, the buildup to it was so well done.

And last little thought on it before I lose myself in words, I noticed the prime theme in the cave scene!!! That was SO AWESOME!!! As a heavy Prime continuity enjoyer that pulled at my heart so much. I love all the tiny callbacks to the universes and especially prime.

Thats all I have for now, even though theres so much more. Overall I loved it so much.

[boogiewoogieweeb]

4, 10, 19, 39, 55!

hello nonnie! thank you very much for the asks - i hope my answers will be satisfactory! 🌹🌹🌹

4. Where do you find inspiration for new ideas?

as cliched as it sounds, everywhere really. all it takes for a fic idea to form is for me to see or experience something interesting and apply it to whichever characters i'm currently obsessed with. a good example of this would be my joplittle sexsomnia au - it was born from reading an article posted to reddit about how extreme stress or emotional trauma can induce this condition, and what the partners of people who suffer from it have to deal with. my brain extrapolated on this by going, "neat! now let's apply that to edward little and see where it goes!". and so now i'm a quarter of the way through a wip about the first lieutenant of hms terror getting up to sexcapades in his sleep :D

10. Cltr+f "blinks" on your WIP & copy paste the first sentence/paragraph that comes up

you would not believe how many of my wips i actually had to dig through (eight, it was eight) before i actually found one where i've used the word "blinks". anyway, here's wonderwall the snippet:

“Then I should hope to always be fortunate enough to have a Second so steadfast in his dedication as you have proven yourself to be, Lieutenant Little.” The words settle over Edward like a warm weight; an anchor dropped in calm waters, and he blinks harshly to stem the prick of tears that burn suddenly at the back of his eyes.

19. What is the most-used tag on your ao3?

the filters on my works page tells me that apparently, it's #humor. followed in short order by #angst, #drama, and #drabble in combined second-place. which really tells you everything you need to know about me as a person, probably.

39. Share a snippet from a WIP

this is one i've been sitting on for more than a month now, following some conversation with two of my favourite people, lily and helen, on the topic of the parallels between little and crozier in the terror. it's a fic that's almost as close to my heart as my "ned quits the navy" au, and it's coincidentally also the same fic where i pulled the "blinks" snippet from:

He’s going to lose the fingers, at the very least.

What had started out as frostbite has grown into something far, far more insidious; the rigid blue-white of hardened flesh having first given way to purple bloating, then to leathery, blistered brown, and finally to black decay; variegated streaks of reddish-grey striating from the tips all the way down towards the line of his knuckles.

Worse yet is the smell whenever he peels the bandages off; a faint, nauseating, slightly sweet stench that reminds him of the time when, as boys, he and James had once come upon a dead fox while out riding one afternoon - flyblown and baking in the stifling summer heat, its noxious and festering body bloated with gas and rot.

The first time he’d seen – truly seen – how bad his hand had gotten, he’d rushed outside to empty his heaving stomach into the fine fresh dusting of snow that had settled over the outpost like a blanket.

It hurts to use, nowadays. He can’t properly make a fist anymore for how swollen his hand’s become, and every touch now is its own bright, stinging agony.

Edward stares dully at his left hand in mild disgust before wrapping it again, tight enough to send pain coursing down his wrist and all the way up to his elbow; rolling waves of needling fire that beat in time with his pulse. He’s taken to doing this alone in one of the woodsheds on the outskirts of the fort, though if pressed, he wouldn’t have been able to answer as to why.

He’s shaking by the time he finishes, trembling as if palsied, breathing hard as if he'd just run a mile. But his hand is bandaged once more, and the damage is hidden from sight. In time, Edward knows, he will need to see to the matter of its removal.

He will lose the fingers, sure enough; if not more. It doesn’t matter. There are worse things to lose in life than a hand.

55. Of the characters you write for, which is your favorite? Has that choice been swayed at all by your followers/readers’ reactions to certain ones?

oh, i'd have to say it's my best boy edward little. he's far and away the character i've come to empathize with and relate to the most - probably ever - and so that makes it easier for me to get into the headspace required to write things from his perspective. as for being swayed by the reactions of others to how i write him, i don't think i am, not really. i certainly greatly appreciate and enjoy reading comments that praise my characterization, but i like to think i have a pretty clear and well-defined enough grasp of my blorbo whenever i do manage to bang out a few words on the old keyboard that i'm quietly confident in my ability to portray him relatively faithfully and accurately.

and that about covers it! once again thank you so much for taking the time to get to know a bit more about me and my writing process, nonnie! it was a lot of fun coming up with answers to your questions!

[bonefall]

I translated some of my Warrior OCs a bit ago! Four of them are part of one family, and the other is my tabaxi ranger with a warrior's name! I don't know if they're correct, but I wanted to give it a shot!

Clovershine - Glemshem (Her name ended up super cute to say! She's the Mi of Cricket and Fawn!)

Alderpelt - Reykossaborrl (There wasn't a word specifically for Alder, so I combined red and tree! This guy is Clover's mate and the very involved Ba of Cricket and Fawn!)

Fawnfrost - Myaachiki (Myaa sounded cuter than Mween, so I used that instead! Fawny is my main girl I rped and invested a lot of trauma in! :D)

Cricketcall - ???ayeo (Sadly no word for cricket, and I couldn't find words to combine for it. Maybe bell and bug? Idk, I just think this guy is neat! He and his dad and Fawn's mentor all die in a terrible sickness, hence her trauma! :DD)

Emberstrike - Kipkubo (A bit of a stim of a name, tbh. She's the ranger, I love her so much and I wish her campaign didn't fall through...)

CRICKET TIME.

So the first thing to know here is that the Clan cat idea of crickets may be somewhat different to your own.

If you're American, you may have a distinction in your mind that a cricket is usually a singing, hopping bug with a more rounded head, where grasshoppers are longer and more locust-shaped. That isn't the case in this part of Britan/Albion. In fact, grasshoppers are the ones better known for their singing abilities.

See this?

This is a house cricket. They're very rare in this region, and mostly live in human houses, as the name implies. Clan cats do not have a word for these.

THIS is what they're imagining when they hear the word cricket;

This green, stout, long-legged insect is called a Speckled Bush-Cricket. They have three species of bush-cricket and five species of hopper.

Generic terms;

Bush-cricket (generic) = Pwoi Named for the sound they make while jumping, as opposed to how hoppers are named for the song. Sometimes gets applied to other rounded, hopping insects, like fleas.

Hopper (generic) = Chrriga Long, powerful insects with loud chirping wails that they make by rubbing their legs against themselves. Found on the ground and in grass, unlike bush-crickets which are usually arboreal.

Popper (a hopping insect suitable for eating) = Arroi Subjective, WindClan tends to use this as a generic for both hoppers and bush-crickets, ShadowClan applies it to all big ones, RiverClan and ThunderClan don't use it at all (except Sorreltail who uses it for any hoppers she's caught and plans to eat).

Hopper Poppers = Pwoi k'sirArroi A WindClan dish. Mashed, breaded-and-egged, deep fried cricket balls. Related to grubcakes, but these INCLUDE breadcrumbs for a crunch. Kind of unhealthy, but a good source of fat which is otherwise lacking in the WindClan diet.

Specific species;

For funsies I'm going to give them a culinary rating, maximum of four stars ⭐⭐⭐⭐. I'm being possessed by the spirit of BB!Sorreltail lmao.

Roesel's bush-cricket (Roeseliana roeselii) = I'ri'r THE undeniable sound of summer, buzzing long and loud when it gets hot. This animal is the most uncanny mix between a hopper and a bushcricket and has a distinctive sound, so it's rarely referred to with a generic title. ⭐⭐⭐ It is also large and meaty. Best of both worlds, right here. Most palatable bush-cricket.

Speckled bush-cricket (Leptophyes punctatissima) = Rr'ik Though its cry is delicate and high-pitched like a bat, it's noteworthy for being the only one in this family that sings mutually. Female crickets return a song to a male they like. ⭐⭐ They're small, but gooey. WindClan sometimes skips mashing them because they're SO leggy, they prefer to just pull the bits off and eat the body. Like a gusher. But that's so much effort, you know?

Drumming Katydid (Meconema thalassinum) = Kugr Has a low, almost threatening grinding noise, which is fitting because it is an active predator. The only one in this list. It kills and eats caterpillars and other invertebrates, but that's not all. It's also a host for a horrible parasite that forces it to run towards water at the end of its life, drowning the animal before bursting out of its body. ⭐ Tastes awful. Possessed by worms. All legs and no meat. Only ShadowClan would eat something like this.

Common Field Grasshopper (Chorthippus brunneus) = Gyig WindClan's bread-and-butter, one of the most common insects they need to eat to keep their coats healthy. Has a chirping song instead of a drawn-out one. HATES wetness and is best found where the gorse is dead and dry. ⭐⭐⭐⭐ A favorite for a reason. It's abundant, it's meaty, it's large. It can even be purple.

Green Grasshopper (Omocestus viridulus) = F'fir Green with thick black bars on its abdomen, with a harsh, fluttering song. Tends to find a high pedestal before playing its song, as if it's trying to get in front of an audience. ⭐⭐⭐ Has more crunch than meat, with big wings that can get in the way, but still a hopper which is pretty delicious.

Slender grouse locust (Tetrix subulata) = Sswoi Dull brown thing that doesn't even sing. Has a dumb little wiggle-dance instead. Loves streams and lidos and is the hopper that RiverClan cats see most often. ⭐ No wonder RiverClan doesn't eat bugs.

Meadow Grasshopper (Pseudochorthippus parallelus) = Shriga Some of them can look deceptively like a f'fir with the green bodies and barring, but listen. Listen. Its song is TOTALLY different, more of a shakey-shake kind of rattle. ⭐⭐⭐⭐ And Sorreltail will GO TO BAT for how delicious they are. Don't be fooled. This is grasshopper ambrosia. Tiny wings, lots of crunch, a nice flavor. ABSOLUTE delicacy.

Groundhopper (Tetrix undulata) = Wariga A plump, brown grasshopper that eats moss and algae, preferring wet environments with drier areas to retreat to. ⭐⭐⭐??? Data needed. ShadowClan cats kept SWEARING to Sorreltail that these are actually the best, most delicious poppers out there. But she's never had one so she can't attest to it... yet. It's hard to imagine anything can taste better than a honey-roasted shriga. She doubts it tbh.

[cometcon]

I did it. I wrote fanfic for Helluva Boss. Striker is consuming my mind. XD

So I was looking through the Striker tag on here for more of my favourite bastard snakey boi and found this really neat artwork. :D

And it's a really interesting concept and the artwork is so well done and they've kept just enough of Striker's sinister energy in the images that my brain just wouldn't leave me alone about it. And it got me thinking: Redeemed Striker cuddling up to Moxxie for warmth is definitely cute and even I love it (and I'm aromantic as fuck XD ). But would it be possible to write something with the same basic concept, just making it a different scenario to involve my first impression of Striker instead, without having to redeem and develop Striker first? Can I have my cake and eat it too? XD

I've changed my mind since I first posted this so here's the freshly edited new introductory waffle:

I want to flesh this out a little and write it as a whole oneshot partnered with my Blitz/Striker fic which is also set during Harvest Moon and maybe ending along the lines of the events in the canon episode, but in the meantime my brain churned out about 800 words for the specific prompt. I think I'm leaning for the fic being about Moxxie's perspective of Striker arriving at the farm as in canon. Moxxie dislikes him immediately and since Striker is an egotistical supremacist piece of shit he just doubles down on the dickwad behaviour, but keeps it subtle enough for Blitz and Millie to do their usual thing of overlooking Moxxie's concerns about things they don't see as a problem/threat/red flag (I promise I'm not hating on them; I enjoy their characters but also sometimes it does seem like a fair bit of the shit Moxxie gets dragged into could have been avoided if they'd listened to him. XD Though then we wouldn't have the parts of the show I enjoy, so again, not complaining, just playing with it. Don't kill me lol.) And Moxxie understandably gets sick of Striker's shit and they begin a tit for tat resulting in Moxxie shooting Striker's window 'by accident' and then 'forgetting' to fix it. XD And since they're all sleeping in the farm house, Striker chooses to escalate with a cruel and unusual punishment...

Behold, my first ever attempt at dark fluff. XD

----------------------------------

The sound of the door opening and soft light spilling across the room made Moxxie's eyelids flicker, a low growl of annoyance building in his chest. 

Millie had a bad habit of laughing off their boss' infuriating behaviour, finding it amusing. Cute, even. Moxxie vehemently disagreed, yet his complaints typically fell on deaf ears, so he usually just endured. But these night-time visits were reaching the absolute line and Moxxie had had enough. He didn't care what his wife said, he was going to fucking murder Blitz if he took even one more step toward-

His back tensed in surprise as the covers lifted, the mattress behind him sinking beneath Blitz's weight. The night had finally come. He'd suspected his boss would escalate, but the fact it was really happening took its sweet time trickling through his outraged mind. Moxxie's vicious attempt to slam his elbow into the licentious imp's gut was too slow and easily thwarted as a large hand latched onto his arm, halting its trajectory. 

"Blitz, I swear to fucking Satan, I will claw your eyes out of your skull and feed them to Luna! Get off me," he hissed quietly, hoping not to wake his snoring wife. She might just tell him to move over and give Blitz more space before falling asleep again anyway. 

Before he could do much else however, a long, clammy, lithe body that was decidedly not Blitz pressed into him, strong arms wrapping around his much smaller form and pulling him closer. His heartbeat accelerated and a bolt of fear shot down his spine. 

"Shouldn't make threats you can't follow up on, rodent." 

Striker's breath wafted over Moxxie's ear in a gentle caress. He shuddered, tugging uselessly at the unyielding grip trapping him against the assassin as he felt Striker curl further, moulding himself into every part of Moxxie he could reach. Moxxie's tail twitched, caught between them and unable to find a gap to escape.

"What the fuck?" 

It should have been a shout, but his throat was tense with fright, the words emerging in an embarrassingly pathetic whimper. One hand searched for Millie, desperately praying he could wake her before they were both slaughtered in their sleep. 

"Quit wriggling," Striker rumbled, fingers lacing through Moxxie's to draw the hand back into his chest. 

"Why are you in here? Get out." 

Moxxie still couldn't manage more than a choked whisper, but the fact there seemed to be no intention of actually harming him allowed a rising indignation to take fear's place. He tried kicking, though that only served to annoy Striker, who immediately enveloped the flailing legs between his own. It was like being stuck in a patch of quicksand; the more Moxxie struggled, the deeper he sank.

"Someone hasn't fixed my window yet. It's cold." 

That long, spiked tail snaked across Moxxie's shivering skin, coiling around their tangled limbs and draping itself over his abdomen. The quiet rattle as the tip continued upward and settled by his face sent a chill through him and he squeezed his eyes shut. 

"That doesn't mean you get to- mmph!" 

His final, barely audible attempt at protest was swiftly cut off by Striker's free hand covering his mouth. 

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," came the deceptively soft admonishment, arms and tail constricting in a painful warning. Moxxie groaned and went limp, hoping it would be enough to appease, the understanding he really was at his captor's mercy sinking to the base of his stomach like a concrete brick on the ocean floor. Striker chuckled and thankfully granted him the ability to draw breath after a moment, though he remained tightly entwined with the trembling little body in his clutches, chin resting in mock affection atop Moxxie's head as he murmured, "Good boy. Go back to sleep."

This was just another one of Striker's games, he told himself. If he stayed very still and didn't cause a fuss, his tormentor would get bored and leave. 

Any minute now.

The dark outline of Millie's senseless form under the blanket was silhouetted against the window, her peaceful snores the only sound stirring the atmosphere. Striker's breathing had slowed too, apparently content to stay snuggled against him, leaching his warmth and sanity alike. 

Well, fuck.

When several minutes had passed without any further threat, Moxxie forced himself to relax. There was nothing he could do anyway. If Striker wanted him dead he would be already. Staying alert all night would play right into the other's aims, showing him the intimidation tactics were working the second he saw his victim's tired eyes and frazzled demeanour the next morning. 

Moxxie refused to let him win that easily.

He listened for Millie, his breaths steadying as he timed them to match hers and held the image of her beautiful beaming grin in his mind. Striker was bound to slip up eventually and when he did, Moxxie would be prepared for him. A new thought of slicing the trecherous demon's throat with his own knife flashed through Moxxie's head and he smiled, playing it slowly on loop until he managed to drift off again.

[quinn-borel]

Modern AU first meeting and/or first date :D

He looked at his watch for the fourth time as the elevator took him up to the venue. He cursed under his breath–first his flight ran late, then traffic, then issues with his hotel room…the list went on. Everything that could go wrong did, which made him late for the Leveilleur Foundation charity event. While he was still rather green to the scene, he wanted to make a good impression towards the potential investors and partners he could make connections with to strengthen Ishgardian Holdings’ foothold in the region. He exhaled slowly while fixing the cuff of his suit jacket over his timepiece–ding, the fourteenth floor. As the doors opened, he was greeted by an usher clad in black with a tablet in hand.

“Name, sir?”

“Aymeric Borel of Ishgardian Holdings.”

The usher checked the tablet and gave him a polite nod, “Ah, yes, Mr. Borel, I see you here. We’ve been expecting you. You may proceed.”

With a sigh of relief, Aymeric made his way into the main venue–a grand ballroom filled with guests from all sorts of different businesses, organizations, and even government entities. Tables lined the inner sanctum while the fringes had buffet tables and pop-up drink bars. One could not want at this event, save for some privacy given the occupants. Aymeric was tasked with meeting and schmoozing with three industry leaders that night–Lominsan Maritime LLC, Elemental Trading Co., and the Bank of the Sultanate. Surely their representatives were around and about, though admittedly he was unable to catch their names in his rush to the venue. Though names were meaningless without a face to put them to…

He closed his eyes to gather his thoughts, allowing the accompanying music to play in the background and calm him down. It was a lovely melody coming from the main stage–smooth jazz, the piano certainly in the foreground. Just as he was about to open his eyes, he felt a hand clap itself on his shoulder, which startled him.

“If it isn’t my old friend! How have you been Aymeric!?”

Aymeric glanced to the origin of the hand, amazed to see that none other than Haurchefant Greystone, his old college friend.

“Haurchefant? I didn’t expect you to be here.” Aymeric said with surprise, fixing his blazer from the sudden shift,

“Oh? Really? I though word of my recent promotion would have made its way to the parent company. But that aside, it’s good to see you my friend! It’s been years.”

“Quite.” Aymeric gave him a nod with a warm smile, “Last time I saw you was at graduation. You mean to tell me you’re working for one of our subsidiaries?”

“Why else would I be here?” he asked with a grin, “When I was informed you were being sent on behalf of Ishgardian Holdings I was elated! I didn’t think they’d send the big guns all the way out here.”

“Well, fath–I mean, President Thordan was apprehensive about it. Needless to say, this venture came out of my own pocket and I’m here rather incognito–the others whom I’m looking for probably don’t know I managed a spot on the guest list.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll find them in time, friend. And when you do, you’ll have them in the palm of your hand I’m sure. That silver tongue of yours is one to be reckoned with.”

“One can only hope so.”

“By the way,” he Haurchefant glanced over Aymeric’s shoulder, “where’s Varlineau? I thought you two–“

“Oh.” Aymeric felt the heat in his cheeks from embarrassment, “That…didn’t last as long as I had hoped. We went our separate ways about a year ago. Nothing messy, just had different goals.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Haurchefant guided Aymeric over to one of the bars, “How about a drink? Whiskey neat?” he pointed to him expectantly,

“On the rocks.” Aymeric put his hands in his pockets, once again taking in the ambiance. Haurchefant gladly took two drinks from the bartender and handed one to his friend,

“So, what do you think of this place?”

“It’s quite the spectacle.” Aymeric’s gaze scanned the room as he took a sip of his drink, “The music is nice, too.”

“That’s because the pianist is one of the best in the area.” Haurchefant nudged Aymeric slightly, motioning towards the stage. There sat a taller woman with fiery orange locks and tanned skin, elegant as ever as she leaned over the piano, tickling the ivories with a warm smile on her painted lips. She appeared…angelic, in a way. Ethereal, even, with how the lights shined down upon her on the stage. Like a siren’s song, Aymeric couldn’t help but to focus his attention on her.

“She’s, ah-”

“Quite the pretty little thing, is she not?” Haurchefant chuckled, “I met her some time ago at another venue she was performing at. Much smaller, mind you–this is her first big gig.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Miss Quinnelainne Varria.” Haurchefant waved his hands in front of him as if he were showing off a spectacle, “Beautiful name, is it not?”

Aymeric looked off to the side before putting his drink back to his lips. He was always taught not to stare at a woman like that, yet something deep within him wanted to gaze at her. She was absolutely beautiful, as was her name. He could only softly grunt in agreement. Obviously, Haurchefant had his eyes on her anyway. But the young man beside him seemed dejected as he took a sip of his own drink,

“She’s a finicky one, though. I asked her on a date and she called me her ‘brother’. Can you believe that?”

Aymeric smirked, “Sorry you struck out, my friend.”

“You should meet her, though. She’s quite something.”

Aymeric raised his brow with surprise. While she was not necessarily the company he was tasked with meeting with, he couldn’t help but to be a tad curious about this Quinnelainne. Haurchefant always did introduce him to the most fascinating of people in their youth. He checked his watch once more–there was still plenty of time to do his business and have another drink. the party was just getting started.

“Can you introduce me?” Aymeric asked. Haurchefant looked rather surprised, yet the grin on his lips was telling,

“Look at you, you sly devil.”

“What?” Aymeric’s cheeks lit up again, “You say she’s interesting to talk to, so I want to talk to her. That’s all.”

“Right.” Haurchefant scoffed and finished his drink, “Maybe you’ll have better luck than me.”

“I’m not trying to be lucky.” Aymeric warned him, “Just forget about it.”

“I’m only teasing.” Haurchefant abandoned his spot next to Aymeric and approached the stage. Just as the number had finished, he waved the pianist down who had stepped to the side to take a drink of water. After a bit of conversation and her glancing over his shoulder, she gave him a nod and went back to the piano. Haurchefant then returned to his spot and ordered another drink,

“She gets to go on break after a few more songs,” he explained, “she would be more than happy to meet you.”

“Just like that?” Aymeric blinked a few times as he, too, finished his drink, “You didn’t promise her anything, did you?”

“Just a drink and a good conversation.” Haurchefant laughed, “I’m sure you can manage that, right?”

Aymeric gave him a nod as his attention went back towards the stage. He and Haurchefant continued their idle chitchat for the remainder of the two songs, catching up on what had happened since their college graduation. Finally, the siren of the night left the stage with a slight bow and she immediately went up to one of the bars at the other end of the room. Haurchefant nudged Aymeric with his elbow,

“Go get her, friend.” he said with a wink. Aymeric brushed him off, sighed, and approached the woman from the other end of the room. As he approached, he felt a slight lump in his throat–completely abnormal from his normal demeanor when he met someone new. But this wasn’t a business negotiation, nay, this was a face-to-face and intimate conversation between strangers. She had her back to him, her sanguine cocktail dress outlining her frame perfectly and…accentuating her assets, much to Aymeric’s dismay. He felt the heat under his collar the second he was inches from her, actually nervous to say something to her.

No. He had to keep cool. This was Haurchefant’s friend, after all. a Friend. Friend.

“One whisky on the rocks, please.” he requested of the barkeep as he took to her side, his gaze falling to her before he cleared his throat, “Good evening, Miss Varria.”

She took a long sip from her cherry sour before setting it down with an unsettled look in her eyes,

“Oh, Haurchie really did tell you my full name, didn’t he?” she sighed, “I hate it when he does that.”

“Is there another name I can call you by, then?”

Already the conversation got off to a rocky start, but maybe it could be salvaged with a bit of finesse.

“Just ‘Quinn’ is fine.” she explained, “Sorry, I guess I should have properly introduced myself when you came over here. Aymeric, right?”

“Yes.” he relaxed his shoulders a bit as he took his drink, “I apologize for using the wrong name.”

“No, it’s fine.” she smiled at him, “Anyway, it’s nice to meet you. Although brief, Haurchie told me a little bit about you.”

“Is that so?” Aymeric’s gaze flickered to across the room, to which Haurchefant was giving him a thumbs up.

“Yes,” she leaned against the counter in her seat, a long finger curled under her own chin as she examined him, “you’re an old friend of his from his college days. Summa cum laude, now in the top brass of Ishgardian Holdings.”

“…He told you all of that in a short conversation?”

“No,” she winked as she pulled out her phone from her purse, “I just have the internet.”

Aymeric chuckled as he took a seat next to her, “Well, there’s only so much Eorzeapedia can tell about a man, right? And yet, I know very little about you. Will you share?”

She leaned back, impressed with how he took to her researching him, “Very well. I’m just a dropout from music school–took to the streets to hone my craft. Played a bit at a shopping mall before my talent was recognized by Scions Inc., a talent agency. They got me gigs at small cocktail lounges before two of the Leveilleurs entered our ranks. They had their connections and, well, here I am.”

“I didn’t realize you were acquainted with the Leveilleurs.” Aymeric sipped his drink, “That’s quite impressive.”

“I can’t say I’m used to this sort of thing.” she sighed, “There’s just something about drunks at a cocktail lounge that make a better audience than one of these upscale events, you know? But, I can say: it has it’s perks. I get to rub elbows with some of the best tippers in the region. Seriously, the big guns in the business love their music.”

“You have other connections?” Aymeric asked quizzically.

“I do,” she explained, “I can tell you exactly who, too.”

She turned in her seat, motioning him to follow her gaze. There she pointed out four individuals who were conversing at one of the far tables,

“So, you have Merlwyb of Lominsan Maritime in the black suit. Kan-e-Senna of Elemental Trading in the white dress. Miss Namo is the shorter girl in the pink dress, that’s the owner of the Bank of the Sultanate. And finally, the big guy is Raubahn of the newly reformed Ala-Mhigan Freight company–they just recovered from an old buyout.”

Aymeric blinked a few times in amazement, “How do you know these people?”

“They’ve hired me at their own private events.” Quinn mused over her drink, “I take it you’d like to meet them yourself, Mr. Borel?”

“Please, just ‘Aymeric’.” he turned his attention back to her, “Anyway, you’ve quite the history with your craft. That’s very impressive.”

“Thank you, not a lot of people really recognize that.” Quinn took the garnish from her drink out, “So, tell me more about yourself.”

“Me?” he mused, “To tell you the truth, you’ve pinpointed most of my achievements already.”

“Yeah, but I wanna know the real you.” she said with a wink, the whole cherry disappearing inside of her mouth. Aymeric exhaled slowly as he tried to think,

“Well, I’m thirty-two years old, I have a pet cat, and my hobbies include cooking, writing, and a bit of dancing here and there. I try to keep things modest when I’m not at my desk.”

She smiled and gave him a nod, her gaze still oddly studying him. Aymeric took another sip before he turned the conversation back to her,

“…’Varria’, right? That’s Hannish, if I’m not mistaken?”

“You’re right.” she replied, “Very worldly of you.”

“I’ve visited that area a few times. Beautiful place, truly.”

“Thank you for not hitting me with a ‘almost as beautiful as the women who came from there’ bullshit.” Quinn laughed.

“Please,” Aymeric also laughed, “if I’m going to flirt with someone I won’t go for such low-hanging fruit.”

“Then, how would you flirt with me?” Quinn leaned in slightly closer to him with a devious smirk on her features. Aymeric could still see her making work of the cherry garnish in her mouth. He sat his drink down next to hers and leaned closer,

“I would first start with a compliment,” he muttered, “I’m more of a gentleman that way. Maybe something about your voice, or your eyes. Nothing too daring, mind you. Something a bit more subtle, I would say.

“I see.” Quinn snickered and pulled back, “Well, the clock is unfavorable for us this evening, sad to say.”

From her purse the pulled out a pen and a small business card, to which she scratched something on the back of it in bright, pink ink. Quinn slid the card face-up towards Aymeric before getting up from her seat,

“What’s this?”

“Give me a call if you need company entertainment–my agent’s number is on the front.” she then leaned in closer once more, taking the cherry stem from her mouth and placing it in his empty glass, “…on the back is if you’d rather have have a more intimate encounter.”

With a wink and a gentle pat on his cheek, Quinn went back to the stage. With flushed features, Aymeric looked down at the card and noticed she had given him her personal cell phone number with ‘Text me <3 ‘ written underneath it. He quickly placed the card in his wallet before he noticed the cherry stem in his glass, knotted right in the middle.