#maybe i should let realism go and fade it out

[de-constructmybones]

Shout out to all the drawings and works I will never finish. You're *always* on my mind.

[blossom-hwa]

a yellow scarf in winter | w.jh

pairing: Jun x gender neutral!reader genre: fluff, angst, magical realism warnings: mentions of minor character death (offscreen) word count: 7.3k notes: this is a rewrite of something from maybe a year ago - it's gone through extensive edits and while the original premise is the same, it's changed a lot, so even if you read it before I hope you find something new :) When your grandmother passes, a spirit arrives on the sun and the snow, asking for a place to stay. As the years pass, you learn grief, love, and the complicated art of letting go. 

Original Ver. | Seventeen Masterlist

When he arrives on your doorstep, hands cold from the snow and eyes warm as the sun, the moon has already been dim for a year. 

The knock comes gentle against the worn wood of the old inn’s door—so gentle at first that once, twice it sounds before you truly hear it. By the time you’ve put down the pile of pale yellow wool turning into the beginnings of a scarf or a shirt or something in between, it has sounded a third time, and when you finally open the door, his hand is raised like he was bracing for a fourth. 

You stare. He is the first to have approached your grandmother’s inn in the weeks since you moved in, and you do not recognize him from the town. Brown eyes stare back at yours, slanted almost mischievously at the tips yet deep and soft and sweet, while pale blond hair the color of your wool seems to sparkle like the sun on the snow outside. Light pink lips curve in an awkward smile, showing a hint of white teeth, and it’s not so much that he glows himself but that sunlight glints off the pale skin of his face, reflecting a soft sparkle around him that only makes it seem brighter. About your age, perhaps—late twenties, early thirties. Maybe a little younger. His eyes look like they have seen many more years than he seems, though. 

It’s been too long, this silence, but still you have to look for a moment more. For it feels like you know him, even though you’ve never seen him before. 

—Hello, you finally say, cautious, quiet. 

—Hello, he replies, lowering the hand he had raised. The gesture, awkward and almost bashful, brings a curve to your own lips. Someone in town told me I could some here for a place to stay.

Words rise in your memory, unbidden. Never turn a stranger away from your door, child. A wink, with one wrinkle-lined eye. They just might be a god in disguise.

Your hand tightens around the worn doorknob. The inn has been closed since your grandmother left it to you, and locked inside you’ve kept the stories she told—of deities who once walked this plane, spirits who left remnants of magic in the earth beneath your feet. In the weeks since her death you didn’t allow yourself to remember, didn’t allow yourself to acknowledge the sparkles of magic that she used to point out to you day after day—the bright green laughing grass now covered by the snow, the howl of the wind whirling in the breeze. 

You haven’t reopened. You’re still not sure you will, not when the ache of her absence continues to fill every room. Those of the town should know the news by now, but perhaps they thought this might still be all right. 

Part of you urges to shake your head, give an apologetic smile, and close the door. He’s a strange man in a strange place, and where exactly could that go? But as a chilly wind whips through the tall stranger’s hair, his long fingers fidgeting quietly as fading sunlight catches on the single silver earring in his left ear, you wonder if, after all these years, a spirit has finally made its way to your grandmother’s inn once more. 

Stories and legends, tales you could never tell were true or not. You fight back a tear as a thought surfaces—that your grandmother sent this spirit to you, to make sure you would be all right.

—Of course. What is your name?

When he smiles, it seems as though the rising moon regains a touch of its original shine. 

—Thank you. My name is Jun. 

. . . . .

And—that’s it. For a time. It’s all he tells you about himself anyway, just his name and nothing else. What you learn in passing comes from casual action and conversation, things he lets slip as he accompanies you on your wanderings through the many rooms of your grandmother’s old, empty inn. It’s not so much him letting things slip, though, as you noticing the way he simply falls into place like the last pieces of a puzzle you never realized was unfinished—the shyness of his laugh sparkling through the dust motes spinning through the air, his long fingers drawing back the heavy drapes that once covered the lobby windows. He takes the room across from yours on the first floor, and when you open the door the next morning to see him stumbling out of his, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, it feels like you are only saying good morning to an old friend when you smile.

Which makes no sense, of course. Because you don’t know him. You’ve never seen this man once in your life before he showed up at the inn’s front door. What could you know about a man as enigmatic as the moon, who reflects all the light in the room and makes it brighter all on his own? But as the days go by, as you learn his shyness, his gentleness, the way his crescent smiles come soft and slow, a waxing and waning curve of his lips that reflects the sunlight streaming through the inn’s large windows and cuts through the dark chill that had seemed to fill the inn before, it doesn’t feel like you’re learning much at all. More like…remembering. Settling. Reacquainting yourself with the characteristics of a good friend you haven’t seen in ages. Somehow, though he is only one person sleeping in the same one room every night, the stately old place your grandmother left you doesn’t feel nearly as empty as it once did, not with his comfortable presence around. 

He’s quiet. Calm. Prone to confusion when you use a phrase he doesn’t seem to know, and giggling fits when he sees something he deems cute or strange. He’s eager to help when you slowly rouse yourself to sweep the dust from the rooms, and he doesn’t ask when you pause in front of a larger door on the top floor, then turn away without a word. He has a lovely little laugh that sounds like the first spring flowers coming into bloom, bringing warmth to the silent hallways you’d long forgotten how to walk, and joy etches itself in the tiny wrinkles around his eyes that appear when he smiles. You find he has a special affinity for the cats that sometimes show up on the inn grounds and perhaps, you think, it’s because he’s a little like them himself—closed off and skittish at first, but soft, and sweet, and so, so warm when he finally turns to you with his truest smile. 

In the cold remnants of winter, you learn his favorite tea, how he drinks it slow, sip by tiny sip. The long fingers that twist and fidget and eventually like to tangle with your own become still when he wraps them around his favorite mug of yours, white porcelain with the figures of three kittens playing around the edges. Those same fingers lift up the lid of the lobby grand piano one day, untouched since your grandmother last played, and begin to dance on their own across the yellowing keys, spinning starlit melodies into the air. His hands always seem to be cold, or at least take a while to warm up after being outside, but the tea helps. So does playing scales. And, eventually, holding your own hands that he always says are so much warmer than his. 

When spring tints the air and flowers begin to bloom, you almost wonder if Jun’s warmth will fade, somewhat, in a season marked by the sun, by the blue sky, by the days that grow longer at the expense of the moon’s soft glow. It doesn’t, though—grows, even, as you walk with him through the soft grass on the outskirts of the town, his smile tossing sunlight kind, carefree, into the air around him. On walks like these you come to learn his favorite blossom, the pale jasmine he settles gently behind your ear, and how he never picks them, only gathers up the blooms that have already fallen on the ground to create lovely bouquets you set at the dining table later in the night. When summer hangs cheerful in the sky you begin to leave the lobby windows open, the heavy curtains brushed to the sides by Jun’s delicate hands, and you learn how far the cheer of his laugh can carry and how his voice accompanies the piano as he sings, melodic threads twining sweetly in the air. You show him midnight recipes—cold noodles, cookies, cool milk that you share with the cats milling about outside—and his hand in yours is always warm, but somehow, despite the heat of the sun on your skin, you can’t find it in yourself to pull away, not when he reflects the sun’s glow in his waxing and waning smiles, not when he squeezes your hand tighter and pulls you closer to him. 

Finally, when the last dregs of autumn begin to pass and the first year winds to a close, you learn how Jun’s laugh softens with the fading sun, how, no matter the biting chill in the air, he still reflects the sun’s quiet glow until he seems to be the one who warms the room (and perhaps he is, with his moonlit melodies and starlit smile). Under the gentle rays of the sky’s fading light, the fast-growing chill of the billowing wind, the curve of Jun’s enigmatic crescent smile steadies you as dead leaves crunch beneath your feet. And as the first snows begin to swirl through the wind, mimicking the dust motes Jun helped you sweep away, you look outside at the moon that had faded, and you can’t help but think that perhaps, over the year, its smile has finally grown a little brighter. 

. . . . .

And so the first year comes and goes, and when the chill of winter fully returns, you don’t worry as much about the empty rooms, the once-faded moon, the memories of your grandmother that still fill the air. There is Jun, and there is his warmth, and for now that is all you need. 

But then he disappears. For a few hours, first. Then a few days. Until twice a month he leaves without notice, and with such irregularity that it slowly becomes regular. 

He always returns, you learn. But the first morning you wake up and he doesn’t greet you with sleepy eyes smiling as he opens his door, you panic. Because what happened to him and where did he go and does he need help and what if he left, left you alone, left you in this  empty house to cope again with the memories just like your grandmother did when she died—

—Where were you? you ask when he returns the next night and you can finally speak without wanting to cry? Where did you go? Why didn’t you let me know?

—I’m sorry, he replies, his long fingers fidgeting again. The dimness of the barely crescent moon outside casts dark shadows across his face, only a thin sliver of his cheek illuminated by starlight. I didn’t realize you would worry this much. 

—How could I not?

—I don’t know. No one really has, before. 

Candlelight flickering, silence hanging oppressive in the air. 

—I was worried. 

When he smiles, heavy and tragic, it is as though the moon’s darkness never left. 

—I know. 

(That night, when you crawl under the covers in a room too big for you and the questions you don’t have answers to, you remember where you live, where Jun came. And you remember something your grandmother told you when you were old enough to know, to understand. 

No one stays forever at an inn. 

No one.)

. . . . .

You think—hope—that might be the end of it. Or that, at least, he’ll tell you before he next goes. But despite his apologies, he still leaves a second time, and a third, and then a fourth and fifth, all without warning. And though you never truly grow used to the way each room echoes with a renewed emptiness in the hours and days he is gone, you force yourself to accept it. That his irregularity is his regularity. That he cannot—or will not—fight against what drives him to leave. 

(Acceptance doesn’t stem the fear that someday he will go, and there will be no warning, and when that day comes, he will not return.)

So winter fades with its ice and snow, and spring comes, then summer, with their warmth and flowers. And on a night where Jun isn’t here, where the faded moon shines fully in the dark sky, you find yourself in front of a room on the top floor that you ignored when you two cleaned the inn the first time. The room where you stopped. Thought. Passed without a word, where Jun didn’t pry. 

This time, you open the door. 

Your grandmother’s presence folds around you like a warm cloak of boxes and drapes, warped wooden floorboards and old furniture sitting on top. Almost immediately your knees give out. You catch yourself on the floor, sending up a cloud of dust, but for all your watering eyes you don’t really notice because she is so strong here. So warm. So comfortable. As though you could reach out a hand to the air and she would materialize before you, her fingers clutching yours, her eyes already wrinkling into a mischievous smile. 

For a long time, you only sit. Stare. Take in the things she amassed during life, the things she packed away that were never the inn’s but hers, and hers only. An old, moth-eaten armchair. A couple of trunks tied with dusty rope. Boxes with spidery handwriting on the sides labeling things you can’t quite read through the tears bubbling in your eyes, a few tarps draped over it all. 

—Did you send him? you ask the dust swirling through the air. 

(And if you did, why did you send someone who had to leave? Who couldn’t stay?)

She doesn’t answer, of course. But you sit there, waiting as though she will, until the gray light of dawn begins to peek through the folds of curtains you didn’t part, and you finally pick yourself up from the floor to return downstairs and wait for Jun to return. 

. . . . .

He returns that evening amidst summer showers, rain glittering on his face like little diamonds pressed to his skin. You’re back in the room on the top floor, sitting, staring, and only when a soft knock sounds at the cusp of afternoon-evening do you find it in yourself to move again. 

—Hi. 

Jun’s eyes, deep brown and cratered wide. His graceful nose, his pale face, his thin lips, still covered with the thin diamond sheen of rain. You can hear droplets pattering against the window from where you still haven’t managed to push the drapes away. 

—You’re shivering. 

You hadn’t realized you were, but when he says it, you become aware of the slight tremble in your shoulders, at the vague chill in the air from the day’s confusion as to whether it is still summer, or if the winter will be coming soon. At the concern on his face you try to smile. 

—I’m all right.

You don’t expect him to believe you. But you also don’t expect him to take a step closer and fold you into his arms.

He’s warm and cool at the same time—peaceful, a tiny respite from the overwhelming presence of your grandmother in all the boxes and drapes in this old room. His long fingers tap soft rhythms into your back, his breath quiet against your ear, and when you finally pull away, your eyes are wet not just with the remnants of rain but with tears again, too. 

Jun smiles quietly. That little silver earring that has never left his ear glints in the evening darkness, a piece of light reflected in his eyes. Outside, you think the moon has begun to rise, faint light pooling right where he stands. 

—Do you want help?

. . . . .

It takes several long days to bring the room to a semblance of cleanliness, dust swept from the corners until your nose no longer itches, the floor mopped until you no longer fear tracking grime into the halls when you and Jun leave. But one night, it is done. Mostly. The boxes remain unopened, the tarps not yet pushed away, but the floor is clean and you can breathe a little better. 

Jun rubs his nose, which is red from sneezing. His eyes follow you as you kneel in front of one of the trunks, reaching for the knot in the rope tying it shut. For a moment you fumble with the tie. Then it falls away, and your hand grazes the edge of the lid. Ready to open. Not ready to open. 

You pull the lid up. 

A cloud of dust wafts up and you whip around, coughing into your arm as Jun laughs from a few feet away. When you stop choking you find that he has come to you, his eyes bright and cheerful, and for all you wanted to scowl at him when he started laughing, you find you can only smile. 

—What’s all this?

You hold up a candle carefully, squinting into the trunk’s contents. Immediately you know, though you’ve never seen any of the books before. 

Music. 

Jun’s sharp intake of breath brings you back to earth. When you look at him his eyes are shining bright with wonder, and you think to his hands waltzing across the lobby piano’s yellow keys, drawing sounds from its depths the way only your grandmother had been able to, years before. 

—Let’s take them. You pick up a few books of your own, their dusty paper covers rough against your skin as you smile. I want to hear you play. 

He plays piece after piece that night, some that you recall from childhood, others you remember having learned yourself, even more you have never once heard in your life but that your grandmother must once have known, learned, and cherished when she lived. And after you see Jun to his room that night, you take the stairs softly up to the room again. Take in the sight of the dusty, empty trunk still sitting where you left it. 

It feels a little easier to breathe.

. . . . .

As summer winds to a close, as the slight chill of fall begins to take to the air, you slowly empty the boxes and trunks in the old storage room, airing out their dust, unearthing the bits and pieces of your grandmother that she left behind for you to find. Pictures of her and your grandfather, who died before you were born. Small trinkets from travels she told you about when you were little. Financial papers yellowed with age, letters bound in ribbon that you can’t find it in yourself to read, novels with worn covers and crinkled pages. And music. Not quite as much as the stacks of books you found in the first trunk, but sheets scattered here and there that Jun happily picks up, adding to the miniature concerts he plays for you in the evening to ward away the chill.

He helps you through it all—works at the knots in the ropes with you, folds up the tarps you lift away, sweeps up the dust that falls from newly opened boxes and trunks, holds you when the memories overwhelm and you find it hard to breathe. And in those moments when he is there, you almost forget that this is an inn, and that he must leave. But he always does. New moon. Full moon. New moon. Full moon. And as the moon grows brighter when he is gone, like it is happier without you, you begin closing your window against the light that still permeates your room anyway. 

The words slip out on a night when it is more fall than summer, after the remnants of dinner have been cleared away and only the stars are awake to hear you speak. Bravery or stupidity, courage or fear, you don’t know—a desperate bid for something, anything to hang on to when Jun next leaves and you’re left to cope with the memories, music haunting your ears, ghosts tracing the walls. 

—Where do you go when you’re gone?

He pauses at the piano, long, pale fingers stopping between the turning pages of his music. Silence reigns for a while, long enough for you to nearly backtrack and say never mind, never mind, despite the need to know curdling in your veins. 

—I go to a place I once called home. 

Your throat threatens to close, but you get the next words out, somehow.

—Do you not still call it home?

In response, he takes a single sheet of music from the piano, one he just played—a soft melody that barely lasted two minutes, but that resonated through the room, deep, heavy nostalgia that had drawn the question from your throat. Every piece he plays is beautiful beneath his fingertips but for some reason, the echoes of this piece stay with you, merging into your breath, tickling its way through your ears, as he hands the score to you. 

—The composer was far from home when he wrote this, Jun says quietly as you trace the black notes on the worn, yellow page. He needed to run. To escape. He never saw it again after he had to move, but…in the end, he only ever wanted to go home. 

Dark eyes flicker to the window, pale skin reflecting the starlight and the glow of the full moon. It’s your turn to watch him, this time, as the faint moonlight lends a familiar golden tinge to his face that you have never seen but that you know, anyway. 

Only a few physical feet separate the two of you in this moment, the distance between Jun’s piano bench and your armchair easily traversable in just one step, maybe two. For all the look in his eyes right now, though, you could be centuries apart. 

—I once wanted to escape. I was so lonely. I wanted to find someone who could care for me. Who could make me feel worth something. 

—Did you?

He looks at you now. Traps you in the moment, his blond hair illuminated by the moon, pooling around his feet. An enigmatic smile dances on his lips. 

—I did. 

Silence falls gentle, heavy, the leftover notes from the melody fading softly into the air, the dust of the old sheet music settling on the floor. Against your will, you stare at the piano with its worn and yellowing keys that your grandmother once showed you to play. You were never as good as she, though Jun would have been a match. 

What might she have thought of Jun if they’d met now, in the physical plane? She would have liked him, you think—liked his soft-spoken voice, his sweet, awkward nature, and the way he seems to amplify the warmth and light of the room with his cratered eyes and waxing-waning crescent smile. Their musical styles are different, from what you remember of hers, but she would have enjoyed his interpretations of the same pieces she loved.

Tears nearly spring into your eyes. Yes, she would have liked him. She would have liked him very much.

A question burns on your tongue as he stands, as you stand, as you both walk to your rooms and bid each other goodnight. You don’t ask. But he must hear it anyway, lingering in your eyes and on your tongue even as you shut your door.

(Where is your home?)

You’re not sure if you can hear his answer, not when you don’t have one yourself. Because while you’re still trying to escape, Jun has already made peace. 

He knows his home, even if you don’t.

. . . . .

Still, though, he stays. For you or for something else, you’re not sure. But through the end of summer and the billows of fall, still he comes and he goes, wanders and returns, and though his presence comforts, something about it—you’re not sure what—has begun to hurt. 

He’s playing the same piece when autumn has begun to give way to winter, when you find a familiar pile of yellow wool in the drawer of one of the little tables beside the lobby couches. Part of it has been knit into some shape, but only barely—easy enough for you to decide it will be a scarf, a decision you didn’t get to make two years ago, and easy enough for you to pick up the needles from where the universe left them and for their gentle clicking to accompany Jun’s music flowing about the room. Not so easy anymore when the cat Jun let inside begins batting at the pile of yarn, little claws catching on the wool, but easy enough. Easy enough.

The night before, when Jun was gone, you went up to the storage room yourself. Though the room has been mostly cleared, boxes opened and some things rearranged around the inn, others pushed in neater piles against the walls, your grandmother’s presence still wrapped around you the second you entered. Something in the walls, you suppose, in the notes of dust that still flicker, magical, in the air. The fact that this room was hers, the way the rest of the inn was and wasn’t. 

You didn’t open the curtains. You thought about it, even touched the heavy cloth with a single hand, felt it fold beneath your palm. But the moon was so bright then, so full. It hurt so much. So you kept it closed. The memory of those closed curtains, unable to shield you from the glowing contentment of the moon, helps you meet his eyes as his hands leave the piano, the knitting needles flashing between your fingers, their rhythmic clicking steadying your heart.

—Where is your home, Jun?

The lobby echoes with the silence after your question, broken only by the kitten batting at your wool. Her little head butts against your hand and you stroke it gently, eyes still trained on the spirit sitting in front of you. 

He draws breath. Sighs. Looks down at his hands, down at yours, and looks back at you. 

—Wherever I am not lonely.

The clicking between your fingers stops. Silver needles bury themselves in the yellow yarn like the cat’s claws, the cat that now detaches itself from the wool to jump into Jun’s lap instead, purring softly. You stare at it, at the yarn, at the empty spot on the couch it used to occupy. The spot someone else used to occupy, once, smiling fondly as you played with her own yarn on her knee. Someone who belonged here far more than you. 

—Where have you been lonely?

—Many places. Jun’s smile turns small, wan. Not all are as welcoming as you have been. 

Your mind returns to the first time he disappeared, the first time he returned and you couldn’t speak for several hours without crying. 

I didn’t realize you would worry this much, he had said. And you had found it so hard to believe no one would—that no one would worry about this lovely spirit disappearing without a word. But it’s true. Not all are kind. And perhaps, before your inn, Jun had encountered more unkindness than you were willing to believe at the time. 

You swallow. 

—Are you lonely here?

—No. The answer is quick, certain. So is his next question. Are you?

His eyes won’t allow yours to flicker away, moonlight holding you captive as it flows around the two of you, encasing you in pale light. The cat purrs in Jun’s arms, but he only looks at you. 

It hurts to admit it, but you do. 

—Yes. When you’re not here. 

He nods. Nods again. And then he sets the old page back on top of the piano, and you speak no more until the music has stopped for the night and he asks a final question to you. 

—Who’s that for?

You look down at the half-finished scarf, and the needles you’ve just stuck into the rest of the unknit pile. I’m not sure. 

But as you lie awake in bed that night, staring out of your window at the full moon and its familiar golden tinge, you realize it was a dumb question, with an even dumber answer. Because it’s obvious. Even though the universe had you begin the scarf with no thought of its future owner, as it grows longer and longer under nights of soft music warmed by the reflection of sunlight on Jun’s lovely face, when you look at the man whose smile waxes and wanes with the phases of the moon, you know, and the world knows. 

Of course the scarf is for him. 

. . . . .

In the days after, as the scarf grows longer, as the wind turns colder, as the moon fades to black and Jun disappears again, you think. Ponder. Try to confront the fear in your heart that sprang fully formed when you realized who the scarf was for, because as the woolen links drape across your lap and the cushions of the lobby armchair, you can’t shake the feeling that giving him this yellow scarf, this warmth woven of sunlight reflecting off of sparkling snow feels…final, almost. Like something ends with the tying of the last knot, something you’re not ready to give up just yet. 

Jun is ready. You know that, and it hurts and terrifies you. Because he must have suffered—must have gone from home to home, begging, pleading for someone to recognize the lonely spirit he was, and found nothing but a frosty chill instead—but he found the strength to continue. And eventually, he found you, who would love him. Who would cherish him. And somehow, that is enough for him—enough that he no longer feels lonely, even when he is away from you. Enough for him to pull away, because he knows this is not the plane on which he belongs, even though it is yours.

But you’re not ready. You still—you still need him. Need his warmth, need the moonlight reflectance of his smile to guide you through the day. Without him, how do you return to the emptiness of the inn where everyone leaves and no one stays, where the polished wooden floors and walls echo with the silence of your footsteps, memories haunting everywhere you look? 

Deep inside, you know he cannot stay. That the spirit plane, however it may intersect with the mortal world, is separate from yours. And it makes you laugh, a little, when you remember how you felt you had learned Jun during the first year of his stay—because you will never know the moon. Will never understand his enigmatic smiles, never parse the way his fingers trace so cool and so warm against the skin of your cheek, never dissect how he can stand to be so selfless, returning to you from each of his trips home because he knows you cannot live without him. 

—How do you continue, Jun? you force yourself to ask under a waning gibbous moon, three days after his last foray to a place he once called home. The autumn-fading-winter wind blows crisp through the air, ruffling Jun’s hair where he sits beside you in front of the inn, petting one of the stray cats that has settled on his lap. You trace the lines of the cracked stone on the ground, ripples of time rough and bitter beneath your fingertips, hoping he knows what you mean from the five brittle words you managed to speak.

(How do you move on? How do you make peace with the memories? How do you let go of the grief, how do you remember someone as who they were and forget about how they left you, forget how they will never be able to stay?)

He’s quiet for a moment. When he looks at you, you brace yourself. 

—I cannot answer for you, he says, and your heart plummets. That is for you to find in yourself. 

He takes your hand, though. Presses it between his own, and even through the despair closing up your throat, you find it in yourself to take comfort in his moonlit warmth. 

—But I will tell you this, he says quietly. To me, to know that there is someone who I love, and who loves me—that is enough. Even if I am not with them. Because my home is in the memories we share. 

His smile is blinding, bright as the moon and more. And through the gnarled desperation twisting in your heart, you allow a piece of that brightness to prick its way into the brambles. 

. . . . .

Letting go, you decide, is an art. A painful art, disentangling the nettles from the brambled wall you’ve built around your heart to shield you from the pain of reminiscence, but an art all the same in the way you carefully examine each thorn, stinging your fingertips and palms as you pull the branches apart, pinpricks of blood scattering across the canvas of your pain, your grief, the loss you feel every time you look up at the dim sky and the empty rooms around you, your grandmother’s presence lingering in every corner and crevice. 

Some days, when Jun is gone, you nearly give up. Nearly decide the thorns in your hands aren’t worth it, that the brambles prevent more pain than they bring, that letting go is an art you will never master—because you can’t, and you won’t. You can’t give up the only person, spirit, who’s brought you comfort in this time, you can’t willingly give up what you have now because you need him here or you’ll drown in the emptiness of these large, quiet rooms. 

But that’s unfair. Because the moon doesn’t belong on earth, and the earth doesn’t belong on the moon. For all the semblance of home Jun has found with you, you are not the only home he carries with him. Where he lives—what he is—it’s not here. It’s not here, not in this old, empty inn, with you, because an inn is never a permanent home for anyone but the owner. For anyone else, it is rest, respite, temporary comfort. More temporary for some than others, but it is a place of letting go.

Nights pass. The scarf grows longer, the storage room cleaner. And though the pain of Jun’s absence still aches in your chest, the cool silver needles and the heavy window curtains begin to soothe more of the sting. When you look up at him on the days he is here, his own fingers gliding across old piano keys, you breathe, and you remember, and you let yourself into the thorns and nettles of memory once more. Because what is Jun’s home cannot be yours. 

And so you will find your own, in a place where you once never felt lonely.

It’s slow work, slower than you would have liked. In what world does anyone not want to dash the pain away quickly, strip off the bandages in one fell swoop and find the skin and tissue already unscarred and whole beneath? But with every disappearance you’re running out of time so you work at the thorns, slowly and slowly and slowly, and as Jun’s enigmatic smile grows a little wider every time the scarf grows a little longer, as a hint of something soft begins to chase away the aching sympathy in his eyes when he looks at you under the faded night sky, you find in his smile a quiet balm for the pain in your fingers, in your palms, in your heart. 

When you pull the final branches away, there are scars etched in your chest that will never fully heal, patterns of time to mimic the lines carved on your skin. Memories of thorns still prick your palms and something aches awful in your heart as you stare at the mess you have made of yourself in forcing memories out of their old home to avoid the pain you thought they would bring, but then you look at the moon as you tie off the final knot on the pale yellow woolen scarf and when you do he smiles back, something akin to pride, and maybe gratitude, in his eyes. 

That night, after seeing Jun off to bed, you walk upstairs to the room where your grandmother stored her memories. The moon is almost full and its light shines bright, strong enough to just barely filter through the heavy curtains still draped across the glass. 

Taking a deep breath, you take one curtain in each stinging, thorn-wounded hand. Push them aside. Let the moon’s smile bathe the room pale light.

No blood stains the fabric, even as your heart aches at the sight.

. . . . . 

You give him the scarf the next day, a night where winter is stronger than fall, loop it around his neck when he leaves the piano to sit at your side. He played that piece again, the composer’s reminiscence of home, and its notes still linger in your ears as you settle the scarf at his throat. 

Jun doesn’t react at first, only touches a finger to the wool, the color of the sun on the snow the day he first knocked on your door. It’s as though he knew it was made for him, even before you did. The way you knew his crescent smile, the wax and wane of the brightness in his eyes, the reflection of the sun off his skin, before he even arrived. 

He stops you before you go to bed that night, puts a hand on your shoulder and gently turns you around. For a moment you only look at each other, candlelight reflecting off your faces, a glow that joins the pale moonlight pooling on the ground. 

Thank you for the scarf, he says quietly, his fingers tangling with yours. His breath ghosts past your cheek, eyes crinkling at the corners into a soft, slow smile. And for letting me stay. 

You go back to the storage room when he closes his door, sit on the moth-eaten armchair and stare out the window at the full, full moon. Sometime later the first snow begins to fall, floating pitter-patter against the glass, and, lulled by its soft rhythm, you allow yourself to sleep. 

When morning comes with the shimmering sun on ice, Jun is gone. 

This time, he doesn’t come back. 

Reality seems to blur as the days go by, one without Jun, two without Jun, three, four, six, ten. Sometimes you sit in the inn’s empty lobby and squint at the grand piano still standing in the middle of the floor and for a moment, you can’t quite recall whether it’s always been there, or if it simply came into existence when Jun’s music followed him into your home. Everything feels dim, faded, like the shadow that had settled over the moon for so long, and sometimes you debate leaving. Leaving the inn and memories of a loving grandmother and laughing spirit that lie here, burying what you had with those you loved and running away from the remnants that chase you. 

But where would you go? There’s nothing in the world you have except this inn and those memories, and for all remembering hurts, they were treasures. Treasures that sparkle with a happiness that hurts a little too much right now, but that you wouldn’t trade for anything in the world. Treasures that will be a balm, in time, to the scars they left behind. 

Treasures that tell you, someday, you will have your home. 

Sometimes, sitting at the old piano, you wonder if he was real. If he really existed, the spirit with cratered eyes and hair the color of the sun on icy snow. But it doesn’t matter, really. Because you remember him—the sleepy eyes, the wide smile, the soft voice that waltzed with long fingers across ivory keys and spun music to life, tapestries of notes that settled gentle, ephemeral in the night air before a single breath blew them away. You remember him, and you remember an album of pastel memories and watercolor laughs, pages left to dry under winter sunshine, the color of a pale yellow scarf that a laughing man wears around his neck, its ends fluttering in the breeze. 

An album leaf. A page of memory. Loved in the moment that it was there, and someday, later on, turned over and smoothed with care. Remembered. 

And when you look out of the window at the full moon glowing brightly in the sky, you know the memory will be treasured, too. 

One evening, when the seasons have passed and winter has come to your inn once more, you sift through the music you had unearthed from that trunk so many months ago, the music now stacked around the piano in haphazard piles. You pull a single yellow sheet from the depths. The few guests who have settled at your inn since its opening retired to bed hours ago, leaving you alone to sit on a restored armchair pulled out of storage and trace black notes printed on old, crinkled paper, letting their melodies shiver through your skin, your ears, your memory.

That night, you take a walk along the streets of the town. Lamps light the way, but you follow the path of the full moon on powdered snow, not a single shadow draped across its cratered surface. There’s music in the wind and you walk with it, fingers tapping where they rest in the pockets of your coat. 

A flash of movement catches your eye. You turn and there’s a little cat slinking through the powdery white streets, moonlight glinting off its smooth, pale fur. It looks at you, and you look at it, and then you crouch down and extend a hand as it shyly pads closer through the snow. 

You smile, remembering a shy man twisting his fingers at your door. Hair blond, not white, but gentle and sweet just like this creature cautiously butting its head against your palm. 

—Hello there, you murmur. The moon looks lovely tonight, doesn’t it?

The cat purrs, like it agrees. Like it also knows the man you knew, and knows that he is where he needs to be, like you. 

Smiling softly, you glance up at the moon and its reflective glow. It seems to brighten as you stare at it, moonlight pooling softly on the glittering snow. 

The cat purrs again and you turn back, soft with the moon and the memories. Sweet laughter, dark eyes. A crescent bright smile, an album leaf. 

A gentle melody humming through the air, and a yellow scarf rippling in the wind. 

Reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated! Hope you enjoyed this, and have a lovely day :)

[tranquilpetrichor]

stream of consciousness

synopsis: where daeyeol gathers himself and spends some time in your mind.

cast: golden child daeyeol x reader

genre: angst, magical realism

wc: 783

warnings: mentions of bad family circumstances, death, very philosophical, existential

a/n: oh god this is so rusty help but the idea for this sorta popped in my head one day? and i haven't written for golcha for a while but liked the idea of characterizing daeyeol as someone's who's learned a lot but is also tired so enjoy.

relax. you've done this a million times. nothing to worry about.

at the edge of the chaos, lee daeyeol plunged his hands into the rushing stream.

the sensation he felt was cold and unforgiving, but necessary for his next task, for the stream itself was really a stream of consciousness. here, he could sift through one's thoughts, desires and dreams that all coalesced.

all he had to do was touch the surface of the water, and just like that, it began to reveal more of its depth, ebbing and flowing up ahead.

he supposed one could refer to this river of yours as a soul, as that stream of consciousness was synonymous with your mind. humans were nothing more than a mind with a body, anyways.

daeyeol waded into the turbulent water, knowing that his purpose was to look into your memories, try and piece together the mystery of you, and help another lost soul along the journey of life.

you needed something, but he wouldn't know what it was until he could understand you.

that damned thing called empathy persuaded him to take the route of kindness. one might call him a guardian angel, but he'd laugh bitterly.

he was no angel.

but not a devil either, he thought with a shrug. simply, daeyeol.

usually people weren’t aware of his presence at their river. he was everywhere and yet nowhere to be found, and that’s how he preferred it anyways.

of course, it’s not as if he was trying to be invasive, but the nature of sifting through people’s souls obviously involved digging into their personal lives, so daeyeol had learned to take the quietest path into the depths of their mind.

and he really tried not get too attached to those he's helped. it didn't always work, but it's a good principle (if such a thing even existed) to go by when dead and watching others live out their lives.

he walked further along your river, viewing thoughts flowing beside him, now at a slower pace than before, but permeating nonetheless.

not good enough.

i must do better.

i'm falling asleep.

this is hell.

it’s all hell to me.

there were flashes of memories: loud alarms, grades that were perfect, grades that were almost-perfect, open tabs on the internet, early morning drives, your current gpa, and notes on sheet music that blurred and eventually faded into blackness.

dreams? well, let's just say yours were hidden, secondary to your endless supply of thoughts. there were people in this world that didn't have the luxury for dreams, and let themselves drift to follow whatever path would please those around them.

you've accepted your struggles, daeyeol can deduce that much. everything coming from you felt resigned, almost eerily calm—as if you were firmly in the eye of the storm that was life.

contemplating his next motion, he decided to dip his hand in the water. a longer memory played out for him on a shimmering surface.

quietly, he watched your mom (that’s what he’s been told, but maybe she really shouldn’t have been a parent), yell at you. two of your siblings ran past.

"y/n. you should know that slacking off is unacceptable! i didn't send you off to a private school just so you could fool around with your friends. you have to be responsible.”

(daeyeol was sure hanging out with people wasn't all you did, there were also the honors courses and band and your tutoring job on top of that. and you still managed to keep a good gpa.

there weren’t enough hours in the day to do all of this. slacking off, his ass.)

you closed your eyes and maintained an impassive look on your face. he could understand why.

now honestly, between romance, illness, and the mundane moments of everyday life, he’s seen it all and as a result, wasn’t surprised anymore by memories that would have shocked him years ago. one might call it desensitization but there was likely a better word for it.

still, he closed his eyes as well. despite his generally calm demeanor, it’s not as if he didn’t feel sorrow and empathy deeply. it was quite the opposite—but he had to absorb all that emotion and remain the peaceful mediator that he was.

(that, and everything he was seeing reminded him of his own mistakes, of which there were too many.)

oh well. for better or for worse, the past, like many things, was dead, so there was no use on dwelling on it.

he left the stream soaking wet, but calm as always. at least he knew what you needed, and someone else could escape a cycle of misery and sorrow.

taglist: @restlessmaknae

[fallinnflower]

enchanting

young k x reader (fluff, maybe comedy, magic!au)

wc: 1.2k

a/n: based on a random prompt generator with the following prompts: magical realism; struggling musician; popcorn; mc loved by everyone; "it's your fault." also i know this is a very small offering considering how long i’ve been gone but rest assured i have a lot of stories in the works!!!

"Goodnight, Y/N! See you tomorrow!" 

"Goodnight! You guys be safe, okay?" you holler back, waving the last of the smiling regulars out from your place behind the bar. Younghyun, who had been smiling pleasantly at all of them and keeping up with their tipsy chatter for hours after playing his session, finally releases the tension in his shoulders and leans his back against the bar. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back in clear exhaustion. You glance at him, the hazy late night lights framing his sharp profile in an ethereal glow, his pale hair disheveled and haloed in faded gold. Even though his facial expression is somewhat tortured, brows furrowed and lips downturned, you can't help but find him beautiful. 

Eventually, you turn away from him to begin your nightly duties. Although spells and enchantments for objects exist that could cleanse the place in minutes, your magic skills are still too fledgling to confidently — or reasonably — pull them off. You settle for enchanting a mop in the corner to begin moving slowly across the floor, and levitating glasses as they're polished by an enchanted rag to check for their cleanliness. 

Younghyun eventually begins to munch on the remnants of a snack mix you had made for him for after his gig, picking out the popcorn pieces one by one and tossing them into his mouth. He doesn't say a word, the only sounds in the bar his crunching, the swishing sound of the mop on the floor, and the occasional squeak of the rag against glass. 

After a few moments, however, a heavy sigh sounds from your right, and you can't hold back the smile that teases at the corner of your lips. You shake your head, but don't take your eyes off the glass and rag levitating before you, focusing on making sure it's spotless before replacing it. 

"It's your fault, you know." You hear the slight creak of the barstool as your lone companion shifts his weight to look at you instead of the empty tables. 

"What do you mean?" His tone is accusatory, but you lift your gaze calmly to meet his. You shrug lightly as you levitate another glass. 

"You only ever perform here. It's no wonder you're struggling to advance your musical career when you limit yourself like this." 

"Hey—" he starts, but you lift a hand to stop him before he can begin his lecture. You set the glass and rag aside so you can focus solely on him, leaning against the bar and bringing your face closer to his. Younghyun freezes at your movements, but you pay it no mind. 

"Look, you know I love this place. I've poured my heart and soul into it. I love my customers, too, but this crowd isn't going to help you get a shot at the big time — and you know it too, whether you want to admit it or not." When you're sure he's sufficiently absorbed your words, you turn back to your polishing spell. 

"I don't know why you're not looking for other gigs, but you should."

"Well, it's—" Younghyun cuts himself off abruptly, and you turn your attention back to him in confusion. 

"It's what?" He shakes his head, and you roll your eyes, disabling your polishing spell once again. 

"Kang Younghyun," you say sternly, and he looks up at you in embarrassment. You plant your hands on your hips and straighten yourself into an assertive stance. After holding your gaze for a moment, he lets out another sigh in defeat and casts his eyes downward. 

"I'm not performing here to try and get famous," he says, finally. Your brows furrow and your posture deflates slightly. 

"But that's—"

"I know," he interjects, raking his hands through his hair. "I know, I told you that was my dream when I asked to perform here, but... I don't know, it's embarrassing. I don't really care if I get famous right now, I just found myself wanting to be around you constantly..."

You stare blankly at the slouched form of your bar's main performer for the last year and try to decipher his words. The Younghyun who came to you for an opportunity was passionate, burning brightly with his desire for a chance at stardom, and before you even realized it his conviction had dimmed. 

Or, no, you think as his eyes dart towards yours and catch. It hadn't dimmed, but been redirected. Regardless, you had been blinded to the changes within him. 

"Younghyun... I'm sorry..." He looks up, and it seems both of you are startled to find that you're teary-eyed. As you hurriedly swipe at your eyes, Younghyun shoots out of his seat, the stool scraping across the floor in his hurry. He reaches for your face, cradling your cheeks in his palms and hurriedly trying to wipe your sudden tears. 

"No, no, I'm sorry. Please don't cry, just forget I said anything—"

"I can't believe I didn't notice," you manage to say between hiccups and gasps for air. "All this time— I'm the worst!" Younghyun's movements falter slightly, and he tilts your face up so your eyes meet. 

"Wait, you don't— why are you crying, actually?" 

"Because!" you wail. "You've had these feelings and I— I didn't even notice! That's so unfair for you!" Through your blurred vision you can't make out Younghyun's expression, just the slight trembling of his hands where they press against your cheeks. After a moment of floundering for words, he finally opens his mouth again,

"So... are you not rejecting me, then?"

His words stun you out of your sobbing, leaving you hiccuping as the tears subside. You gaze at him, blinking in bewilderment as you try to process his question. Younghyun's gaze holds yours, his eyes shaking with uncertainty as he waits for your reply. 

"Rejecting you?" you parrot. "Younghyun, why would I reject you?"

"I mean— well, I—"

"Younghyun," you interrupt as his face begins to flush. You reach up and place one of your hands over his, smiling gently. 

"We've both been oblivious, I guess," you laugh. "I wouldn't ever reject you. I just didn't want to hold you back when you had such big dreams." His expression visibly softens, and he lets out a sigh of relief, lightly running his thumbs across your cheeks. 

"That's a relief," he breathes. 

"So, what now?" you ask, a bit startled by your own courage so soon after your sobbing session. Younghyun can't help but smile at your question,

"Well, honestly, I'd really like to kiss you." Your nervous yet playful smile mirrors his own as you lift your arms and loop them loosely around his neck. 

"Now that you mention it..." 

Just as the two of you begin to close the distance, Younghyun suddenly lets out a surprised shriek, startling you both. You both direct your gazes to the mop as it suddenly clatters to the floor at Younghyun's feet. 

"Oh my god," he breathes, pressing a hand to his chest. "It was the mop." You glance down at his shoes and can't help but laugh when you find them to be wet. He glares playfully at you, almost pouting, and so you lean across the bar and press a quick kiss to his cheek. 

"Since you kicked the mop, why don't you finish cleaning the floors, hm?" 

"On one condition," he says, turning his face so his nose brushes yours, pout long gone. "I get to take you on a date when we're done cleaning." You can't stop the smile that breaks across your face as your lips finally brush against his,

"Deal."

[honeymoonjin]

part of the 2020 sapphest fic fest, cross-posted to ao3

pairing: jungkook x hoseok x namjoon

word count: 8.1k  ||  rating: sfw  ||  genre: magical realism

summary: jungkook doesn’t know what she wants in life. but maybe the cottage-dwelling botanist and warlock she moves in with could help. or, perhaps, they might even be the answer.

notes: i apologise if this isn’t up to scratch, i haven’t written an actual oneshot i think since jan/feb (?) so i know i’m rusty. also, this fic contains a trans female jungkook, cis female namjoon and non binary hoseok so i really do hope i’ve done them justice, it’s my first time writing characters with differing gender expressions. please do let me know what you think with a reblog or an ask, it really makes my day and would help a lot as i’m trying to get back into writing. thank you and i love you xxx

------

Jungkook feels the gripping pressure around her heart ease with every step she takes down the street, fading into phantom pangs once the tall apartment building falls out of view.

She had never quite gotten used to it; the relief in a lack of something, the bliss of less. Her family’s worries seeped into her bones, soured her tongue when she was home. At high school, and especially at university, the stress of other students buffeted her like gales of wind. The brief moments of respite when she’d walk to the bus stop always felt so fleeting, like a gasp of air that didn’t quite fill her lungs enough.

Now, though, she didn’t stop there. She walked further, sucking in deeper breaths.

The train station lay close to the centre of town, but it was never that busy in the late morning, something she’d known fully well before going.

Her phone buzzes in her front pocket, no doubt her mother wishing her safe travels again. She doesn’t answer it, though. Happiness is a sweet tang behind her teeth, and her respite from obligation is a welcome one.

Her train is already pulling into the station when she steps up to the platform, and she wastes no time in scanning her card and finding a seat, tucked in the least occupied corner.

It doesn’t take long for the cramped blocks of Seoul to open up into countryside, and with it comes an openness in Jungkook’s chest that she only remembers feeling once before, a family vacation to an island that felt so blurry in her childhood memory.

Her gift wasn’t so strong then, but still Jungkook finds herself, over a decade later, seeking out nature as a balm for the mood pollution of city life.

When she’s as far south as the train allows, she disembarks. Not a single other soul steps foot off into the station, and it seems nobody is around.

It’s more a bus stop with rails than a train station, really. A roughly squareish pad of thick concrete sits beside the old tracks, a steel park bench and signpost the only things adorning it.

Around the lonely station is an open plain with few trees. On the opposite side, vast untended fields sprout daisies and dandelions, rising gracefully to low hills in the distance. On Jungkook’s side, a single narrow path of sun bleached dirt cuts through the wild grass, leading her to civilisation.

It’s a quiet walk. Not that she minds, of course; on the contrary, the remoteness of this place settles her and allows her to appreciate the finer sounds that normally get drowned out. The grass and scattered trees rustle gently in the wind. A few birds that roost in the shade of the branches chirp to each other, and the melodic noise brings a smile to Jungkook’s face.

When the small path she wanders along finally leads her to a series of small, traditionally-built houses, she’s unsurprised to find them seemingly abandoned. There’s no signs of life outside, and no evidence of human mood anywhere in her body. Even more than the rundown appearance of the outpost, Jungkook trusts her natural gift.

So when a tug in her chest leads her past the small crop of houses, she doesn’t hesitate. There is something for her here, something she may not yet have the words to explain, but for the first time she’s letting herself follow the currents that run through her veins, instead of trying to live around them.

The path lifts.

Like the train station was the base of a funnel, the land rises into hills on this side too, the extra exertion heating her calves with each step. Eventually, the narrow spine of dirt becomes overgrown with grass, and she’s forced to trample over it, ducking around low-hanging branches and stumbling over roots as the trees cluster around her, welcoming her into the cool shade of the hillside.

The crest of the hill has a jagged notch missing like a chipped tooth, providing a shortcut to the other side. The sun peeks through worn walls of ancient stone. It glares in Jungkook’s eyes, but even that brightness is overwhelmed by something stronger that radiates from the very ground itself. Euphoria.

Though her gift was still sometimes a mystery to her, Jungkook had learnt to distinguish most moods. In her cramped suburbia, she’d generally just been exposed to human feelings and the occasional animal, but she could still recognise the specific energy that plants give off.

Stronger with every step she takes, her soles practically vibrate with the flow of plant life singing out in joy - the joy of thriving, of being taken care of. Her own excitement wells up inside her, and her feet pick up their pace until the thud of grass changes into the slap of heavy soles on rock. She slips through the narrow crevasse of stone at the peak of the hill, breath catching at what greets her on the other side.

Like some kind of paradise, lush colours and fragrances mingle in the fresh air. The slope is much gentler here, and instead of uneven undergrowth and stubborn shrubbery, graceful rows of trees fill the open plains in front of her.

An orchard of plum trees with their pink blossoms rests to her left, rich purple fruits beginning to grow from them. Beside, a thicket of orange trees brighten the landscape with the bold citrus, only a few white flowers remaining on the branches. The green apple trees in front of her are laden with fruit, the branches hanging low. To her right, she even spots the brilliant pink spheres of pomegranate, though surely her eyes deceive her.

There’s no clear path through the foliage, though each row kindly provides enough space for a person or two to wander through, so Jungkook takes one such gap at random. There looks to be a fairly old though well-tended cottage beyond the trees, and even as the ecstasy of the healthy orchards envelops her in warmth, she feels the tug in her chest still guiding her forward.

Her body adjusts to the strong flow of positivity. It clears her mind, opens her lungs; like breathing pure mountain air. She has no idea what she’s really doing - trespassing and approaching a stranger’s house like this - but already the thought of having to leave here and find a place to stay makes her stomach curl.

Between the line of trees she can make out the front-facing wall of the cottage. Made up of wide planks of wood, slightly uneven with all the knots and flecks left on the surface, green creeping ivy runs lines across the edges of the plants like earthy seams. That’s all she can see, though, and the first sign of human life doesn’t come from what she sees but rather what she hears.

Reaching her ears even around the happy murmur of greenery, a bright voice hums a meandering but cheery tune, interspersed with chirped phrases that Jungkook can’t quite make out yet.

She approaches slowly, but impatiently peeks around the trunks of trees for a glimpse at the individual. The movement, the colour, the tint of energy that she feels off of them is unlike anything she’s felt before. Pure light, just as brilliant as it is tender.

She steps forward again, foot snapping a fallen twig. Suddenly, that stranger’s energy wobbles, the freezes in the air altogether. Jungkook pauses, knows she’s caught.

“A visitor?” the new voice exclaims incredulously, almost as if talking to themselves. “Are you human, visitor?”

Jungkook swallows. Whoever it was must not have been able to see her. “Mostly,” she replies hesitantly.

As if that’s the right answer, a joyous hoot rings out through the orchard, and light thumps skip closer. A smile stretches across Jungkook’s face entirely unconsciously, her eyes widening when the person finally darts into sight, hand hooked on an orange tree at the very end of the row.

“A friend, then!” the apparent owner of the house declares. They’re dressed for gardening, though dressed is perhaps overly generous. With bare feet and cropped, slightly curly hair, the only thing the person is even wearing is a pair of overalls, dirt on the knees, the leg cuffs rolled up to their calves and the front only just covering their otherwise naked chest. Every inch of skin revealed down to the elfish slope of their nose is a warm, rich bronze, like the sun itself has sunk below the surface and is instead shining outwards. It matches the high energy that Jungkook feels off of them, making her heart race.

Used to modest - even prudish - city fashion, Jungkook swallows at the delicate shoulders and collarbones that contrast enticingly with the swell of their biceps. Averting her eyes, she clears her throat and introduces herself. “And sorry for, uh, intruding,” she offers up with a grimace.

But the stranger waves it off, the movement exposing a flash of something gold on their palm. “Don’t be,” they respond easily, “we haven’t had a guest in years. Name’s Hoseok, by the way.”

“Jungkook,” Jungkook replies without thinking, making the other’s eyes light up even more. “I don’t even… I don’t really know why I’m here.”

Hoseok seems to be expecting this answer. “You should come inside, Jungkook. I built up wards against humans about three years ago when we moved in - it’s not even on any maps now! - so if you’re here, you’re here for a reason. Just because you don’t know it yet doesn’t mean it isn’t important.” They state this all like it’s a matter of fact, and Jungkook herself feels instinctively swayed by the logic. Or, perhaps, swayed by the way Hoseok’s back flexes behind the straps of the overalls as they turn towards the house, leading her there.

Jungkook swallows, trying to distract herself from the beautiful being in front of her. “Are you a, um-” but even her first question isn’t so clear. Unsure what to choose, she goes with the statistically more common option. “-are you a witch like me?”

Hoseok cranes their head back with an easy grin, boyish waves framing their face like a dark halo. “That’s up for debate. Technically, sure, but I don’t really like using the term witch or wizard. Lots of non-binary folk just use warlock, mostly. But yes, I have magic. Come see.”

They hold out their palm, then, and Jungkook jogs forward a few steps to catch up, just breaking out of the shade of the orchard as Hoseok tilts their hand towards her.

Like the rest of Hoseok’s skin, their palm is a warm golden shade, though it positively glows, an ethereal brightness resting below the skin, centred in their palm but reaching as far as their fingertips like five tiny lamps. “Sunhands,” Hoseok explains simply, their hands radiating a delicate warmth. “Had them since I was born. Helps me grow things year-round,” they finish, gesturing loosely in front of them.

Finally breaking her gaze from Hoseok’s beautiful gift, Jungkook looks ahead, unable to stop herself from gasping in a breath. “It’s gorgeous,” she offers up, but the compliment feels lame in comparison to the haven she’s met with.

Hoseok hums proudly nonetheless, and gives Jungkook time to take it in.

The house is every bit the rustic, homely cottage Jungkook had envisaged from the glimpse she got, but her heart is taken by the details. The wooden face she’s met with is clearly the side of it, hosting a small woodshed complete with an axe half-embedded in a tree stump and a tiny freestanding barbecue grill. The house itself is two-storied, although the second floor looks much smaller than the first. A round glass window peeks out from the top. Jungkook thinks she sees something move behind it, but her attention is quickly pulled by the glint of glass in the sun off to her right.

Behind the house, taking up almost the same ground space as the other building itself, a glasshouse blooms with vibrant green. Lush ivy trails up the frame on either side of the rounded top like a set of ribs bracketing the plant life inside. Unlike the neat rows of fruit trees, it looked like a dense forest within those crystal clear walls; the only signs of human intervention were the rows of metal shelves housing smaller plants, and irrigation pipes fitted inside.

“Our little sanctuary,” Hoseok sighs happily, seeing where Jungkook’s gaze has wandered. “My wife’s a botanist by trade, her specialty is in endangered species. Most of these only bloom very rarely, or don’t survive well in regular soils. We’ve spent a long time cultivating them. I use my gift to grow them; she uses her gift to study them.”

Jungkook tries to tamp down the ebb of disappointment that arises. “Your wife?”

“In all ways but legal,” Hoseok confirms with a dreamy grin. “She’ll just love you, I know it already. Come on; let’s get out of the heat.”

There’s a swing bench on the porch outside the front door with a lone novel resting atop it, open page-down as if the reader had to leave it there without a bookmark to keep their spot. Hoseok skirts past it, wiggling their feet briefly on a worn mat before stepping inside.

Feeling so out of her depth, Jungkook doesn’t protest, but instead pauses just inside the door, unsure if she should take off her boots.

Hoseok notices and winces. “We don’t, uh, we don’t have any spare house slippers. If you wanna keep them on, you can.”

Jungkook bends down to toggle the zips down anyway, letting her socked feet enjoy the respite of the cool hardwood floor. “You have a really nice place,” she offers up, though it’s quite the understatement.

To the right is a narrow set of stairs leading up to a mezzanine. There’s only one closed door up there that Jungkook can see, no doubt leading to the second-floor window she’d seen earlier.

The other side is a short hallway lined with what looks like homemade artworks and photographs. Down at the far end, the sun shines into a kitchen, but Jungkook doesn’t get a good look before she’s ferried up the stairs, the third step creaking under her socked foot.

“Knock knock,” Hoseok sings out instead of actually rapping on the closed door, squishing their cheek against the frame. A murmur comes from inside, and they open the door immediately, flocking inside. “A new friend, Joon-ah!”

When Jungkook slips inside shyly, her breath is immediately taken away by the beauty of the person inside. Not just their looks, though she’s never seen hair as glossy and graceful as theirs, and eyes as bright. But being near them feels like standing on the bank of a still, clear lake. Deep with wisdom but still teeming with life and curiosity. With a set of tortoiseshell reading glasses almost tipping off their nose, the person seated at the chair feels like the heart of the house, the heart of the whole region.

“Does this new friend of ours have a name? Preferred pronouns?”

Jungkook can’t do much more than blink. She’s dreamt about this, obsessed over this for years, but it may just be the first time anyone’s ever actually asked her in real life. “Sh- uh- Jungkook, she/her. Th-thank you for asking.”

The beauty in front of her smiles, and Jungkook’s knees threaten to give out at the serene warmth and endearing dimple. “It’s a pleasure. I’m Joon, by the way. I use she/her too. I’m sure Hoseok forgot entirely, but they use they/them. Always best to check, don’t you agree?”

Jungkook’s nodding immediately in response before she even processes it. “Yeah, I- that’s helpful, thank you.” Her mind feels hazy. People in the city never felt this vibrant, mixed with the blissful hum on the soles of her feet from the plantlife outside. She fights to wrangle her mind back into something coherent “Um… Hoseok said you had a gift too?”

Joon’s brows furrow delicately, swiveling her chair back to face them fully. She’d been seated at a busy-looking desk when they entered, writing notes into the margin of a yellowed textbook. Now, Jungkook can appreciate her simple choice of outfit: just a loose t-shirt and some thin fabric sweats, she nevertheless exudes pure grace, even as she quirks a brow towards Hoseok.

The latter coughs lightly, scratching their bare shoulder under one of the overall straps. “I mean… I would call you gifted, love,” they state in an imploring tone.

Joon just lets out a breathy chuckle and turns back to their newcomer. “I’m fully human, actually. My history is academic rather than magical.”

“I am curious, though,” Hoseok chirps, hooking one of their legs on the arm of Joon’s chair and draping themself half onto her, “what’s your gift, Jungkook? You’ve seen mine. Elemental,” Hoseok states, patting their bronzed palms on Joon’s thighs.

If Jungkook pauses to process the public display of queer affection in front of her - as well as the unfurling of mutual fondness emanating off the couple - she might just pass out, so she clears her throat and directs her gaze a few inches above their heads. “Sensory,” she explains. “I feel moods from other beings. I think the trees and stuff outside brought me here, actually.”

Hoseok blinks, eyes wide. One of their overall straps has slipped down, exposing one side of their chest, making Joon tut and tuck it back up again, but the gifted one takes no note. “The trees? You can feel the trees?”

Jungkook shrugs, but her insides glow at the impressed tone to their voice. “Yeah, I, uh, I can’t really do much with it, so I studied house magic at university. I rented out house witch services for some extra money, so that helps.”

Joon’s smile warms even further at the mention of study, her eyes crinkled with some bemusing inside joke. “We might just have to keep you, then,” she quirks, “as amazing as Hoseok is, their skills don’t really extend to the indoors. Mind you, I’m even worse myself.”

Hoseok hums, unflapped by the comment. “I never had a knack for fiddly stuff. I much prefer getting my clothes dirty than cleaning them.” Seeing how worn and discoloured the knees of Hoseok’s overalls are, Jungkook doesn’t doubt that for a second.

But her mind can’t really focus on that. Her own nerves rattle through her body, metallic on the insides of her cheeks. “I, um… I could help? If you wanted?”

The tentative flicker of interest reaches Jungkook from both parties, allowing her to get her hopes up. Nevertheless, she bites her tongue and braces herself for rejection. Did she even have enough money on her card for the train ride home? Stupid, she was-

Joon beams warmly, though with a touch of hesitation. “We’d love that, really we would. We just… We don’t have much human currency, Jungkook.”

Jungkook blinks, chest flipping as she rushes to shake her head. “I don’t need it, honest! Do you- If you had a place for me to crash, or…”

Hoseok sucks in a breath through their teeth and jostles Joon playfully on the shoulder. “Come on, love, we could move some of those old boxes up here and she could have the spare room. Don’t you want to keep her?”

Even faced with Hoseok’s all-but-bare back, Jungkook can sense their pleading eyes with the way that Joon melts in her chair. She pats Hoseok on the shoulder. “Up you get, then, sunshine. It’ll need some dusting too.” The curled brunette heaves themself up, peppering a kiss on Joon’s cheek before slinking out the room.

Jungkook isn’t quite sure if the rising ecstasy in her chest is all her or a shared blend of the people around her, but she knows she’s never felt so bright. “Thank you so much, Joon! What jobs do you need help with?” She turns when she feels the tingling, menthol-esque blossom of hope directed at her back. Near the top of the stairs, Hoseok still remains, their cheek squashed against the banister and eyes glistening. “I could always clear out the room for you?”

Hoseok begins to perk up but Joon just tuts. “Don’t be silly, sweetheart, you just put your feet up. We aren’t going to put you to work straight away.”

“We aren’t?” Hoseok murmurs in unbidden disappointment.

Joon tries to hide her smile, but her lips quirk up fondly at her partner nonetheless. “The cleaning spray and broom are in the hallway cupboard downstairs,” she divulges, receiving a dramatic whine in return. “Suffering builds character, dear.”

A sulky, “yeah, yeah… love you,” is heard from the foot of the stairs.

Joon lets out a breathy chuckle and returns the affection, before standing up from her desk and nodding warmly at Jungkook. “Perfect weather for a lunch picnic, don’t you think? I might go down and see what I can prepare. Why don’t you explore a bit, or go rest? The couch in the living room is divine for taking naps.” With that, she departs, leaving Jungkook alone in the attic to process the absurdity of the past hour.

Feeling less like an intruder than before, Jungkook welcomes the opportunity to fully roam the outside of the property, admiring the lush wildlife and vegetation. The open plains go far beyond the opposite side of the house, leading to a sharper cliff face going up. Jungkook even thinks she can spot the thin vein of a waterfall if she squints, but there’s plenty of beauty at her feet for her to discover first.

While the grove of trees flanks the house on one side, the far side boasts rows and rows of garden beds, the dirt a richer brown than the rest. Fat strawberries weigh down their stalks in some plots, leafy greens spill over the sides in others. The vast range of produce is almost unbelievable, with the side of the house itself displaying a maze of herb pots. Most of them were cooking-based, but Jungkook doesn’t miss the orange spots of brewer’s mint, the sharp, wicked-looking leaves of murkroot and even a small terracotta pot of Jupiter sage. She was well-versed in magical ingredients, but had never seen them fresh outside of her university’s greenhouse. She could only imagine there were many more in the tall glass structure behind Joon and Hoseok’s house. Her fingers itch to test them, to wow her new landlords with a pain-reliever salve or the perfect dream-infused tea. It can wait, she tells herself. If they were growing them, perhaps they used them for something else.

A wet huff interrupts her musing, and she jumps when she feels something moving against her leg. Glancing down, she’s relieved to find the new presence is a tubby, short-haired dog with sleepy eyes, back arched as it stretches first its front legs, then its back, before collapsing onto its back, wriggling against Jungkook’s boot.

She lets out a disbelieving laugh, reaching down to gingerly rub the creature’s belly. The dog all but purrs, legs kicking in the air and tail thumping rhythmically against the sun-bleached wooden veranda.

“Where did you come from, huh?” Jungkook crouches, feeling her calf muscles ache but grinning at the way the dog seeks out her attention shamelessly, not hesitant at all about the presence of a stranger.

“Ah, I see you met Cho,” a warm voice comes from above her. Jungkook cranes her neck up, admiring Joon’s tall form. “She’s a rescue.”

A rescue? Paired with the close view of the gorgeous botanist, Jungkook has to bite down hard on the inside of her cheek to push her feelings down. She’d fall in love if she wasn’t careful. “Is that so?” she asks, willing her voice to be steady.

Joon nods, kneeling down to gently run her knuckles behind the dog’s ears, tan fur paling to white on the very tips. “I had to go to a nearby town for supplies, and found this wee girl in an alleyway digging in some bins. My heart broke for her, I just couldn’t leave her there.” She lets out a light laugh. “She was so skinny that Hob-ah called her chopstick. Now, though, she’s built like a barrel, so we just call her Cho.”

Cho wiggles her butt against the veranda, paw hooking on Jungkook’s wrist the moment the petting pauses. Continuing to pat the canine, Jungkook sighs. “That’s really sweet of you. She looks really healthy.”

A spontaneous laugh erupts from Joon’s nose. “She just about eats more than us, she better be. Anyways; I better get back to work. I just came out here to grab some mint for the lemonade.”

Jungkook stays hunched on the floor with Cho - whose nose is burrowed wetly into her furled palm - while Joon approaches the trellis of herb pots, gently plucking some soft green leaves off a plant that’s low enough to make her bend at the waist. Biting her lip harshly, Jungkook averts her gaze from the way her pale sweatpants pull taut around her hips with the movement.

Before long, the botanist returns inside, causing Cho to let out an indignant sneeze and scramble up to join her.

Jungkook exhales until her lungs feel concave. Back in a moment of quiet, she runs her fingertips over the texture of the wooden veranda. The energy from Joon’s unhurried focus feels like the echo of strong hands on Jungkook’s shoulders, but past it is the playful jab of Hoseok’s mock frustration. She grins, picturing the warlock fiddling with an old broom or trying to line up the corners of a fitted sheet. The tang of surprise has long since faded from Jungkook’s mouth, and it’s nice to sit in the warmth of both the sun and their welcome.

She breathes deeply, inhaling the fresh smell of clean air and fresh earth, and smiles.

For such a small house, there really is no shortage of work for Jungkook. Some things are easy fixes, like a permanent polish salve for the heavy mahogany bookcase in the main room or the several anti-dust spells she casts around the house. Others take days at a time to chip away at - she’d forgotten just how long it takes to fully steep a digestion aid tea to cure Hoseok’s raging lactose intolerance - but her two new housemates never nag or criticise. In fact, she’s found a warm foundation of purpose inside her that she hadn’t had since she graduated.

Each evening, when her hands begin to ache or the recipes on her phone look fuzzy, she packs up and joins the two lovebirds for dinner. It’s become a domestic ritual to help them cook, chat for a few hours on the porch as the sun slips below the hills, and then turn in for a restful night of sleep. It’s meant to be a full moon tonight - the fourth one since Jungkook arrived - and their routine is no different, gathered on the edge of the porch facing the open fields behind the house. It’s peaceful, Jungkook thinks. She’s more content now than she’s been in a long time.

There’s something...worrying bubbling within her with every shared moment, though. It’s in the way her pulse leaps when Hoseok beams at her, or the stuttered heartbeat in her chest with Joon’s casual touch. She knows they’re together, can feel the resonance of their affections inside her, yet she can’t help pretending those vibrations are directed at her. Lets herself accept the fond shoulder squeezes, blush at Hoseok’s playful winks.

It’s a dangerous fantasy to indulge in, but…

“Jung-ah, did you change your hair? It’s gorgeous.”

She flushes at the compliment, the genuine tone of Joon’s voice. Joon’s own hair is still a sunkissed brown, so long now that she often ties it off with a ribbon into a lazy ponytail. For a while, Jungkook burned with gender envy, knowing it would take years and years for her hair to grow that long. But a quick text to a friend from uni and an obscure millennial cosmetics spell site helped speed that process up. It wasn’t nearly as long as Joon’s, but the feeling of it tickling her bare shoulders each night made something deep inside of her positively glow. “Thank you,” she murmurs shyly. Hearing Joon notice it and respond well to it ignites that euphoric spark again. “Wanted something different.”

Hoseok reaches a hand up to ruffle their own hair; loose coils springing back around their brow. “Don’t you get hot, ladies? I’m tempted to take a razor to mine and it’s not even past my ears!”

Jungkook can’t manage to suppress a snicker in time. “I’d pay to see that.”

Hoseok grins, but sends a wink Joon’s way. “Hmm... wifey doesn’t seem so convinced, huh? Don’t you think I’d suit the skinhead look?”

Joon tilts her head back to catch the last few rays of orange sun, shadows cast below her jaw. “It wouldn’t be my first choice. But confidence looks better on you than any hairstyle, sunshine.”

Hoseok beams at that, letting the conversation drop as if they never were that interested in shaving anyway. “I think I’m making progress with the vanilla, love.”

That gets a strong reaction from Joon, her dark brows arching gracefully. Jungkook’s interest is peaked, leaning forward so that she’s sitting right on the edge of the porch. “The vanilla?”

Like a proud mother, Joon puffs her chest. “It’s mostly grown in Madagascar these days, and it’s a notoriously fickle plant. The flower only blooms one day a year, and is fertile for only 12 hours. And often, they require human intervention to actually pollinate. Seok-ah here thinks they can get it blooming more often. Have you gotten it, sunshine?”

Hoseok shrugs away the attention humbly, though their eyes glitter with barely-restrained excitement, turning to them both. “For a while I thought my sunhands were my only gift, but I think I must have some type of connection with plants too. I’m really not sure, but I’ve gotten my vanilla crop to bloom three times this month alone! Only two of them produced decent pods, but it’s definitely progress.” Their eyes drop, mouth twisting in thought. “I wonder if I could speed up the fermentation process as well. It usually takes months, but I’ve grown whole trees faster than that. Who knows?”

Joon’s reply is interrupted by a low vibration rattling against the porch. Her smile slips in confusion, and drops entirely when she flips the phone and reads the screen. “It’s Tae.”

Hoseok sobers up too, worry and anxiety emanating off them like a cold tide. “Is something wrong?”

Joon doesn’t reply, brows furrowed as she types something back. Barely a moment later - though it feels much longer as Jungkook awkwardly sits, completely out of the loop - a text buzzes through again, and a surprised laugh comes from the back of Joon’s throat, her lips stretched in a smile. “He’s… he got the job in Osaka.”

Hoseok gasps and claps their hands together once, wiggling in their spot. “That’s incredible!” they begin, but before Joon has even replied to the text, a third is coming through. Hoseok basically jumps in the air, demanding for their wife to read the message aloud.

“Oh my goodness, Tae has a boyfriend, Seok-ah! Says he’s a chef at a Korean restaurant in the city centre.” Joon smiles fondly. “He’s doing well, sunshine.”

Hoseok mulls this over with a slightly put-out look. “Dammit, I didn’t even think of dating a chef.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know that I made that dipping sauce from scratch yesterday.”

Jungkook feels the banter whip back and forth on either side of her, impenetrable without the important context. “Who’s, um, who’s Tae?” she asks hesitantly, bracing for them to scold her prying.

Joon just smiles placidly, reaching back to lazily re-tye the peach ribbon that’s threatening to slip off. “He’s our ex.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Hoseok chides, “you know he doesn’t like to be called that.”

A sigh. “Tae’s our husband once-removed. Happy?”

“You… had a husband? Both of you, or?”

“What’s mine is hers, Jung-ah,” Hoseok coos happily, “we like to share. Tae was my… boyfriend, back in the day. We actually got hitched before I even met Joon. Young marriage, we were pretty dumb kids.” They shrug, the soothing cotton-soft acceptance filling the air around them, not a spike of negativity to be held. “He actually introduced us shortly after our honeymoon, and I fell for Joon straight away. I admitted my feelings to him, but he just started laughing. The two of them had briefly dated in high school. Small world, huh? We sort of fell into a trio after that.”

“It was unspoken, really,” Joon mumbles, her eyes in the far distance as blue twilight dims the sky. “It felt as natural as flowing water to us.”

“And then-” Hoseok breaks off roughly, and the air tightens. “Tae went through some personal changes. Identity changes. We all tried making it work, we loved being three, being together, but it wasn’t right for him anymore. He ended up winning a scholarship to a very prestigious photography school in Tokyo, and we all knew that was what was best for him.” They fall silent for such a long time that Jungkook would almost think they were finished talking. But then, only just audible, they whisper. “I’m glad he’s doing well.”

Joon leans over to Jungkook, her sweet scent filling the narrow space between them. “Some of the art in the hallway is his if you want to look.”

Before Jungkook can reply - though her head is swimming with joonjoonjoon that she probably has no coherent comments anyway - Hoseok makes a strange strangled noise and gets up. “I’m so sorry,” they announce stiffly, “I think I left a light on in the glasshouse.”

Jungkook watches in confused silence as the warlock, still barefoot even in the cooling night air, marches swiftly across the field to the pitch-black glasshouse. Joon lets out a gentle sigh.

“Did I do something wrong?” Jungkook asks, voice almost cracking on the final word. “I shouldn’t have asked-”

“It’s okay,” Joon interrupts kindly, a warm hand placed on Jungkook’s knee. “It’s just… This is the first time we’ve had a third person in the house since Tae. I think Hoseok missed it.”

Jungkook bites on the inside of her cheek, feeling a chill run through her. “I can’t replace him, though. He sounds like a good guy.”

A considering hum resonates from Joon’s throat. “He is a good guy. But neither of us,” she gestures first at herself and then the shadowed silhouette of a head poking above some plants in the greenhouse, “are looking to replace him. In fact,” she admits with a rueful laugh, voice dropping to a low murmur, “I think the two of us are quite enamoured with you, Jung-ah.”

Joon’s hand on her knee burns through the thin cotton of her sundress, the tips just grazing bare skin. Jungkook swallows, feeling every beat of her heart thud at her ribs. “I like-” her voice rasps like sandpaper, throat dry. She clears it, swallowing thickly again. “I like when you say my name like that.”

She isn’t looking directly at Joon, but she still feels the broad smile. “It sounds pretty, don’t you think? It suits you.” Jungkook’s lips twitch; she ducks her head even as Joon leans closer. “You know, my parents wanted a son,” Joon explains softly. “They called me Namjoon. I always hated it. Felt like such a tomboy, the Nam was too mascule to me. So I dropped it. Still me, just… better. I know plenty of people change their names entirely, but you don’t have to. I think Hoseok would love to chat with you about stuff like that. I know I wouldn’t understand those feelings as much as they would.” Joon furrows her brows, looking embarrassed at her monologue. “I just want you to feel comfortable here.”

“I appreciate it,” Jungko- Jung-ah says immediately, glancing up to see Joon’s face light up. “I- I’m, um, enamoured with- with you too. With you two, too.” Coughing lightly to clear the awkward phrase hanging in the air, she drops her gaze again, but a single finger pauses her, hooked gently under her chin.

Slowly, Joon lifts Jung-ah’s jaw until their eyes meet. They’re somehow closer now, their breaths mingling hotly together between them. Jung-ah’s lips part, but no words come out.

This close, she can see the way a sheen of chapstick glints in the moonlight when Joon smiles. “Sweetheart, can I kiss you?”

Her stomach flips. She nods, not trusting her voice, and barely has a chance to flutter her eyes shut before a pressure lays across her lips. Joon kisses her slowly, so softly, like she might shatter in her hold.

The air has a chill to it now, but every point of contact feels hot like a furnace, and the keening, pleased energy that blooms from Joon keeps her warm. She lets it sink into her, wrap around her just as Joon’s soft palm encases her cheek, fingers playing with her hairline.

Joon’s lips taste like strawberry, but the real sweetness is her delicate movements, chaste but sensual, passionate but patient. Her thumb rubs slowly over Jung-ah’s cheekbone, giving her the strange feeling of swaying in the sea, entirely unmoored. She leans into it, diving deeper, feeling their noses bump.

Joon pulls away too soon, leaving Jung-ah with tingling lips and a dizzy mind. Her chapstick has all but rubbed off, but her lips are plumper and pinker than ever, pupils blown wide.

It takes a moment for the cloud to dissipate, but when it does, Jung-ah gasps weakly. “Oh my god, you’re married, what am I-”

“Ah, yes,” Joon remarks with a wry smile, “you’ll have to go and even the score now or I’m afraid Hoseok will be terribly disappointed.”

Jung-ah pauses, caught off-guard. “They won’t be...angry?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Joon coos, “Seok-ah quizzed me for hours last night on the meanings of flowers so that they could grow you some. We’re poly, Jung-ah, you don’t have to stress. Besides,” she quips, inclining her head out towards the field, “it looks like they want to speak with you.”

Glancing in that direction, Jung-ah blinks when she sees the glasshouse, still in darkness, but with a warm yellow glow cast inside, the main door cracked open intentionally.

A fond energy smooths the air between them as Joon stands up off the porch and ruffles Jung-ah’s hair, mumbling a soft goodnight.

After listening to the door squeak open and closed again (she’d have to fix that tomorrow) Jung-ah has nothing left to do but make her way across the grassy plain toward the glasshouse.

The warm glow from inside had dimmed as the moonlight cast her surroundings in silver. Still, Jung-ah could see Hoseok’s silhouette clear as day as they paced back and forth amongst the various shadows of the plant life inside.

It doesn’t take long before her hands are brushing on the metal doorway, glancing inside. “Hoseok? Did you- are you-?”

“Come on in,” the warlock replies easily. There’s a pleased glint in their eyes even as their curls hang heavy over their brow. Overdue for a haircut, though Jung-ah couldn’t deny it made them look even more endearing. “Come here often?” they quip.

With a strange pang, Jung-ah realises this is the first time she’s stepping into the enclosed jungle. Hoseok spent time outside, Joon spent her days glued to her computer or a book upstairs, and Jung-ah wandered around the house with an ever-changing list of ‘Ideas’: to-do jobs that the homeowners were too polite to frame as compulsory. She never really ventured beyond the garden beds for the occasional herb to use. “First time,” she admits with an uneven tone.

Hoseok’s eyes wander, widening. “It is too,” they agree easily, unruffled. “Well, I’m very glad you came. I don’t blame you for sticking indoors. Joon’s far more interesting than me and my leaves.” They reach out and flick at a plant lazily, though Jung-ah doesn’t miss the gentle care in the touch.

“I think you’re fascinating,” she rebuts instead, “I just never wanted to bother you. But it’s… These plants, Hoseok, they’re beautiful.”

A proud beam highlights a smear of dirt on Hoseok’s chin, and Jung-ah resists the urge to reach up and dust it off. Instead, she follows riveted as Hoseok leads her around the deceptively large greenhouse.

“This is where I keep the rarer things. Or, I suppose, the more fickle ones,” they begin, trailing a path along a metal-framed shelf to their left with a single fingertip. “The tahina spectabilis here normally only lives until 50 in Madagascar,” Hoseok explains, and Jung-ah cranes her neck to glance up a trunk, looking much like a simple palm tree. Hoseok’s voice is soft, like they’re in a library, or a place to pay respects. “The tree will flower at fifty years old, and the process is so taxing that it actually dies. This one was passed down through my family’s ancestors, all elementals. It’s over two hundred.”

“Oh, wow,” Jung-ah murmurs without thinking, though she can’t help but view the sturdy trunk and flax-like leaves with a new admiration. “Your ancestors were all interested in nature like you?”

“Absolutely,” Hoseok remarks with a mysterious humour clouding their tone. “I bet yours were, too. Magical folk descend from gatherers and healers right back in the prehistoric age. I bet you would’ve been the healer to my gatherer, Jungkook.”

She swallows, watching the lines of Hoseok’s back move gracefully with every careful step through the lush, almost overgrown glasshouse. “Jung-ah,” she corrects lightly. “It’s, um, it’s Jung-ah now.”

When Hoseok turns, it’s like their fantastical surroundings are cast to grey. All Jung-ah can see is their bright eyes, bold heart-shaped smile and puffed cheeks. She wills her heart to stop thudding in her chest so hard, letting the pleased hum of the plants around them settle her internal rhythms.

“Jung-ah,” Hoseok repeats, and the name sounds even lighter on their tongue. “I like that.”

“I like you,” Jung-ah states and immediately curses her loose lips, wincing harshly at the rich dirt beneath her feet.

A surprised chuckle tinkles the air. “How scandalous, when my wife is just next door!” Before Jung-ah can dissolve into a blabbering, apologetic panic, Hoseok’s hand is reaching into her line of vision, a playful tug on the collar of her shirt. “Good thing she feels the same way as I do,” they continue softly, not lowering their hand.

Jung-ah sucks in a breath, feeling their knuckles bump against her collarbone as her chest lifts. “What way?” she asks carefully, daring herself to look up only for Hoseok to be far closer than she remembered, hand warm and glowing slightly between the two of them.

Behind the earnest smile is a slight hesitation that Jung-ah feels more than sees. Hoseok’s voice is barely a whisper, but no other sound penetrates their green paradise. “I want you to be the first thing I see when I wake up,” they confess, “and the last thing I see before I go to sleep. I want you to stay with us. I want to be yours, and you mine. That way.”

“Do you want to…” Jung-ah pauses, tongue wetting her lips unconsciously. “Do you want to kiss me?”

Hoseok’s smile grows, and the prodding hesitation disappears. “I’ve been waiting a long time to hear you ask that, hon.”

Their lips connect with no time for a reply. Jung-ah doesn’t mind though, letting herself melt into the kiss like there’s nothing else in the world. She feels Hoseok’s hands like twin suns, warmth running over her upper arms, her shoulders, catching gently on her jaw. And further, on a level so deep only she can feel it, those bright rays envelop her, Hoseok’s energy like pure joy. Jung-ah feels them smile into the kiss, lips slanting against hers and teeth bumping as they fail to suppress a grin.

When she finally has to pull away to suck in a breath, chest heaving, Hoseok is still beaming, their eyes dazed and hair rumpled. A strange light illuminates their chin and tip of their nose from below, and Jung-ah blinks in surprise as she sees Hoseok’s hands, completely alight up to their wrists with sunlight.

Catching Jung-ah’s gaze, Hoseok flushes, burying them in their overall pockets even as the light penetrates the heavy jean. “I know it’s bright, it’ll… it’ll settle down soon,” they promise, a sheepish smile puffing their cheeks. “I’m just really happy, Jung-ah.”

Jung-ah can’t help but return the smile. “Me too.”

~

Hoseok exhales dreamily as the sweet smell of strawberries fill the air. Not one for alcohol, they’d gotten Jung-ah to help make them some pink lemonade just the night before. Their wife hovers over the coffee table with the glass carafe, gripping it tight like it might wriggle out of her fingers at any moment.

One arm cradling several packets of snacks and the other holding a plate of slightly misshapen gimbap, Jung-ah makes her way between the two, settling the goods on the coffee table before slipping under Hoseok’s outstretched arm. The two curl up on the couch, Joon’s attempt at pouring the bubbly drink keeping them both amused.

“So nobody is going to help me?” she questions incredulously, grimacing as some of the lemonade doesn’t make it into the mugs she’s attempting to pour it into.

Hoseok’s fingers slip unconsciously under the hem of Jung-ah’s shirt sleeve, rubbing lightly at the skin there. “You’re doing splendid, love,” they assure earnestly. “The table was looking a little dehydrated.”

Joon lifts her jaw with a hard stare, but her lip quirks before she can help it. “I can’t believe this is my celebration party and I’m still the one doing this. I’ll remember this for your birthdays; just you wait.”

“Don’t worry,” Hoseok murmurs into Jung-ah’s ear with a lilting tone, “she always says that but I get breakfast in bed on my birthday every year. I love you, Joonie,” they call out in a singsong voice, reaching out to grab an outstretched mug with the hand not wrapped around Jung-ah’s shoulders.

Taking the other mug and watching the bubbles pop on the surface of the rosy liquid, Jung-ah sends Joon a warm smile. “I’m really proud of you, Joon,” she praises softly. “You worked hard, and the book is amazing.”

Joon raises a brow, taking a swig from the final mug and squeezing up on Jung-ah’s free side, neglecting the second empty couch in exchange for some closeness. “Have you read it?”

Jung-ah pauses, avoiding her gaze. “Seokie and I looked at all the pictures.”

Joon nods somberly, even as her eyes glint in bemusement. “The one thing I didn’t do.”

Hoseok’s hand reaches far enough past Jung-ah to just slightly brush at Joon’s cheek, the human pressing into the contact. “You’re far smarter than us, love. There were lots of very big words that we couldn’t quite understand but we’re proud of you nonetheless.”

Joon lets herself smile then, a warm one that crinkles her eyes and deepens her dimple. “I love you both too.”

Jung-ah flushes, feeling her toes curl at the sentiment, professing her own love for the two on either side of her before dipping her chin to sip at the lemonade. The sparkling water tickles the roof of her mouth, the lemon giving a bright tang, even as the strawberry infusion leaves a sweetness on her tongue long after she’s swallowed. It’s familiar to her, somehow.

As Joon leans onto Jung-ah’s side, beginning to explain to them the elaborate process of getting her third book published, Jung-ah takes another sip, swilling it in her mouth a little longer this time. It’s not until Hoseok’s getting up to pour them all a second glass, making the other two cackle as their hand is even shakier than Joon’s, that Jung-ah finally realises where she remembers that taste from.

It’s not a taste at all, but a feeling, an energy. Most of the senses her gift gave her were from other people, from plants, from wildlife. Very rarely were her own emotions strong enough to come back to her like mic feedback. But she recognised this one. Jung-ah was content.

[littlemoondarlingarts]

Unfortunately it happened

A short story about two of my ocs that I've been writing for a while, please read the trigger warnings carefully before proceeding to the story.

Genre: magical realism with hints of psychological horror.

Word count: 4293 words.

Tw: Abuse, domestic abuse, past abuse, ptsd, hallucinations, claustrophobic scenes, blood, glass shards, mild sexual scene, possible sexual assault, disrespecting the boundaries of an autistic child, abandonment issues.

If there are any more possible trigger warnings that I didn't write, please let me know.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The thick warm blood irregularly dripped onto the rotting floor as Theodore tried to wrestle out the large glass shard that was lodged deep in his skull. He knew that pulling it out would only cause him to bleed more, but he had no other choice, his body just wouldn't heal around it. It's not like he could even go to a hospital. They ask questions there. Too many questions. He hissed in pain, fingers slipping over the smooth, wet surface, making the job ten times harder than what it already was.

Fear and pain overwhelmed his senses to the point where he couldn't even hear the squeaks of the wooden planks that normally annoyed him to no end. He only noticed that someone was in the small room with him when a pair of tiny pale feet stopped right infront of him.

"Stay back baby, there's glass on the floor." He let his hand fall down, the stubborn shard finally dislodged from his forehead, "Go back to your room, I'm okay." The obvious lie slipped through his blooded lips like smooth butter, if there was something Theodore excelled exceptionally at, it was lying with confidence so great that you would believe him over your very own eyes.

"Why don't you stop him?" Fran asked meekly, shoulders tense and lips pouty, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his favourite shirt violently enough to tear the delicate embroidery his dad had spend countless hours on.

Theodore lifted his head, his tired eyes taking in the heart wrenching sight of the boy he grew to call his son. Fran's whole body was trembling, his small fingers red and bruised from unconsciously fighting with the thread, his nose was swollen, the skin around his eyes was puffy. It was clear as day that the little boy had been crying for a while now.... probably since the fight started.

"Franny," Theo started softly, "I'm alright now. It's over, okay? Just go to your room, I'll follow you in a bit. Promise."

But the little vampire didn't budge, his cold feet planted firmly on the floor, lips forming a thin line accompanied by a deep frown barely hidden by loose white curls. Theodore sighed, he wanted so badly to hold his son's hands and carry him back to his room like he did every night before, but he was scared if he'd moved even an inch more he'd tear his shirt even further, revealing more bruises and cuts, subsequently traumatizing the boy more. So he stayed put.

"Why don't you stop him?" Fran repeated.

"Baby you know I-"

"WHY DON'T YOU STOP HIM?!"

The abrupt outburst took Theodore by surprise, making him flinch back on the bed. His wide blue eyes were chaotic as they searched the smaller one's face for any ounce of sympathy. It was silly, really, to be looking for such emotions in a clearly overwhelmed and traumatized kid, but Theo couldn't help himself, couldn't help the fear that was eating away at him, one angry word at a time.

"I know you can, Teddy. You used to stand up to daddy! And he was a VAMPIRE!" Fran said with a bit of pride in his voice, "You know what? I think we should go back to living with him! Maybe Elliot is waiting for us there! And the-"

"Elliot left. He isn't waiting for us anywhere, he doesn't want us anymore." Theodore shrunk back to himself when he noticed the amount of venom in his voice, "Besides Franny, you know I'll never let him hurt you. I'll never let anyone hurt you." He tried giving the most reassuring smile he could muster with the dull ache in his bruised cheeks.

Fran was silent for a long, dreadful second before hot tears raced down his face, "You can't even protect yourself..."

That sentence was like a punch to the gut. He never thought about the consequences that their constant fighting had on his son. He thought, no, he made himself believe that as long as Fran was in no immediate physical danger, everything was okay. It almost frightened him just how much he was willing to ignore and sweep under the rug just to let himself feel like a good father.

"I don't feel safe here... I'm scared." Fran sniffled, "I'm scared that one day I'll wake up and-and find you dead!" It was getting harder for the little vampire to speak as the tears kept flowing, "Or.. or  that you would... would just leave me here like Elliot did... or.. or yo-" violent sobs wrecked his body, forbidding him from finishing his sentence.

Theodore was lost. He promised Rouge and Elliot.. fuck those two, he promised himself that he would give Fran the best life possible, and yet here he is... shaking and wailing helplessly... He needed to do something, and he needed to do it fast. But what? What could he do?

What would dad have done? Dad wouldn't let himself be in this fucking situation. But if he was ... what would he have done?? Theodore's hands were now shaking uncontrollably as he tried to think of an answer. He would've pulled me close. Held me tight in his arms and told me that he'll keep me safe no matter what. That everything will be okay. Yes. Yes... that's what he would've done.

And so he reached forward, taking the now bloodied tiny hands in his and pulling Fran into his arms, holding the sobbing boy as tight as he could.

But the truth is. What his father would've done is vastly different that what Theodore should've done. Because in that moment of pure loss and desperation, he forgot one crucial detail... Fran can't handle being touched. Especially not being hugged.

Fran yanked himself backwards with powers unnatural to him, his body was sent flying until he hit the floor with a loud thud that almost made Theodore's heart stop, but to the boy, anything was better then being held like that.

"Franny... I'm so sorry... I forgo-" Before he could finish his sentence, the vampire was on his feet and running out the room. His loud footsteps quickly fading into nothingness before the deafening slam of a door shook the old house to it's core.

Theodore let himself fall back on the bed, sending small dust particles flying all over him and irritating his allergies. He quickly placed a hand over his nose to stop himself from inhaling any of that dust, he can't afford having his brains ooze out his wounds if he sneezed.

His eyes closed before he could decide otherwise. It's okay... it will be okay.. he'd probably gone to bed now, I should do that too. Tomorrow will be different, it will be better, I'll make some scrambled eggs and bacon.. wait no, Fran is a vegetarian you idiot, he doesn't eat that shit!... fuck. I can make uh... grilled cheese sandwiches.. yeah he'll surely like that....

But deep down Theodore knew that he isn't a kid that can go to bed when he is tired or in pain anymore, he is an adult now, with a kid of his own and all the responsibilities that come with it..

The obnoxious sound of the sports channel blaring from the living room and the rhythmic pouring of rain on the window along with phantom barking of a distant dog were like a hammer smashing into Theodore's head over and over again. Every little sound was cranked up to a hundred, even his own heartbeating was agonizing.

He forced his body to sit back up, becoming face to face with the long mirror nailed to the wall which seemed to be closing in on him. Theodore instinctively pushed himself backwards until his back hit the cold wall as the room began fold in on itself until the mirror was nearly touching his feet. He wrapped his arms around his body in an attempt to ground himself as his claustrophobia kicked in and his breathing quickened to a painful degree.

He forced his eyes shut, trying to focus on anything but the walls that were now touching every inch of him. And his thoughts drifted back to the only place they could... Is it possible Franny is scared like this now? He feels unsafe.. he said that himself.. I can't just leave him alone in his room until the next sunset... that's not what dad would've done.. that's..that's what mom did... leave me alone and ignore me when I needed her most then pretend nothing happened the next day... that's what I was going to do...

The thought made his eyes shoot open only to be faced with her image in the mirror, blue eyes staring down at him with familiar disappointment. His blood boiled. He is becoming her! Repeating the cycle of neglectful abuse and torment until noone survives. In a moment of blind rage he balled his fist and swiftly moved to shatter the mirror and all the pain it was causing, but he found himself slammed to the floor, bloody knuckles causing a dent in it... it seems as tho the wall was still as far away as it always had been.

He stayed there for a moment, tears pouring down unapologetically as he tried to compose himself. He soon found enough willpower to stand up, but before he could take a step forward, sharp pain shot up straight to his head, forcing him to grab onto the nearest wall for balance.

Once the pain dulled down enough for him to be able to open his eyes, he looked down at the apparent source, only to see that his right ankle had doubled in size, blue and swollen as if there was a tennis ball underneath the skin. He rested the back of his head on the window, feeling the cold droplets of rain leaking through and falling on his cheeks.

He sighed, he would heal, he always did. But it would take time, and unlike Silas, this fucker never cared for him after beating him up. Theodore chuckled to himself, never in a million years did he think he would use Silas as a positive example for anything, goes to show just how low his life had sunk.

Nevertheless, he needs to persist, not for himself but for the little vampire that depended on him.

He thought about taking a quick shower to wash off all the blood, but something told him not to, to just check on Fran as soon as possible, and Theodore's gut feeling had never failed him before, so he always followed it, even if he knew that his son was safe in his bed, wrapped in a fluffy blanket that Theo had spent all his money on. He smiled, remembering how Franny's eyes twinkled when he first saw the bee pattern on it. Oh how he wishes he would see him this happy every second of every day.

Still smiling, he managed to take off the ripped shirt without aggravating his injuries too much. He held the black tee in his hands, staring at the bright neon pink "Angel♡" written on it in a metal font with the white signature of the singer along the neck.

He got this shirt 2 years back when he went to the live performance, Angel wasn't even the main performer back then, they were merely the opening act. Given how small they were, they didn't have a signing booth, it was actually pure luck that Theodore managed to meet them outside while they were waiting for a taxi.

And he thought that Rouge was tall! Angel was at least eight feet, to the point where he felt like a little cat after cranking his neck up so high just to be able to see their face, and what a truly terrifying face it was! Almost nightmarish with their black bug eyes and their long pointy teeth! But they were nice, maybe a bit blunt and lacking a social filter, but after being with Fran for a while, Theodore got used to unwanted comments... wait.. Fran... now THAT is what he was here to do!

He immediately put his favourite shirt down on a nearby wooden chair, promising to fix the rip the moment he can carry something as delicate as a needle without his hands shaking and dropping it, he threw on an oversized sweater that used to belong to Elliot, a pair of ghost patterned pyjama pants and made his way to the corridor.

Theodore was still grabbing onto the walls as he limbed his way to the door covered in stickers, it was slightly ajar which was strange considering that Fran had slammed it, but with how rusted the hinges are, anything is possible. He slowly pushed the door open, peering into the dark room, noticing how the moonlight softly illuminated the blanket-covered lump on the bed.

He should be happy? Maybe relieved? But instead, all he could feel is the bile rising to his throat, and he just couldn't tell why, perhaps he was just anxious about the impending talk. Yes. It must be that.

Theodore slowly stepped toward the small bed, feeling the mattress sink under his weight as he sat on it. "Hey Franny..." no answer, "It's me Teddy," again, nothing. He sighed, rubbing his hand over his aching neck, "listen I came here to apologise, and I... are you asleep??" He pulled down the blanket only to see that it was only a group of plushies in the vague shape of a kid.

Adrenaline shot through his body making him forget all about his pain and injuries as he quickly opened the closet, looked under the bed, tore the covers from the bed. Yet.... Fran is nowhere to be seen.

"FRAN!" Theodore yelled at the top of his lungs, "FRAAAANN!" He stood aimlessly in the little room filled with the missing boy's trinkets and drawings, his breath so fast he could hear it as he impatiently waited for an answer, "Baby where are you?!"

He could feel the little plushies staring at him, knowing where his baby is but not telling him, they don't want Fran to go back to being with such a horrible father. Theodore grabbed his son's favourite one, a large fluffy bee he had won for him during a passing carnival. He forcefully held it, his fingers smearing the blood all over the bright yellow as he shook it back and forth in the air.

"Where is he goddamn it! Where is he?" He screamed over and over again at the defenseless bee.

To anyone passing by, this seems like complete and utter madness, a father interrogating a stuffed animal instead of searching the whole house for his missing son? But to Theodore in the moment, it made sense. These plushies were the closest to the little vampire, they know his secrets and feelings more than Theo ever apparently did. So it must be obvious that they would be the ones knowing where his precious baby would be.

"I know you know! So just tell me!" His voice broke as a pained sob took over him, making him hold onto the door handle as his knees seemed to buckle under him. "I'll make it better... I swear.."

"He went out you crazy bitch!" The familiar gruff voice came from the living room, it was naturally loud enough to drown out everything else, even the news channel. Or perhaps that was just Theodore's mind only focusing on what matters to him, whichever case it was, he heard it loud and clear.

"What?" He whispered, soft and almost silent; like a deer caught in headlights, he couldn't move a single muscle in his body. He was painfully aware of this, too; the fact that he is just. Sitting. There. Like a useless piece of shit. His brain screamed at him to 'MOVE IT YOU FUCKER! MOVE!' But his body was almost paralyzed, unable to do anything, not even blink.

It may have taken mere seconds to get up and be in the living room, but it felt like years. Years of him being useless and worthless.

He ran down the short corridor.

He ran.

And ran.

And ran.

And with every step, the corridor seemed to stretch further and further, the end feeling more like a mirage as countless doors strung on the walls. Screams were erupting from behind them, defeaning and terrifying. A minute of thinking would've made him recognize the voice as Fran's, and this was one of the many instances where he regretted ever doing that. Theodore shut his eyes, covering his ears with his hands and just ran forward like a fish in the deep dark ocean where the sun can't reach.

"What do you mean?" His voice was erratic when he finally made it to the living room, gripping the worn down sofa that his "boyfriend" was sitting calmly on, as if a kid isn't out in the dark and rain all on his own.

"He's just breathing some air after all that shit you caused!" The man turned to look at him, "You think I didn't hear all that? Well news flash baby, I have ears."

His absolute nonchalance about the whole thing was irritating Theodore to no end, and Theodore wore his emotions on his sleeves. His eyes darkened dangerously as he almost felt himself growl, but he had to control himself as that would definitely get him another beer bottle to the head.

The man chuckled softly, putting his large hand on top of Theodore's much tinier one, "You're too worried about him, Francis is-"

"Fran." He corrected in a low, deep voice.

"Whatever, same thing. Point is, he is a little man now! If he wants to go out and calm his nerves after you wrecked them, then let him!" He smiled, trying to pull the shorter man towards him, but he didn't budge. "Listen baby, you need to give him some time to work out his emotions, stop getting in his business you little helicopter!"

The man pulled again, this time successfully getting the half dissociated Theodore around the sofa and onto his lap. When he said it like that.... it almost made sense. Fran isn't eight and he really was hurt by all that Theo had done tonight and most nights before that, he does need some time to process all that. Or maybe that was just his way of feeling less guilty, believing that this is just a natural reaction rather than face the fact that his son's terrible immune system won't handle the cold and rain.

"That's right baby," the man held Theodore close, and like a moth to flame he leaned into it, craving any sort of affection and sympathy, "calm down now," his rough hands gently petted Theo's curls which were now matted with a mixture of blood, bear and sweat, "it's all okay," He moved his hand down, moving over Theodore's back in slow and rhythmic circles. "Daddy's here," testing his luck, the man moved his hand further down and gripped Theodore's buttocks firmly.

This sent reality crushing down on the poor man, this isn't okay. Nothing about a frail and sickly eleven year old kid being alone outside in the raining night in a place surrounded with dangerous wildlife is okay. No matter how hard he wants to shake the guilt off. How hard he wants to lean into this rare moment of gentleness. He can't. Not when his son is all alone. Not in a million years.

Theodore placed his hands on his boyfriend's large chest and pushed himself off his lap, getting to his feet as quickly as he can without losing his balance and running to the door as if he is a prisoner that just found the keys.

"Well fuck you too slut! I never wanted your trashy ass anyway! Go get eaten by wolves! You and your annoying ass kid!"

But Theodore had already made it outside and started the long process of running around aimlessly and yelling Fran's name at the top of his lungs. After thoroughly running through the front yard, he took a deep freezing breath and made his way into the surrounding woods where the fading moonlight didn't reach.

He quickly lit up the lighter, the rain putting out the flame before he could do anything, so he bent down, wrapping his body around it like a deer would to her fawn, and tried lighting it up again. The small flame persisted long enough for it to turn blue and be transferred onto Theodore's palm.

He extended the demonic flame infront of his face, making his eyes twinkle with otherworldly lights, he was hoping that animals would find it's strange color intimidating rather than inviting, and that Fran would recognize it as his and find him. Clearly too much faith in a silly little flame, even if it is magical in nature.

Theodore's feet got sliced and bruised by the rocks and thorns on the ground, but nevertheless he persisted, his dark fingers gripping the ancient trunks for dear life, not caring about the skin being scratched and peeled off if them.

He opened his mouth to yell for his boy, "Fraaan.." he coughed, hoping that his voice would come back, "Fra.... fuck me." His voice was gone, almost completely after the endless screaming and yelling he did this night, both while searching for Fran and the big fuckin fight that had happened before.

With no voice to speak of, Theodore felt... weak. He couldn't yell for Fran and the hope that the boy would see the flame on his own and follow it is... statistically very low. He was defeated. He failed himself, his father, Fran... everyone that can be failed.

He made his way out of the forest, he had already searched the surrounding area on foot. He had the small tiny twinkle of hope that Fran had made his way back home alone, that he really was just breathing some air. That he is now safe and cuddled underneath the blanket. Safe. And sound.

Theodore stood infront of the closed door. Body shaking from the cold rain and pain, he stood there for a while, just letting the tears silently fall down, not daring to go inside and face the truth.

"Teddy?" A small familiar voice echoed in his head, making him smile a little. He had been first given that nickname by his mom, but now that Franny used to call him that, it no longer feels... humiliating. It feels warm and comfortable, it feels like a purpose and having someone that depends on you and trusts you.

"Teddy!" The small voice came again, this time angrier, like a tiny kitten's hiss.

Is it possible that this.. isn't in Theodore's head? That Fran was actually yelling for him?

He tore his eyes away from the door and looked around, and sure enough, he easily spotted the head of white fluffy hair struggling to get out of under his boyfriend's car.

Theodore rushed to help his son get out without being scratched or injured, he held the boy's tiny hands and pulled slowly, stopping to fluff down his shirt to make the sliding easier. Once his bottom was out, his short legs were an easy task.

"Thank gawd! I thought I was gonna be stuck under there forever! Or that that bastard was gonna drive tomorrow and I'll become tomato paste!" The little boy was flailing his arms around as he spoke, finally settling for a dramatic break as while saying "tomato paste!"

He tried keeping himself composed, he really did, slowly stroked his son's curls, but quickly enough Theodore crumbled. Exhaustion, pain and all that worry that he was barely holding, finally broke him. He hid his face behind his hands as he cried uncontrollably. His drenched shoulders shaking with each painful sob.

"Teddy?" Fran asked worriedly, his soft voice kept quiet as if Theodore was a rabbit that he didn't want to scare off. "Why are you crying?"

It might seem like a stupid question given the circumstances, and if it was anyone else, Theodore would've given them the deathglare. But he knew that Franny genuinely couldn't understand the consequences of actions, wether they were his own or others. So he simply sniffled and smiled as bright as he could, resuming to fluff up his baby's hair.

Fran's face scrunched up as if he had tasted a lemon, his soft features all grouping in the middle of his face. But he didn't mind this, not really, he just found it fun to do this face because he doesn't get to often. And Theodore knows this, they spoke about this before... before this..  him.

"I wanna sleeeeeeeeeeep." Fran whined while pouting, earning him an honest chuckle from his dad.

Theodore opened his arms as his son jumped up, landing perfectly on his waiting shoulder. Fran swung his feet, accidentally hitting his father's chest a few times, not too many times tho as he was doing his absolute best to avoid it. But that swinging was making it harder for Theo to safely stand up, but he made do and made his way back indoors carrying his son like a sack of potatoes, which is the only way Franny likes to be held.

Deep in his mind, Theodore knew that this won't be the end of this abusive relationship, he was too dependent, too afraid of being abandoned and left alone to leave. But the cracks were only becoming more and more prominent, and hell was knocking on their door.

[symphonic-scream]

Making a series of smaller posts focused on the little smaller groups in the digimon au so I can add photos and shit so here's

Digimon au Group 1: Alix, Kim, Max

Alix's mom went missing while working on a project with Max's mom, and Alix wants to find her again. Max agrees to help her search through his mother's records for clues while they're helping Kim study and reopen the portal to the Digimon world and get sucked in

They wake up in the Digital World, coming to in a large forest area. Alix comes to first, then shakes the two boys awake, in awe that she was right, she knew their moms succeeded, her mom is out there somewhere!

Max is, less ecstatic, and more panicked. I mean, he's totally valid in this, he's somewhere strange and apparently inside a computer? Yeah I'd flip too. He reaches for his phone to call his mom only to find that in the place of his phone is something that looks very similar. The back of Max's is Dark purple and in the centre is a black marking that appears on his hand in that purple colour when the screen flashes to life

Alix and Kim go to pull out their own phones and find similar devices, Kim's a maroon colour and Alix's dark green. The screen on theirs glow white too, and the symbols on the back appear on their hands too

The light fades and boom, standing in front of them are their partner digimon. Digimon have different stages of evolution and unlike Pokemon, evolution isn't permanent, allowing digimon to move between stages when necessary. I'm using the kinda general six-stage system from Adventure for now, those stages (in order) being Baby, Training, Rookie, Champion, Ultimate, and Mega. When they first meet, their digimon are in the Training stage

Alix got Hopmon

Max got Pagumon

And Kim got Xiaomon

They freak out of course, and the digimon tell them that they're partners, connected through the digivices they hold, and they've been chosen to help, though they don't know what they're supposed to help with

Alix thinks it has to do with her mom and decides that they need to set off in order to find her. Max thinks they should stay there and wait for help, but that option is scratched off when they get attacked by some bigger digimon

Their partners attempt to fight off the bigger one, and the screens glow again as they digivolve to their Rookie stages,

Monodramon for Alix

Gotsumon for Max

And Labramon for Kim

They still can't beat it and run off to find somewhere to hide. Once the coast is clear they agree to set off in search of clues about Alix's mom, and will eventually run into the other kids with their partners

Alix's "crest" is Justice, her personal arc being about upholding a just code even when doing so would cost her the thing she desires most

Max's, Wisdom, counteracts his belief that knowledge is power. He knows many things and holds that as a point of pride for himself, but in situations of peril when his friends turn to him, he struggles to come up with a solution. He works towards accepting that he won't always know what to do and that sometimes the wisest thing to do is to ask for help

Kim, wielding Optimism, tries to keep his friends from spiraling into a dark place by making it his sole focus, neglecting his own inner feelings of darkness and doom in favour of keeping his friends safe. Too much optimism is naivety and too little turns into a warped realism, and he's gotta find that balance

Some little design tweaks

Alix in a black sleeveless hoodie I'm thinking, with green accents. Black shorts with those like, I forget what they're called but like the sports leggings under? Those with the tattoo design that older Alix has. Black, pink, and green skate shoes, her hat maybe worn backwards when its on? And of course protagonist goggles, either worn up with the hat or around her neck. Hair starts out dyed pink but the longer they spend there the more her roots grow out dark brown

For Kim I'm thinking his standard red hoodie but he wears a jersey over it, probably his own. Black base with with and red outlines and lining? Then dark blue joggers, those pants that look like khakis but have the elastic at the bottom, and then red, white, and black sneakers. He probably has his headband and arm bands

And for Max, a dark green windbreaker type jacket with dark purple on the zipper and outlining the pockets, with a black turtleneck, and some walnut brown slacks. He's got a dark purple watch and his glasses, and dark grey casual shoes (kinda look like a mix of loafers and sneakers I guess)

--

Yeah I hate that I'm making this au a thing but it is and here's the first batch. Let's hope the media works right and the photos stay where they're supposed to, but yeah here are Digimon au Max, Kim, and Alix. I might make the next group I might not who knows I sure don't. Lemme know what you think

[mooswords]

Know him when you see him

Pairing: miya atsumu x reader

Word count: 1.5k

Tags: spy au, atsumu is attractive and he knows it

Ramblings: this was meant to be a short piece to practice writing metaphores and then somehow it ended up a full fic? and i lowkey love it? oops

---

They don’t realize how much of an art it is - concealing the everything of what you are and becoming something, someone completely new. 

You can paint over an image a hundred times, but the original will always poke through. Somehow, somewhere, if you don’t handle yourself with care, chips of vermillion and kohl will fall away to reveal the canvas underneath. 

And the only way to stop your carefully crafted picture from fading is to add more layers, so you thicken the colour of your accent, add an extra layer of velvet under your words, spread a bright shade of allure onto your lips. Because to walk into the White Eagle anything less than a perfectly crafted masterpiece is asking for trouble.

Not to say you weren’t looking for a specific kind of trouble tonight.

(“Oh, you’ll know him when you see him,” Osamu said, lazy eyes glinting with amusement. You had turned to eye Kita, questioning if you really had to take vague orders from the cook of all people.

He has the decency to look apologetic. “Standard protocol for contacting deep cover agents. You know we can’t give you a specific description.”)

The bar is hazy; lavish and warm, the very picture of elegance. Sharply dressed people duck into curtained alcoves, ice clinks in nursed drinks. The woman in the corner of the room curls around a microphone, her low crooning innocently covering the casual threats slipped between wisps of smoke. Someday you'll come back for the blood money being exchanged under the table, but tonight you start your search where every good mission starts. 

The ashy haired bartender leans across the bar towards you, resting casually on his elbows. “What’s your poison, sweetheart?”

“Hmmm...” You tuck a carefully manicured hand under your chin. “Something sweet tonight, I think.”

It’s strange, watching this lethal man pour your drink with such delicate care. Idly, you wonder if his work with a sniper rifle is just as captivating. There is a hint of flair in his fluid movements that is entrancing, a performance you can well appreciate. Your own art is similar, a careful dance between too many bold strokes and too little detail - adding enough colour to leave an impression, to draw the eye, but never letting yourself come too sharply into focus. 

When he sets the glass on the bar, you create a tantalizing moment of brushing fingers, dusting rose pink over your cheeks. He grins across at you, and you swivel on the stool before he gets too close.

Quietly, you survey the gallery of men laid before you. There’s a solemn man in the corner, his dark quietness offset by the bright splash next to him who lounges with feet propped on a lacquered table; a quiet, dispassionate-looking boy with a fresh scar tearing through his face and hair hanging over his eyes. All eye-catching for sure, but they don’t quite fit the description. And the-

Your eyes meet across the smoky room and oh, this is what they meant by you’ll know him when you see him. You had expected trouble. You hadn’t prepared for bleach-blond hair and a lazy, all too familiar glint in all too familiar eyes.

He meanders over, brazenly eyeing you up and down. You entered tonight with a full coat of armour, but you can feel his raking gaze stripping the paint back, layer by layer.

A hand is presented to you. Arching an eyebrow, all you offer him in return is an amused look.

“C’mon.” His grin is roguish. “What’s the point of lookin’ that good if you can’t be shown off?”

(The true masters know how to blur the line between realism and fantasy; you wonder how many layers deep he had to thicken that smile to make it bleed such confidence. You wonder if he even remembers what his canvas looks like, untouched by false colour.)

“And what makes you think you’re the right person to do so?” You ask coyly, even as you slip your hand into his.

He winks. “Takes one to know one, sweetheart.”

The dance floor is empty as you sculpt yourself against him, following the line of his shoulder a shade tighter than you may have otherwise. Draping an arm around his shoulders, you sweep a soft exhale across the juncture of his neck; just to see what he’ll do. 

The arm on your waist tightens, and you smother your smile into his chest.

“Careful, doll. I might think you’re only here for my good looks.” 

“Perhaps I am.” Carefully, you lay the first stroke of ink that only he should recognise. “Though, I have to admit - I’m not sure about the blonde.”

“What you got against my hair, huh?”

“Not really your colour,” you tell him, streaking a dusky look up at him through your lashes. “Dye your hair grey and maybe we can talk.” 

He returns the look, a hint of reproach and his own shade of intelligence mixed in. “Ahh, and here I was thinking you were a woman of taste.”

“Now, correct me if I’m wrong,” you ask in mock-reproach, tapping a finger against his shoulder, “but it's the other one that knows about taste, right?” 

You both take a moment to inspect the recognition, checking the authenticity of the piece before you. There’s mutual acknowledgement in the press of your cheek against his dark suit, in the squeeze of his hand around yours as he dips his head next to yours.

Enamoured as you are by the graze of lips against your ear, you almost miss the first number he murmurs. But you are a professional, so you brush black over the sensation and print the digits into your memory. If you were to hazard a guess, they’re probably coordinates and a time, but Kita never specified and you never asked. 

Really, you’re more intrigued by the man in front of you. He’s a mess of clashing colours seamlessly blended into a living sculpture of sly charm and sharp eyes. A different breed to the Shiratorizawa strength to be sure, but he weaves his contrast in among them like his organic nature has always matched with their regimented style. 

And then, cold against your back, the barrel of a gun. 

“Turn around. Slowly,” the measured voice behind you instructs.

His eyes are wiped spotless in a heartbeat, a perfectly depicted image of shock. A little too perfect if you were going to be critical, but you have a feeling that’s his style - perfection that demands to be admired.

His eyes duck down, barely a flicker, and you almost laugh. It’s cute that he thinks you needed a hint to where his gun is, like you didn’t know the moment you laid hands on him.

All it takes is one clean movement to rip away your carefully crafted layers of guile. You sweep the gun from inside his jacket and whirl around with it pressed to his head. He stiffens against you, and you wonder if he really is surprised this time or just playing the part.

“No-one move,” you tell the room cooly.

“What makes you think he can get you out of here alive?” Mr dark-and-quiet asks.

“Well, you haven’t shot me yet,” you drawl, beginning to back away towards the door with him still pressed into your arms. “So I’m just gonna assume he isn’t disposable.”

You leave a trail of narrowed eyes and pressed lips in your wake. The red head looks especially antsy, you note with a touch of satisfaction, though at this point it doesn't seem like you're going to live to tell the tale. 

You are all too aware that your control of the room is fraying at the edges, unravelling with every move you make in their sights. There is a certain thrill that comes in these moments, in finding a way to twist the loose ends back into an advantage, but-

A bullet zips past your cheek. 

-rope burn is always an occupational hazard.

The room shatters, and you dive out the door with a snap of silk skirts. He is right there by you, pulling you up by the elbow as the night explodes with revving cars and blinding sparks that skitter across black tar.

You can't find it in yourself to be too disappointed. You may be a master of your performance, a flawlessly choreographed ballet, but you can't deny that improvising is so much more fun. The addition of him - cut from the same cloth as you were, the same medium just in a different colour - only expands your canvas of possibilities. 

"What’s the plan?” he calls, nothing more than a blur in your periphery as you streak along the street. His gold frame may be gone, unnecessary now the audience refuses to be blinded by his glitter, but you admire how he still moves in the same perfect lines.

“Don’t know yet," you yell back. He scoffs, and you flick him a grin drenched in adrenaline. 

"Don't worry, sweetheart" you tell him, watching your glee splatter against his unconvinced look. "I’ll know it when I see it."

[krisdreaming]

MASTERLIST | PART 2

˗`ˏ THIS IS PART 1 - READER POV ˎˊ˗

Pairing: Iwaizumi Hajime x Fem!Reader

Summary:  After the accident, you’re willing to give up anything so that Hajime can live. All things considered, your memories of him in exchange for his life seems like more than a fair trade. When it’s done, neither of you understands what’s happened, and it leaves you both hurting. Still, even without your memories, you can’t help but feel drawn to him. He still loves you more than anything. Your love will find a way… right?

WC: 1.6k

Warnings: Angst, Hospitals, Mentions of Character Injury / Death

A/N: I’m so excited to start this journey! This part is the only one that has any kind of supernatural / magical realism elements. It kinda just made the most sense to me as the vehicle for the entire rest of the plot so just... bear with me 😅 After this chapter, it’s all just normal canon-verse. 

Without further ado!!

The golden late-afternoon sunlight pours through the lone window in the hospital room and pools on the floor, not quite reaching the bed where Hajime is lying. The contrasting stringent white hospital lighting does nothing to improve his wan complexion. His cracked lips are turned slightly downward, and you wonder, with a sharp twinge in your chest, if even in this state, he can feel pain.

“I’m here, Hajime,” You say for what must be the hundredth time, reaching out again for his limp hand. The doctors have said that talking to him may help to comfort him, but you wonder if he can even recognize your voice. Even to you, it sounds small and foreign, hoarse from who knows how many hours of tears. The only response is the steady beeps and hums of the machines keeping him alive. You give his hand a gentle squeeze.

It’s been a week of this, now. A week since you got the call and rushed to the hospital as fast as you could. A week since you saw him lying too-still in that bed, a swath of bandages and a tangle of wires making his body look so, so small and helpless. A week since you sank to your knees the moment the doctor had left the room, clutching Hajime’s hand to your face until his skin was slick with your tears, only realizing afterwards that the strange, gasping sounds you’d been hearing had been coming from you all along.

You’ve spent every day here since. You’ve hardly eaten. What little sleep you can get is plagued by nightmares that wake you up in a cold sweat, reaching out desperately for a warm body that isn’t there. All that you know is this room, this chair, this bed, and the shallow rise and fall of Hajime’s chest.

A breath shudders out of you when you’re reminded, again, of what the doctor had said when you’d arrived this morning. “Y/N-san, the improvements we’ve been hoping to see haven’t been coming at the rate we’d expect. As it is now, the reality is that he may never wake up. The severity of the damage is becoming clearer as we continue with our testing. As difficult as this is to say, it may be the time to start preparing to say goodbye.”

You squeeze your free hand into a tight fist, feeling your nails dig into your palm. You run the thumb of the hand holding his gently across the backs of his fingers. “You know,” You begin, haltingly, trying to keep your voice as clear and normal-sounding as possible, “When this is all over, I’m going to make us a big picnic. I’ll make those onigiri you like so much, the ones with the pickled plum inside. You can eat as many as you want. I promise I won’t yell at you,” You pause to swallow back the thick feeling in your throat, “And we can have whatever else you want. Just say the word, and I’ll buy it. It’ll be the meal you’d never let any of your athletes eat in a million years,” You laugh softly.

“And by the time we’re done eating, well, the sun will probably be almost set. We can just lay back on the blanket and watch the stars come out, like we did that night last summer.” You pause, looking at him almost as though you expect him to answer, or at least nod. His expression doesn’t change.

“We can plan some more for the wedding. It’s going to be here in no time at all, you know,” Your thumb goes to the ring on your finger, twisting it back and forth in what’s become a familiar motion. “I know you don’t like the planning much, but we have to get it done.” You fall silent for a few moments, not wanting him to hear the way your voice has started to waver.

“Or maybe you’d rather just plan for the honeymoon,” You finally pick back up again, “We need to decide soon where we want to go. Hotels and plane tickets sell out fast, you know. What would be really fun is if we could visit Tooru in Argentina. I know you think it’s too far, but honestly, when else would we ever have the chance?

“We don’t have to spend the whole time with him, of course,” Your voice drops lower, “We’d want some time to ourselves. I hear the beaches there are nice. Or we could find a really nice hotel with a Jacuzzi and fancy room service.”

It might be your imagination, but the expression on his face seems just a little bit softer. It’s not a smile, but his lips aren’t turned down quite as hard as they had been, so you take it as a sign that you should keep going. “Of course, you know that I don’t really care where we go. We could spend the whole week in a hotel on the other side of Tokyo and you wouldn’t hear me complain.” You can practically see his incredulous smirk at that, and you choke out an almost-convincing laugh. “Well, you know what I mean.” You fall silent again, still tracing your thumb against his fingers, lost in your thoughts now.

All the while you’d been talking, you hadn’t notice the slowing of the heart monitor. His breaths are coming slower too, the rising of his chest barely noticeable anymore. Outside, twilight has fallen, and there’s no longer any natural light coming in through the window. You notice all of this at once, but you suddenly feel so sluggish that you can’t bring yourself to move, much less press the call button for one of the nurses. Even as the beeps fade to a single, steady whine, you feel frozen in your seat, his hand still in yours. There’s an eerie sense of calm descending over you.

When the whine stops, it seems to shake you out of whatever stupor you’re in. Blinking, you look around and find that the two of you are no longer alone in the room. In the corner farthest from the door, a human-like figure stands shrouded in the faintest yellow glow, like the last remnants of the sunset outside. It has the face of an elderly man, but there is something decidedly un-human in the way it carries itself.

“Hello, Y/N,” The figure’s mouth moves, but it’s almost as though its words are projected directly into your mind rather than spoken into the room. There’s a tingling quality to them, almost like an electrical shock, but not something altogether unpleasant.

You dig the heels of your hands into your eyes, thinking that the lack of sleep must be affecting you more than you realize. When you finally lower your hands, the figure hasn’t moved. “Are you… Death?” You aren’t unaware of how preposterous the question sounds. You grip Hajime’s hand tighter, and the figure seems to smile.

“Hardly. The concept of death itself as an entity is little more than a construct of the human imagination.” There’s a pause and a sound you could almost consider a chuckle, then it continues. “More accurately, I suppose you could call me Life.” It looks at Hajime’s still body almost mournfully. You aren’t sure how much time passes, or if any has passed at all.

“This life is very precious to you. Yes?” Its attention is back on you now.

“More than anything,” You breathe out, “I – I love him. We’re getting married.” You hold out your hand so that the being can see the ring on your finger. As if it would care. For some reason, it does lean forward and inspect the ring carefully.

“Hm. These kinds of things… they aren’t so cut and dry, you know.” Assuming at this point that you must be dreaming, you nod dumbly, even though you don’t really know at all. “Still, all hope is not lost. With the right material, a repair could be made.”

“A repair?” You parrot back, feeling your heart catch in your chest. Is it even beating right now?

“It will require something made up of the same stuff as the existing soul. Something strong and plentiful. Do you understand?” Your brow furrows, and you shake your head. Dream or not, you can’t even pretend to know what this being is trying to say.

“Your memories,” It says gently, as though explaining something simple to a small child. “If I could use all of your memories of him, I can save his life.” It watches you intently for a few moments, but you feel frozen in place, trying to comprehend what it’s asking of you. “I would understand if you decline. Others have.”

“So he will live?” It nods. “But I won’t remember him. Not even a little.”

“Not one memory can be spared,” It confirms. “It’s the only way.”

“Will I fall in love with him again? Will he – will he stay with me?”

The being gives an almost imperceptible shrug. “It can’t be known. Your future – that’s something you will have to work out on your own. The only thing I can promise you is that his life will be spared.”

You’re already nodding. “Then I’ll do it. We’ll find a way to be together. He won’t give up on me.” The being’s lips twitch briefly, but it nods.

“If you’re certain,” It’s already reaching toward you, fingertips hovering near your forehead.

“I am.” You screw your eyes shut, clutching onto Hajime’s hand tightly with both hands. “Do it,” You prompt, when you don’t feel the being move. And just like that, you’re awash in a sea of light and warmth for a few blissful moments before being plunged into a deep nothingness.

Taglist ; Send an ask or PM to be added! 

@pretty-setters​, @pink-panda-pancakes​, @usernamekate94​, @kellyyween​, @deerixiie​, @amzoeee​, @mididoodles​, @ntngann​, @kiiroyah

If your url is written without you actually being tagged, it means tumblr was giving me issues tagging you, but I’ll definitely try again next time!

[carriagelamp]

Book Review - Summer Summary 2020

I didn’t get around to doing an individual post for the books I read in June/July/August, so I decided to choose a dozen that I read over the summer... I’d separate the wheat from the chaff for you so to speak. Though like you’re about to find out, that doesn’t necessarily mean they were all good by any means...

Crave

My girlfriend got this for me to “tide me over until Midnight Sun”. Between you and me, I think she was taking the piss. Anyway, Crave is very... standard fare paranormal YA school romance with the added flare of being written by an adult erotica writer, meaning the rhythm and tone of this novel is fucking bonkers. If you want to read the novel without reading the novel, just take Twilight and the entire Vampire Academy series, shove them in a blend, and force down the sludge you get from that. Normal Average Girl Goes To Secret School In Alaska For Vampire, Werewolves and Dragons. That’s this book. It is so big and so so so bad. I finished it out of spite, please don’t do that to yourself. Unless you are really craving (hurr hurr) some top tier trashy paranormal romance, in which case... no judgment.

The Last Firehawk

The Last Firehawk is a Scholastic “Branches” series, written for beginning readers (grade 1-3ish, depending on the child’s reading level). It has short stories, big text, and awesome pictures on every page. Guys. I unironically am adoring this series. It’s simple and is introducing children to a number of classic elements in the fantasy quest genre, but it is so charming. Friends Tag and Skyla discover a firehawk egg, and species that is supposed to have disappeared long ago. When Blaze hatches from it, the three are tasked with going out and finding the magical ember stone which was hidden long ago by the firehawks and which could be used to defeat the evil vulture Thorn and his dark magic... I read the first two books to second graders who ate it up and read the next four books because I personally wanted to continue the series. If you have young readers in your life (or just want a fun kid adventure) then please try these they’re the literary equivalent of nibbling on a chocolate chip cookie.

Lupin III: World’s Most Wanted #3

All the kind people that still follow my tumblr and haven’t tried to murder me because of my Lupin obsession are not going to be surprised by this one. I finally read one of the manga for this series and honestly I’m delighted. Somehow even hornier than the show, but hilariously funny. I felt like I was reading a more adult version of Spy Vs Spy. It’s a bunch of short, individual bits/adventures with lots of visual gags and an artstyle that is really different and delightful.

River of Teeth / Taste of Marrow (American Hippo series)

I’ve talked about River of Teeth before, but I finally finished the American Hippo duology and need to sing its praise. This is an alternate history series composed of two novellas that explore the question What would have happened if the States had decided to import hippos as livestock...? Anyways, my pitch for you: queer hippo cowboys. That’s all it took for me to read it. You have a gay gunslinger who loves his hippo to death, a nonbinary explosives-expert / poisoner who is the main love interest, a fat con artist who spoils her hippo and is the only voice of reason in this entire series, and a latina mother-to-be who is the scariest assassin in the entire series and is obviously scheming. The four of them are brought together on a job to deal with the Mississippi’s feral hippo problem.

IT’S A QUEER HIPPO COWBOY HEIST NOVEL GUYS I DON’T KNOW WHY I’M STILL TALKING AND YOU HAVEN’T JUST GONE TO READ THIS YET.

Petals to the Metal (The Adventure Zone series)

The graphic novel adaptation to the McElroy family’s DND podcast The Adventure Zone. Most of you are probably aware of this? It’s a great adaptation, it hits all the important beats, shows off the characters really well, and still gets lots of good gags in even while condensing entire arcs into single book stories. This one is probably my favourite so far just because Petals to the Metal was one of my favourite arcs in the show... but you can also see how the art has improved and the chaos of the race is fun to see drawn out.

If you like The Adventure Zone but haven’t tried the graphic novels yet -- would recommend! If you’ve always wanted to listen to The Adventure Zone but don’t have time for such a long series or struggle to focus on podcasts then pick up the first book of this series (Here There Be Gerblins) and try reading it! It really is an enjoyable adaptation.

Pony to the Rescue (Pony Pals series)

I continued my April/May theme of reading old-school chapter book series to combat Covid Brain Fry, so I picked up a few Pony Pals books. I read these as a kid and always enjoy them -- there’s just something so appealing to a child about having a horse. It gives your child characters a level of independence and ability to explore that you wouldn’t get otherwise. These books definitely read young, but they were nostalgic to revisit.

Small Spaces

A really cool middle grade horror novel I picked up. Maybe it’s because I live around a lot of corn fields, but farm/scarecrow themed horror absolutely does it for me. One evening, after seeing a woman try to destroy a strange, old book, eleven year old Ollie doesn’t stop to think, instead stealing the book and running. That’s how she becomes wrapped up in the strange, sinister story of a cursed family and creature called the Smiling Man that seems to live out in the foggy fields. While unsettling, Ollie tries to remind herself that it’s just a story... but this becomes more challenging when her school bus breaks down one day out their own set of fields, and a fog is rolling in...

“Avoid large spaces. Stick to small.”

Snot Girl #1 - #2

A Canadian graphic novel series by the creator of the Scott Pilgrim series! I love his work so I decided to give Snotgirl a try, even though it’s not generally my genre. I’m glad I did! First book took a while for me to get into, but by the time I hit the second I was really wrapped up in the mystery and character development. Snotgirl is about Lottie, a self-consumed fashion blogger whose biggest struggles are dealing with her allergies, frustration with her fellow-blogger friends, and how entirely her self-esteem is tied to her “beauty” and how people view her. But everything shifts in strange and horrifying ways when Lottie starts taking a new allergy medication, meets a new friend... and then witnesses that girl’s death. Or does she?

Seriously, or does she? I have no idea, I need to read the third book. This book is full of intrigue, complicated relationships, murder (or not?), and a healthy dose of magical realism to keep you guessing. If you like slice-of-life, crime, and abstract reality then this series is world a try. Plus the art is gorgeous.

Summer Wars #1 - #2

I recently rewatched Summer Wars (still one of my favourite movies) and decided to read the two-book manga adaptation. It was a really neat little adaptation. The creator of the movie gave the writer free range to tweak things to fit better in a manga format, which means some movie elements were allowed to fade into the background, whereas other aspects were fulled into the forefront and fleshed out to a greater degree. It was very cool, it kept the same story but gave you new things to think about which I wasn’t expecting. Reading this as a stand alone works just fine, but honestly if you’ve never watched the movie Summer Wars you should give it a try! It’s a great mix of slice-of-life, sprawling family dynamics that I relate to a little too well, cyber adventures, and fantasy. Super feel good.

This One Summer

Okay, last graphic novel, I swear. This One Summer was... weird and intense. It’s a coming-of-age Canadian graphic novel that follows a pair of pre-teens who meet up like they do every year at their family’s summer cottages. You see them both in the awkward phases between childhood and growing up to become teenagers, as they’re confronted with things like maturity, friendship, self-esteem, family problems, and sexuality. A beautiful read, but probably the heaviest out of all the books on my list.

Wild Thornberrys Novelization

I rewatched The Wild Thornberrys movie with my girlfriend earlier this year, and decided I wanted to hunt down the chapter book novelization because I’m kind of a sucker for novelizations. Honestly, this was about what you would expect from the era. 90s/00s novelizations, especially young novelizations, are generally just a transcript of the movie without much thought or effort put into them to make them anything but. That’s what this was. It was fine, and it really let me revisualize the entire movie, but honestly you’re probably better off just rewatching the movie unless you also really deeply love The Wild Thornberrys.

The Willoughbys

I saw that Netflix had done a funky looking adaptation of The Willoughbys and I decided I needed to read the book first before watching the movie. This was a little bizarre, I’m still not sure how I feel about it. Over all, I think it was a net-positive experience. It’s an obvious satire on classic children’s novels, especially the likes of Mary Poppins (real Mary Poppins, not the Disney version) and while a little heavy-handed, it does a Series of Unfortunate Events vibe that redeems it. The story is about a group of horrible children (The Ruthless Willoughbys) who decide they are sick of their parents and would rather become Worth Orphans... and to do that, they’re going to have to dispose of their inconvenient parents, obviously. Conveniently their parents are also sick of having children and decide to do away with them as well. The Willoughbys sets up three (or four?) different subplots that are gradually woven together through a series of schemes and exploits. It’s definitely more ruthless (hurr hurr) than the Netflix version, which tried to make the children more sympathetic, and in some ways I think that’s a definite point in the novel’s favour. I’m not sure I would go out of my way to recommend it, but it was a fun romp if you want something short and off the wall (and a lot more fleshed out than the Netflix version).

[carsonshawson]

(i became obsessed w the idea of villanelle going manic and losing control after the kiss and getting shit faced like she did in 2.04 so here you guys go)

“eve.”

her voice is soft and gentle, so much so that, at first, eve thinks it’s from a dream. unfortunately, it’s a common occurrence to dream of assassins at night in the eve polastri residence. an occurrence eve does not take kindly to, thus she rolls over and buries her head further into her pillow in order to make it go away.

however, the voice doesn’t stop like it usually does.

“eve.” it growls again, urgent this time.

fuck, she’s really not appreciating the realism aspects of her dreams lately. although, her brain is probably proud of getting how annoying villanelle is almost exactly right. it’s hard to grasp her character accurately. but, she supposed, if anyone were to capture villanelle the right way, it would be her.

“eve, get up, we need to go.”

a hand nudges at eve’s shoulder, and she becomes suddenly and terrifyingly aware this is not a dream.

she shoots up, nearly knocking the assassin in the face for the second time in two days.

villanelle stumbles backwards. “jesus christ,” she mumbles.

eve can only see the dark outline of her tall and lithe body, but she can smell her presence. knows it’s her. the moonlight seeping in from the window catches on the loose strands of her blonde hair to create a terrifyingly beautiful shadow.

“what the FUCK,” eve goes to scream. however, villanelle is back in her space, pressing her hand over eve’s mouth.

“shh,” she hisses. “we need to leave right now you’re in danger.”

eve’s heart seizes. villanelle watches her as she leaps out of bed and grabs the gun from her night table, where it was placed haphazardly in a drunken fit of paranoia.

or, apparently, not so much paranoia.

when her feet hit the floor, she realizes how cold the air is against her legs. right, she went to bed without pants too. she stumbles around blindly searching for them. before she collapses in a state of panic, villanelle shoves a pair of sweats into her hands.

“second drawer in your armoire.” she reminds her, and eve doesn’t have time to question it.

villanelle is already moving for the door when eve is able to fit them on her legs, and she’s pretty positive they’re on backwards too.

“come on!” she urges, whipping the door open. eve follows after her, and they step into the quiet and honestly sad looking apartment hallway. villanelle clasps eve’s forearm, and the movement almost seems clunky. but again, she doesn’t have time to question it because villanelle is dragging her to the stairwell, down the stairs, and into the alley behind her complex.

the stop against the back wall, both breathing heavily. eve is able to observe villanelle more clearly now. she is in a state of disarray of which eve has never seen her. even post stab. her hair flies out of a loosely constructed bun, and she wears only a loose white tee shirt, tucked into a pair of faded jeans.

jeans.

something is wrong.

eve furrows her eyebrows. “are you going to tell me what’s going on or—“

she’s not allowed to finish the question. villanelle has crashed their lips together with a fierce determination. she’s hot and heavy and sluggish, and eve can’t help but to give in for just a moment, relishing in the feeling of her long fingers moving across her body.

if this is what the bus kiss was, they probably would have ended up on pornhub.

it only lasts maybe less than thirty seconds before eve tastes the alcohol on her tongue.

she pushes villanelle away, who stumbles backwards as she did in her bedroom.

“are you drunk?” eve says, and she can hardly believe it, she was so caught up in the rush out the door she didn’t notice how off balance the other woman was.

villanelle blinks. “no.” but the smirk that follows is devilish. she moves into eve’s space again, leans down. it takes all of eve’s willpower to push her off. she’s angry now. she’s got to act like it.

she pushes her off again. villanelle stumbles once more, and it appears like she nearly falls over.

“you’re drunk,” eve says, certain this time.

“so?” is the response, and, honestly, she should have expected it.

eve folds her arms. “is someone after us? or did you wake me up in the middle of the night and scare the fucking shit out of me just to execute whatever poorly made drunk plan you came up with.”

she purses her lips, pretending to think. “uhh, the second one. except not poorly made. pretty well made, if you ask me. i am a great genius.” winking for emphasis, she presses closer to eve, who shrinks against the wall but is nevertheless defiant. she reaches for the gun in her waistband, ready to push against her abdomen.

it’s not there. of course. it’s real location is dangling from villanelle’s fingers as her lazy grin grows wider.

“looking for something?” she teases, eyes twinkling in the delight of watching eve squirm.

she sighs dramatically. “eve, it’s not very nice to attempt to hurt someone after they kiss you. actually, some might consider it rude. i would do me the same courtesy i did you on the bus. a courtesy you lack.” she touches the bruise along eve’s brow with gentle and precise movement. despite her clearly inebriated state, she still has some grace.

it’s not fair. and makes eve angrier.

“is there a fucking reason we’re outside? couldn’t we have done this thing inside where it isn’t cold, wet, and rainy?”

villanelle squints. “well, i suppose, but this was more fun.”

“your definition of fun alarms me.”

“it should,” she breathes and leans down to press a soft kiss against her neck. eve shivers, which she attributes to the temperature.

“why are you drunk?” she asks and is surprised to hear her voice come out rough and gravelly. the result of too many cigarettes, perhaps, not a russian assassin’s lips on her skin.

villanelle does it again, closer to her pulse point. “why did you kiss me?” the question is an answer in itself. she doesn’t need to see her eyes to know the wide breadth of emotions playing across them. she’s seen it many times before. she drags her tongue lightly on the underside of eve’s jawline.

“i don’t know,” she responds. and it’s true. she doesn’t.

villanelle stays where she is, and eve can really smell it now. the vodka. how stereotypical, she thinks to herself. just the other day, she pondered if her drink of choice, besides champagne, would be scotch.

she also thinks they must be an eyeful to passerbys right now. although late, the streets of new malden are typically bustling at all hours of the night. it would be a sight to see a tall and leggy blonde woman pinning a smaller curly haired one against a wall.

she doesn’t know how long they stay like that, villanelle’s face in her neck, hands on her waist. at some point, eve begins stroking the loose hair that wisps around her ears. a surprisingly intimate gesture that she wants to believe is sheer reflex.

villanelle’s breath begins coming out in short huffs, and her weight leans heavier on her. eve soon realizes she’s falling asleep.

“villanelle,” eve whispers, and the assassin stirs.

“hm?”

“go to your hotel. go to bed. take some painkillers. you’re going to need them.”

villanelle moves back, still tired and heavy.

“okay,” she says simply. her eyes are half-lidded under the poorly lit streetlight, and eve doesn’t know if she can trust her not to pass out in the middle of a road somewhere.

however, inviting her to stay would almost be too much of an admission. it’s one she’s not ready to make yet.

she turns to leave, and eve watches her go, but before she rounds the corner, she spins back.

“sorry. perhaps not a good plan.”

eve smiles, shaking her head. “go home.”

villanelle takes it as an order and mock salutes her. “bye, eve,” she croons as she disappears past the brick.

eve doesn’t even notice that she took her gun until she crawls back under her sheets, ready to let sleep claim her.

that’s going to be annoying to explain to carolyn tomorrow. really annoying.

“fuck it,” she groans and buries her head in the pillow for what she hopes is the last time that night.

[autumnblogs]

Day 32: Through the Looking Glass

https://homestuck.com/story/4116

So right out of the gate, we learn a few things about the Scratched version of the universe, aside from the obvious fact that the new heroes are the previous guardians. Everyone is a little more mature, and identities are a little more fully-formed.

Jane’s name is already set in stone. Notably, the definition between the audience and Jane is also a little clearer here than usual - the Narration implies a distinction between us and Jane. Could be because we’re not controlling her yet - but as we get into Act 6, we will find a lot of cases where audience participation happens as part of the mechanic of narration, and this distinction will be called to a lot more.

More after the break.

https://homestuck.com/story/4117

So let’s unpack Jane’s interests and relation to pre-established parts of the Homestuck Universe, and see if we can’t start making guesses about Jane.

First thing’s first is that while we could read Jane’s affinity for these mustachio’d funnymen as being purely an attraction, she roleplays like John does - as a bit of a prankstress herself, and one who dons a fake mustache for one of her disguises, Jane roleplays as these men immediately suggesting to us that she looks up to them, and wants to be like them, rather than that she’s attracted to them.

(Though she certainly could be.)

Second thing is that Jane’s position as the Heirress parallels her not to John, but to Feferi. Like Feferi, Jane is a sweet girl who is the heir to a position of abominable power, and because she is beholden to the shape of that power, as long as she remains wedded to that shape, she will not only struggle to do anything productive with it, but in the course of the story, be subverted into a villain, at least for a little while, and it’s clear from the way that Crockertier Jane’s situation is communicated to us that she is an accomplice to her own brainwashing, and that the actions she takes in that form are meaningfully hers.

On another note, I think it’s interesting that on this side of the scratch, the Condesce has reimagined her empire as a megacorporation.

https://homestuck.com/story/4120

What do we learn about Jake right out of the gate? He likes movies - adventure movies. Jake, like Tavros, the other page, loves to bluster about subjects that he actually has relatively little affinity for - and in both cases, their lack of affinity can largely be described as performing their culture’s ideal of public personhood - warrior virtue. While Jake has all of the outward signifiers of masculinity, and is actually a pretty brave and technically skillful fighter by the standards of the real world, up until the Hopesplosion, he is outclassed by a lot of his friends, and ultimately, the cases where he most embodies warrior-manhood, Jake is being forced into it by someone who wants to take advantage of him.

We benefit from most of this knowledge with hindsight. It’s not actually there in this opening section, but the main thrust of Jake’s interests is his love of adventure and his love of wrestling, and I’m principally interested in Jake’s physicality in addressing his interests - he’s a very physical kid.

https://homestuck.com/story/4121

We’re hot off the heels of Terezi’s fake choice, and a lot of conversation about free will and fake choices in Act 5 - and here we’re presented with one almost immediately. We can pick either option, but the outcome will be the same whatever we do.

https://homestuck.com/story/4124

I’ve always thought the Condescension’s relationship with Jane is deeply fascinating. There is something about the prospect of cultivating an heiress, someone to take over her legacy, that brings out something tender and maternal in her, I think, even if it only manifests in a twisted way. She’s a bit of an enigma to me.

https://homestuck.com/story/4126

Well, Jane is certainly interested in Foxworthy, so I rescind my earlier comment.

We’ve barely been introduced to her and she pretty much immediately starts showing off her paternalistic disdain for rural and vulgar people through the narrative’s language, and her nostalgia for Problem Sleuth characterizes her enjoyment of its sequel.

Jane has an aristocratic mentality, and conservative leanings in the media she appreciates, and the way that she appreciates it. If Andrew’s commentary that he continued to examine the themes he started with Feferi in Jane, I think what we should take away is that Feferi’s concern for the lowly comes with a heaping helping of...

Wait for it.

Wait for it...

Condescension.

B)

https://homestuck.com/story/4127

Jane’s disdain for the vulgar - low culture, low classes - also shows itself pretty quickly. In stark contrast to the other two leaders - John and Karkat - Jane isn’t much of a movie watcher at all (Jake gets that attribute in his session) and her attitude toward’s Jake’s movies is one of snobbery. Both of the other two movie watchers have a playfully self-deprecating attitude toward their own bad tastes in movies, but they still enjoy those movies sincerely.

Her relationship of passive-aggressive one-upsmanship also distinctly recalls Rose’s relationship with her mother, suggesting that Jane shares some of the underlying pessimism and mild hostility that Rose struggles with.

Also, as a symbol Swanson is a representative of the sort of anti-government animus that characterizes the politics of Trans-Mississippi America outside of the heavily populated West Coast, where the wedding of big business and state planning have created a lot of disaffection toward the distant and disinterested corporate landlords and bureaucratic apparatuses that govern huge tracts of federal land and private property in the west. Pawnee Indiana may not actually be on the other side of the Mississippi from Washington, but having grown up in Montana for at least a part of my childhood, Swanson’s politics are immediately recognizable.

Unfortunately, this anti-state animus has manifested not in the form of a renewed commitment to emancipation, but to the uniquely American, get-off-my-lawn form of Right-Wing populism practiced by the short-lived Tea Party, and smug “It’s just basic economics” Reagan-worshipping conservatives.

What I’m trying to say is, Jane would probably be a Ben Shapiro or Steven Crowder fan in the modern day.

https://homestuck.com/story/4136

Jane’s skepticism prevents her from listening to her friends when they tell her about the extraordinary things that they do, but it’s also not exactly a kind of scientific skepticism, and more of a dogmatic realism - she has a narrow vision of what the world is like, and is dismissive of ideas that are outside of her bubble.

Quick Note that while Jake makes only an off-handed remark about it here, he is sensitive to the hostile, toxic relationship between the AR and Dirk in a way that neither of the girls really is, and while that may seem uncharacteristically emotionally intelligent of Jake, I think he’s a lot more aware of his surroundings than he lets on.

https://homestuck.com/story/4142

Now as long as we’re talking about Right Wing Populism and comparing Jane to John there is an extremely potent assertion.

The USPS, and the idea of privatizing it, is as much a symbol of the war of corporatists and authoritarians against social democracy as anything is, and because of the way John is associated with Mail in general as a Hero of Breath, Jane is almost immediately setting herself up as a foil to John.

https://homestuck.com/story/4144

Calliope is so cheery that it’s easy to take everything she says in stride, and yet, with all the horrors Sburb has to offer, in terms of the way it destroys planets, and traumatizes its players, her optimism toward the game is at least disquieting.

Sure, the Null Session isn’t going to destroy the kids’ session, but her language is contrasted against both Kanaya’s and Karkat’s when they berated Aradia and Jade respectively. Both Karkat and Kanaya rue the effects of the narrative on their lives, but Calliope is a superfan.

https://homestuck.com/story/4156

I know I’m spending a lot of time ragging on her here, but like, as long as I am; Jane is sure openly hostile to her best friend, in a way that comes as kind of surprising even given the precedent that we have to work with.

https://homestuck.com/story/4160

Poirot is from Belgium.

I wonder if Andrew or Jane is the one committing that error?

https://homestuck.com/story/4168

Jake is full of little contradictions like this. Likes Adventure, terrified of monsters. Not even ambivalent about them, certainly not excited by them. It’s like the opposite of how little kids are usually super into Dinosaurs.

https://homestuck.com/story/4171

So what is the deal with Jake and his fascination with Blue Women? Aside from the metaphysical connection with Vriska and Aranea (and to a lesser extent, Jake), like... what’s the meaning of it?

I think a possible answer to the question lies in the process of the initial portraits becoming blue - leaving them out in the sun to fade - and the relationship between that, and the way in which he likes mummies and suits of armor, and so on and so forth - and even his stuffed trophies.

Maybe this suggests that Jake is, on principle, far more comfortable with the idea of a thing, than with the thing itself. Jake’s Blue Women are comfortably static. They have ceased to change a long time ago, and now exist, preserved in perpetuity, without the need to worry about adapting to suit them.

https://homestuck.com/story/4175

While a lot of Jake’s guesses are incorrect, he’s still clearly spending a lot of time pondering over the mysterious time shenanigans - he just hasn’t quite put it all together.

https://homestuck.com/story/4177

The same way that Dirk’s fastidious organization is equated to his complicated and demanding modus, and the way that John being a big impulsive himbo is equated with his inability to manage his fetch modus, constantly getting distracted from his goal by the card on the surface, Jake’s Modus has an enormous capacity, but most of it is preoccupied inefficiently.

https://homestuck.com/story/4184

The Autoresponder continues the conversation that Andrew has with the audience about the distribution of the self - Dirk does this more generally, but the particular thread the AR tugs on is the question of where a person’s self really stops - just as the question lingers in the air because of John’s disposition toward Davesprite, the question of whether the AR is really a separate person from Dirk, or a part of him, is posed continuously just by the fact that it exists.

https://homestuck.com/story/4192

To be fair to Dirk, who I will have a lot of kind-of-sympathetic-antipathy for, I had forgotten that it is, in fact, the Autoresponder who sets up this particular challenge for Dirk.

The parallels between Dirk and English are nevertheless being set up through this conversation nevertheless - by sending him the parts and getting him to assemble the robot, Dirk makes Jake complicit in his own humiliation, even as he attempts to build Jake up into an ideal partner.

https://homestuck.com/story/4196

Already we’re seeing indications that this segment of Homestuck will deal with different themes of growing up than the first half. Which is already kind of obvious, but we’ve moved decisively out of Part 1: Problems, and into Part 2: Feelings. The second half has moved out of the territory of other humans and their emotional situations as somewhat idealized problems (somewhat) and into this situation where everyone is a moving body, complicated and the characters are each others’ biggest obstacles, and their own biggest obstacles. That’s a bit of a reductive way of describing it, but I think it rings true.

https://homestuck.com/story/4256

While I am willing to concede that Dirk is not literally responsible for siccing the Brobot on Jake today, he more or less assents to AR’s sexual harassment and physical abuse of Jake.

In addition to his vicarious physical abuse, Dirk’s persona as the Prince of Heart calls him to suppress the uniqueness of the people who are around him, moulding them like clay into shapes that better resemble him. Jake and Jane need to be more like each other in his eyes - which is to say, they both need to be more like Dirk.

We also get some insight into Dirk’s sense of humor here - it’s not just about the irony. I think there is an extent to which at the base of the thing, Dirk’s sense of humor is about simultaneously denying and affirming a thing’s meaning - making fun of it while cherishing it. Having a thing be incredibly silly - while also being incredibly serious business. He cherishes the absurd.

I wonder if he’d like Kojima’s stuff.

https://homestuck.com/story/4257

The way that Dirk identifies with logic and reason recalls the sort of “enlightened by my own intelligence” New Atheist jerks who were known to prowl the internet in the early half of the decade, and to some extent, still do. Like Libertarians, these folks have often in the present day gotten caught up in Right Wing Populism. Maybe it’s something about the way that Right Wing movements increasingly identify as a part of counter-culture even though they advocate reactionary policies.

https://homestuck.com/story/4273

This is extremely silly, but Jake is in mortal peril all the time, and I expect even at the best of times he might be uncomfortable being touched.

https://homestuck.com/story/4284

Here we shall pause.

Sorry for the late post. Early work was quite busy, and once the rush was over, it was already quite late.

So the first Act of Act 6 has been very informative! Compared to the first Act of Homestuck, we’ve been introduced already to all our Dramatis Personae!

Tune back in tomorrow to here Cam Say,

Some variation on Alive and Not Alone.

[wirewitchviolet]

We really need 1:1 time passage in games.

I play a lot of games. I particularly play a whole lot of RPGs, strategy things, survival games, and these all tend to be games that try to create an extra sense of immersion with hunger, thirst, and a day night cycle. And WOW do they ever end up doing the exact opposite with the implementation!

Like, let’s just start with food. If I am playing a survival game, and I choose not to eat for a while, my little hunger meter will bottom out, and I will start taking damage then eventually die. This tends to take like, one real life hour/in-game day, give or take to kick in, and then death comes within like, maybe 5 minutes if they’re generous? And I stave this off by... usually finding, killing, cooking, and eating, 2 entire turkeys per real hour/in-game day.

So... what the hell is any of that!?

So we have hunger, and we’re representing it as this slowly draining meter you have to keep an eye on. Already, that’s just weird. In my experience, you can go an entire day, not eating a damn thing, and not feel a thing out of the ordinary. But when you do actually get hungry, it can be overwhelming and impossible to ignore (have you eaten yet today by the way? My meal schedule’s gotten totally weird). Nothing about that makes sense to simulate as a slowly lowering bar. If you want realism, you have absolutely no onscreen hunger meter, and then like every 4-24 hours or so you have some incredibly distracting hunger indicator kick in and stay kicked in. Like, activate rumble packs and leave’em going at a steady pulse sort of annoying. And it gets worse when you’re actually preparing food.

Also feeling hungry is not an early indicator that you are going to suddenly die of starvation, or even that you’re anywhere near that point. I had dinner 6 hours ago, I’m a little hungry now. It varies a lot, but actually starving to death can take upwards of going TWO WHOLE MONTHS without any food at all. Like if we’re representing that as a meter, “hungry” kicks in when it drops to 99% full. Starvation is not a particularly common cause of death. If you’re dying of starvation, either someone is intentionally starving you to death, or some horrific catastrophe has just wiped out completely absolutely every potential food source in an area you somehow cannot wander your way out of even if you have months to do so. Relevant real world fact- Any time you see stuff about people dying of starvation, that’s never “farming just is not a thing that works in this area,” it’s “some malicious tyrant is actively preventing these people from accessing food in a deliberate effort to cause them to starve.” It’s really not actually a concern in any sort of survival story, unless we’re going real long term.

Meanwhile, have game designers ever actually, like, eaten food? Like I said, 2 whole turkeys per real hour/game day seems to be the going standard and like... have you had a turkey? I live in America, there is this tradition on Thanksgiving to go get a turkey, spend a day cooking it, and serving it as part of a meal served to one’s whole extended family. You’ve got that one turkey (granted, generally with a lot of side dishes) feeding like... a dozen people, easily. And at the end of the day, you’ve only MAYBE collectively made your way through like half a breast. You carve up a bunch more and send everyone home with a ton of leftovers. Then you’ve still got this giant mountain of turkey left, and you’re eating it for like the next week until you’re completely sick of turkey and throw the rest out, with plenty of meat entirely uneaten on the bird. Or hey, do you eat hamburgers? You know how the standard for a really kinda too big to responsibly be ordering it hamburger is “a quarter-pounder?” Which refers to the 0.25 lbs. of meat on the bun? Just quickly googling “beef weight” and copying the preview text from the oddly named first hit, on beef2live.com... “An average beef animal weighs about 1200 pounds and has a hanging hot carcass weight (HCW) of about 750 pounds.“ I can’t honestly say I know what “hanging hot carcass weight” is and I kinda doing want to, but I’m assuming that’s how much you have to work with after stripping out all the bones and organs and such. Multiply that by 4 to get how many oversized burgers you get out of one “beef animal” (why does it not say cow? I’m growing increasingly unsettled)- 3000 burgers. Give or take. You go smack that one Mnecraft cow with your sword, you should be fine for like 5 years. At least assuming we’re not simulating food spoilage. And if we are, HEY THAT TAKES SIGNIFICANTLY LONGER THAN ONE DAY, 2 IF YOU SALT IT!

And I mean, on top of that, we’ve got this whole standard I keep citing of 1 real world hour/1 in-game day. That kinda seems to be one of the more common standards for the passage of time video games use. That or 1 minute=1 hour. And I... really don’t understand why we have these scales?

Like, the earliest example of a day/night cycle in a game is Dragon Quest 3, where 1 steps on the over world map=12 minutes passing, or 120 steps=1 day. That’s a weird scale I’m having to use, but that’s because as the most traditional of JRPGs, DQ3′s sense of both time AND space are super abstracted and walking a short distance across the world map is this super compressed and simplified conveyance of a big long epic journey through the untamed wilderness. The first games I can think of offhand to really do it as a real time elapsed ratio thing are like... The Sims and GTA 3? Let me look at each of those in turn in a bit here.

So, The Sims has to pass days pretty quick, because that’s like, the whole idea. We’re watching this little household drama unfold in a compressed time scale... but the scale is really messed up? Like, we start off pretty simple. Sims work their shifts of like 9-5 on the in-game clock, need an appropriate amount of sleep... but then MOST things have timing based off having animations play at a reasonable pace, which is to say, 1 to 1 time, not 1 to 60. It takes like 3 in-game minutes for a Sim to get up out of a chair, several more minutes to walk to the kitchen and even start cooking, altogether just getting up, making a meal, cleaning up, and sitting back down is going to end up being this hours long affair, most of that being travel time from one room to another. It’s weird, and practically speaking you end up having them eat one meal, use the toilet once, and take a shower once per in game day, because less than that problems occur, and more than that, it’s a huge pain. And forget conversations. Those are like 12 hour commitments.

And then we have GTA3, where 1 real minute=1 in game hour... and this isn’t tied to anything in-game at all really. You don’t eat, you don’t sleep, nothing really has business hours to deal with, the whole day/night cycle is just there to give you a nice cycling change of scenery... and also again, breaks immersion, because the animation speed is 1:1. According to a video I just watched, walking end to end across the map of GTA3 takes a full 48 in-game hours (121 in GTA5). And I mean... there’s races, and high speed chases, and all this other stuff that according to the in-game clock are at such slow speeds you can barely tell anything’s moving. It’s weird and arbitrary! And also unnecessary! Like, I’m pretty sure I sank at least 80 hours into my first playthrough of GTA3. I definitely spent enough time cruising around any given island that if time passed in a 1:1 ratio, I’d still see what everything looked like at every time of day. And hell if you rigged it up to a real world clock I could plan around that, do all the cool missions right at sundown.

But I mean, also, there’s these things called movies and TV shows? You may have heard of them, because it’s where games get a whole bunch of terms they use all the time. Like camera, and scene. So the thing there is, when, say, a movie switches to a new scene, they’ll often arbitrarily jump the day/night cycle ahead by several in-movie hours, or even days, so the lighting is appropriate to what’s going to happen in that scene. You can actually just... do that in games, too. It’s OK. Nobody’s going to stop you or say it’s breaking immersion. I talk to this guy to start this mission at what’s clearly noon, then we fade to back, and I come back out onto the street late at night so I can do this daring nighttime raid. That’s.. OK. You can do that. Honest. No need to have the sun doing crazy fast laps in the background.

Anyway, other games since have all copied that time scale, because blindly copying things from GTA3 was kinda... how people made games for a good stretch of time (and yeah yeah yeah, Elder Scrolls was probably already doing it, whatever... hell so was Robinson’s Requiem I’m pretty sure, and Drakken I know was paced something like that). But anyway, we mixed that sort of time scale with Survival Gameplay and we’re just kinda mashing these problems together. We’re doing everything in this one to one time scale, but the in-game clock is running at like 60 times that, and our already ridiculous food intake needs are downright absurd, and suddenly we’re destroying absolutely all life on sight to sate our ever-present ravenous hunger (and possibly never sleeping).

And like... survival games don’t actually need that? Like the interesting bits of the angle are finding sources of things like clean water and shelter so you don’t die of exposure once the sun’s down and stuff. And these are things you really just need to do once and you’re set. You could... basically set up a whole game, running in real time, where these are early potential fail states. Get some kind of shelter set up within the first 5 hours or so, sleep to advance straight to the next day after pulling that off, then you have like 3 days total to find drinkable water, and... honestly at that point we’re talking like a good 45 minutes of gameplay and you could really end it there, or start your last goal. But instead, no, we’re making some kinda crude axe/bow and killing everything to eat.

Not only is it not realistic, not only does it take me out of the experience by checking the math, the whole affair feels kinda like I’m being put through someone’s weird hyper-masculine cargo cult fantasy of what it would have been like if they grew up Hunting With Dad and like.... OK people who actually do that still kill like one animal, then drag it home, throw it in a big fridge, and eat it for quite a long time, or sell it, or leave it to rot because they’re just really into ending the lives of innocent creatures and don’t want weird gamey meat at all.

So yeah, just let time be time, and don’t ever actually make me eat if we’re trying for some kind of gritty realism thing. I really don’t get hungry nearly that often and fill up quick.

[himluv]

Perserverance

Oh. Look. ANOTHER Solavellan oneshot. Will wonders never cease? This one come directly after Thoughtful.

Of all the forms the Fade had taken in Riallan’s dreams, this was the first time he had found her in Haven. It was surprising, especially since in the physical world, they were in the Storm Coast hunting down any signs of the Grey Wardens with Blackwall.

Solas had come to expect an almost stunning clarity and realism in her dreams, and her creation of Haven was no exception. Snow fell in gentle cascades, dusting the ground and rooftops in white powder. The sun shone, but provided little warmth, and a cold breeze rustled the evergreen trees. Even the Breach roiled in the sky above him. It was a perfect replica in every way but one.

There were no residents.

Solas walked through the empty village, searching for Riallan. She wasn’t in the Chantry or standing beside Varric’s fire. She wasn’t in her cabin, or waiting for him by his. Nor was she in the tavern, which was eerily quiet.

It wasn’t until he stepped through the gates of Haven that he knew where to look. He hiked up the tall, sloping rock that jutted out over the frozen lake just outside the village. Solas let the snow crunch underfoot, marveling at how real it felt. Riallan might not be a Dreamer, but she was a powerful mage indeed to exert such influence over the Fade.

She sat perched on the edge of the cliff, her feet dangling over the ice below her. She looked over her shoulder at his approach and smiled when she saw him. “I was starting to worry you wouldn’t come tonight.”

For the first time, he hadn’t even considered whether or not he should visit her in the Fade. It was becoming a habit, a very concerning one. He smiled as he sat beside her. “I was searching for you,” he said. “You’ve recreated Haven with great clarity.”

She smiled and shook her head. “You always make it sound like these dreams were art. As if it were on purpose,” she said and shrugged. “I just dream how I remember places.”

“That your mastery is so casual only makes the achievement more impressive.”

Riallan scoffed. “Mastery? I’m not the one who can walk the Fade at will.”

He frowned. “Just because you are not somniari does not mean you do not have a powerful connection to the Fade. Do not let comparison tarnish your accomplishments.”

She rolled her eyes at him, but let the topic rest. He expected her to change the subject by asking more of her questions. She had so many that their conversations often wandered, broaching several topics before returning to the original point. But tonight she sat quietly, staring out over the frozen lake just like she had that day after Redcliffe.

“May I ask you something?” He asked once the silence had stretched on long enough.

Humor glittered in her green eyes when she looked at him. “Of course.”

“Why are you delaying the attempt to seal the Breach?”

All mirth fled from her face and she looked back over the lake. “I’m not delaying,” she said. “I just want to be sure the mages are settled and rested. They only arrived a few weeks ago.”

He tilted his head, wondering why she would lie to him now. About this. “Your advisors might believe that, lethallan. I do not.”

She pursed her lips but didn’t look at him. “I just want to be sure we’re ready.”

That didn’t make sense. “The mark is not strong enough on its own. We acquired the mages to strengthen the power of the mark to seal the Breach. The Inquisition is ready, Herald.”

His use of her title earned him a glare. “Fine. I’m not sure I’m ready.”

“Ah,” he said. It was a matter of self-doubt, then.

“What if we can’t close it?” She said. He made to answer, but she kept speaking, the words tumbling from her. “What if I fail? Or if the mark backfires and someone gets hurt?”

He noted that she didn’t seem concerned for her own well-being, but that there might be risks for those around her.

“What if I succeed?” Her voice was so small, her back hunched as if to protect from a physical blow.

“That is the goal, is it not?”

She looked at him then, her green eyes wide with fear. “And what happens when the Inquisition doesn’t need me anymore?”

Above them, the Breach expanded with a deafening crack of thunder. Riallan flinched at the sound and Solas steadied her with a hand on her shoulder. “I imagine you will return to your clan,” he said.

“You really think they’ll just let me go?” She held her up her left hand, the mark shining bright in reaction to the Breach. “With this? You think Cullen will let me go? A mage with a dangerous magical mark fused to her hand?”

The sky darkened unnaturally fast, night descending on Haven as her emotions spiraled out of control. He wanted to tell her that she was letting her fears run away with her, that Cullen had never once threatened her. But, she wasn’t wrong to have these feelings. Even he had expressed his concerns about Cassandra and her Inquisition in regards to his apostacy.

These were dangerous times for mages.

But he needed to soothe her or she would succumb to these fears and begin her nightmares anew.

Another loud crack came from the Breach, and the dark sky filled with ominous green light. “Riallan.” His voice was sharp, pulling her gaze away from the hole in the sky and back to his face. “Breathe.”

She blinked at him, the panic clear in her eyes, but she nodded. She took a deep breath in through her nose and out through her mouth.

“You are respected in the Inquisition. The people you’ve helped revere you,” he said. “You are their Herald, chosen by Andraste--”

“I’m not, though!”

“Irrelevant,” he said. “They believe you are, and for them that is all that matters.”

Her eyes were brighter in the Fade, an impossible green that mirrored the light of the mark in her palm, and now they flashed with anger. “Belief should not outweigh the truth.”

The words hit him harder than she could ever know. What would she do if he told her the truth? About any of it. That the power in her palm was his. That the Conclave was his fault. That he was not a simple apostate, but the villain in her people’s mythology.

Would the truth outweigh her beliefs then? Would the facts of the world, of Elvhen history, overcome the generations of fear and misinterpretation?

They would never know, because he would never tell her.

“No, it should not,” he said. “But there are many things in this world that should not be so, lethallan.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The Breach settled in the sky and the stars shone brighter in the dark. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Tel’abelas, Riallan. Better to air your doubts here than let them consume your waking hours.”

When she looked at him, his heart fluttered at the vulnerability on her face. “Thank you, Solas,” she said. “I don’t think I could do this without your help.”

How painfully ironic that, if it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with. She would have spied on the Conclave, then traveled back to the Free Marches to rejoin her clan. She would have continued her training and someday become Keeper of Clan Lavellan. It was her destiny, or it had been, before he gave his orb to Corypheus and dragged her into this mess. He did not deserve her gratitude.

He gave her a soft smile to cover up the shame he felt. “I believe you would have persevered, regardless.”

She blushed under his praise. “Maybe,” she said. “But it would be much more difficult.” She looked away, out over the water. “Not to mention lonely.”

They were treading dangerous territory. Their flirtations had been simple things, wordplay and wits, smirks and secret smiles. But with each visit in the Fade, each day they traveled in one another’s company, was a day he felt more and more attached. He knew it was the same for her.

And that was a path they could not walk.

“You would have made friends.” He smirked. “I doubt Varric would have left you alone for long.”

She turned to him, her eyes brimming with emotion he hadn’t expected. “Solas, I —“

She vanished and the dream crumbled around him. He blinked to awareness, the night still heavy in the tent. The rain pummeled the canvas, but he still heard Sera and Riallan speaking in hushed tones.

“Anything to report?” Riallan asked.

“Pffft. Rain, rain, and more rain,” Sera said. “How much longer we gonna scrounge around for Warden bits, huh?”

Riallan sighed, and in the dark of the tent he could just make out the movement of her hand running through her hair. “Until we find it, I imagine.”

Sera made an unpleasant sound. “Well, have fun out there gettin’ soggy,” she said as she collapsed onto her bedroll.

Riallan cast a glance back into the tent, and for a moment their eyes caught. He wasn’t sure if she could tell he was awake, but her gaze lingered long enough for him to suspect she knew. The weight of what had gone unsaid, the confession they both knew was coming, hung between them.

And then she stepped out into the constant downpour of the Storm Coast.

[sarah--goff]

Their Dark Materials: Chapter Eleven: As the World Falls Down

Jareth draped himself on the window ledge, overlooking the kingdom stretched out before him, collecting each crystal from one hand and blowing them into delicate bubbles one by one, watching them float into the distance towards you.

_*_

You expected to clatter to the earth beneath you, but you landed in strong arms and a kind, familiar face peering down at you.

“You” you mumbled, becoming more aware of your surroundings. The man guided you to stand gently against him, you felt drowsy with sleep. You rubbed your eyes groggily, beginning to recognise him at the back of your mind.

Something told you that you felt like you should be angry with him, deeply, but you couldn’t think why as you held eye-contact. You blinked at him trying to remember…something. The feel of his hands on you were clouding your thoughts.

You glanced away briefly to see if you could work out who he was by where you were.

The room was illuminated by crystal white lighting. A grand ballroom, everything champagne, salmon pinks and ice coloured, silky gold streamers and chandeliers hung from the grand ceiling it was all so breathtakingly beautiful. The masses below twirled in pairs in perfect, creepy unison.

_*_

Beside him, you gasped, covering your hand over your mouth, clearly recognising this scene well. You were standing upright by yourself now, stronger.

You laughed loudly clutching his shoulder looking from the balcony to the dancers below. Jareth watched your delight fondly, the way your eyes lit up, your smile.

_*_

“My dream” you smiled brightly under the chandelier’s crystal light “I’m in my wonderful dream!” you laughed looking down at yourself and yes there it was the dress. Your dress. Your hands flew to your hair, feeling it pinned up in places, the annoying strays were back, framing your face delicately.

You could have been Cinderella herself.

The man who caught you had vanished from your side.

You looked around you but he was nowhere. Your stomach dropped, where was he? You wanted him to come back so badly. How could he leave?

“How do you like games?” a rich voice murmured, entering your mind

You frowned “I’ve never been a fan” you answered back in your head.

Your heels clicked with every footstep down the grand staircase. When you got to the end you swept to the crowd immediately. You knew what you were looking for, who you were looking for. You just let your feet wander pushing and squirming through the crowd. You felt like a magnet was pulling you in.

Collecting the silky puffy dress in your hands, you turned this way and that just searching, desperately searching. You pushed through the masses, feeling an invisible force graze your shoulders, navigating you towards something.

You flickered your eyes from figure to figure trying to spot his face in the crowd of bizarre masks, the laughing and leering around you seemed to get louder.

You felt a soft hand graze your forearm, tug at your hair, a fleeting graze on your waist, but when you swivelled around every teasing contact the force was nowhere to be seen. Was he playing with you?

You lowered your eyes to the floor feeling hopeless but then flicked them up to see him striding towards you, almost parting the crowd like the Red Sea. It wasn't hard to see why, he stood out from them, like a beacon of light held to the shadows. He breezed past the leers and outstretched hands, eyes focusing on you only, despite the hundreds in the room.

He was so gorgeous, so benevolent. More so than you'd ever seen.  

Your heart was stammering in your chest as he got closer, under the trained eyes.

“Goblin King” you murmured so only he could hear, standing directly in front of him.

_*_

Jareth waited for you to run away, to recoil or curse him.

You did none of these, but instead said stood plainly before him.

“Dance with me,” he commanded taking you by the hand “pretend that everything else doesn’t exist for a while”

-*-

You looked between his poker face and the gloved hand entwined with yours. You nodded with a smile, shyly at first but then as you were whirled into his arms you began to relax, the butterflies subsiding. You slid your arm up to cup his shoulder seemingly on auto-pilot.

This is exactly how you'd dreamt it, for what felt like the thousandth time, but this was sacred.  

You could feel his voice’s vibrations as the Goblin King sang with the music, quietly at first and then a few words that were by your ear making your skin tingle then to singing aloud.

“wasn’t too much fun at all, but I’ll be there for you…”

You rested your head against the crook of his shoulder not caring how he would react anymore. It just felt right. You briefly closed your eyes, lulled by his gentle hold, so at peace in this moment. There was that woozy scent emanating from him again, like you had inhaled from the cloak earlier.

His chin came to rest on the crown of your head.

“You remember now, don’t you?” the Goblin King murmured into your hair “remember this dream I created for you, how happy I made you”

You nodded, eyes still closed, resting against him, because you did. You remembered waking up every morning missing this exact moment, the one, it seemed, you were throwing away.

“You needn't run from me” Jareth murmured, holding you as close and snug as possible by his arm around your back as if you might suddenly vanish from him again. His sudden confident tone change put you on edge.  

“I don’t -want to” you forced out letting your fingers fiddle with the ruffles on his collar, your hold on his shoulder with the other hand loosened.

You tried to put the fragmented pieces together in your mind. Why were you running? Was it from him or something else? There was a reason. You just needed to remember.

“I just…something to do with a book, and my…life…”

_*_

It was apparent that you could sense something was wrong. He felt you tense up against him.

You lifted your head from his shoulder to look at him, withdrawing from the embrace slightly. Your large round eyes…they swelled with anguish, you looked hurt.

_*_

The Goblin King looked like he wanted to say something but the grand clock behind his ear chimed the 6th hour. With every toll the fabrication of this world began to waver.

The time! How had so much time passed!

You let go of him immediately as if he burnt you and rushed to the clock.

You had to wake up, wherever you were you had to leave.

You could see your reflection in one of the walls it curved like you were inside a bubble. Wake up, Sloane, wake up! You willed yourself.

Your eyes glanced for something to smash the bubble with and landed on a chair. You picked it up, your arms were beginning to feel heavy and drowsy and smashed it again and again at the reflection, willing the pieces to tumble down.

_*_

The spell was broken.

The Goblin King kept his eyes ahead where he had just been looking at you. He was frozen to the spot, hands still out where they had been embracing you a second ago. They lowered slowly, his tranquil expression crushed.

_*_

You lifted the chair to swing again, one more should do it.

Jareth was beside you, you saw in the cracked reflection. You veered your head only slightly, unable to come face to face with him properly.

It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real. You chanted in your head.

The Goblin King lowered the chair in your hands, momentarily begging you with his expression to look in his direction.

The realism of his touch began to fade as he brushed his gloved hand against your cheek.

You lifted the chair without looking at him and swung once more, hearing the glass burst .

You fell.

_*_

You were floating, your hair sticking out behind you as well as the cloak , which acted like a parachute. You dare not touch the bubble walls. You had your arms up covering your face, scared it would suddenly pop .

When nothing happened you let your arms drop cautiously.

The bubble slows until it stops, the light emitting from it allowed you to see a dusty ground beneath you, thank god. You lightly kicked the bubble, bracing yourself. It popped easily and you landed lightly on your feet.

“Oof”.

_*_

You woke with a start, lying against something uncomfortable digging into your back. You groggily peered down at yourself, checking for injuries. You were seemingly okay and back in your own clothes, thank god. You tried to sit up loudly wincing at the pain in your shoulders and back.

Your eyes fluttered open.

“What was I doing?” you clambered down from the heap of junk you had been stiffly lying against.  You tied the cloak around your neck further, like it would act as protection.

“Ah! Get off my back!”

You leapt off, seeing the mound you had stood on shift as an ancient scruffy old woman turned promptly revealing a worn and pinched face

“why don’t ya look where you’re going young woman! Hmmm?”

“I…was looking” you mumbled dazed neither to her or yourself.

“huh?  huh? and where are ya going hmm?” you climbed around various heaps of junk, rocking horses, bicycles, furniture. Was this where you were supposed to be? Perhaps...

“I don’t remember “

“Ya can’t look where ya going if ya don’t know where ya going”

“I was searching for something” maybe it was in here- the thing you were searching for.

“Well look here! Hmmm!” her grubby hand raised to show you what she was clasping.  You accepted the small circular porcelain box into your hands.

You flicked the clasp off, watching the lid rise and reveal two dancers inside, twirling around and around together to the tinned melody of a song you felt you knew.

You held it curiously, mulling over the thought that you should know this object somehow.

“thank you” you held it to your chest, relaxing

“that’s what you were looking for wasn’t it, my dear?”

“…yes. I forgot” you smiled down at the trinket closing the lid.

“now why don’t ya come in here and see if there’s anything else ya’d like” she ducked down under the hoard and chuckled.

You whipped back the tent curtain tailing behind her.

A bedroom.

Your bedroom?

You whirled around, looking up and around admiringly before flopping on the bed.

You lie back for a minute, clutching the music box to your chest . And then sit up promptly.

“It was just a dream!” you looked around propping yourself up by your elbows.

It… wasn’t real. The Goblin King wasn’t real.  You'd read the silly book and fallen asleep! What an intense dream!

“I dreamed it all, Moore” you said sadly to the bird who was no doubt home by now, sitting in his scarf nest as usual.

“But it was so real, I dreamed that you were a man and you…I felt…” you sighed. "better see if Kari and Brian are home now" you’d completely forgotten do to the things Kari had said. Did you have assignments due? You thought you did. Great. Another 2am marathon.

You left the music box on your bed. You cross the room to open your bedroom door. "Is anyone ho-"

The wind catches the door, throwing it open. The Junk Yard was still outside, the sky bleached orange and scratched with angry, black clouds.

It was still here! The Labyrinth!

The Junk lady burst through the door “Better to stay in here, dear, yes! There’s nothing ya want out there, no! oh-ho-ho-no!” she gave a coo "Ooh now what have we got here?”

You shut the door behind her thudding against it.

“Oh look! Ya paints! Ya love your pretty paints don’t ya! Yes, yes there you go! Oooh!”

You took the paints she shoved into your hands, your mouth gaping open but no sound coming out.

“now then what else have we got, let’s see!”

The Junky Lady twisted around so that her heavy load of items strung to her back brushed the ceiling. Her nimble fingers snatching something from your desk “Oooh your pencil box- got lots of pencils and oohh-“

You slumped onto your stool.

“Here’s your camera! Ya know how much you like your camera – you never wanted that far away did ya? There is it! Okay! Now then what else!”

The hunch-back admired your lipstick handing it to you “now go on make yourself up like the very grown up lady you are!”

Kari’s words echoed in your head “maybe- we need –a chat, about growing up – for one “

You were struggling to hold all of the items in your hands, barely able to see your reflection in the vanity mirror.

“There was something else I was looking for” you murmured to yourself

She scoffed at you “don’t talk nonsense – it’s all here! Everything in the world you’ve ever cared about is all right here! Look here-”

A rectangular red object catches your eye , you clumsily grab the book, flipping over the pages , remember dammit! Remember what you forgot! You scanned the pages.

“Dangers untold, hardships unnumbered…I’ve fought my way here to the castle beyond the goblin city…to take back…the freedom you have stolen…” you raised your head staring directly at yourself in the mirror.

The Junk Lady narrowed her eyes from behind you. “What’s the matter dear, don’t you like your things?”

You looked down at yourself, covered in your objects, “it’s all junk!”

“Huh, uh well, w- what about this !” the junk lady waved it “this is not junk!”

You accepted the rectangular object pushed into your hand.

You held the Walkman, turning it over in your hands so that the polished plastic shimmered under the light. You knew it wasn’t yours. Because yours had busted.

“yes it is!” you threw it at the mirror and it splintered , the walls and ceiling collapsed and crumbled around you “I have to get to the castle!” you yelled, pulling down the walls so you could climb out back to the junkyard.

You climbed out standing on the piles of junk. You could see the entrance to the Goblin City and began to scurry towards it but your foot was sinking into the piles like sinking sand.

“Augh! Help! Help!"

Shit. You ran your hand through your hair. You’d need a miracle to get through here now. You tried to cling onto the surface and pull yourself up “Hoggle! Help! Someone help!” you sank quicker. “Hoggle !”

_*_

He threw his hands up dismissively, signifying he had firmly washed them of you.

Huh! Humans! Girls! Human girls! He passed the stone mumbling curses to himself.

He stopped in his tracks at the sound of your cries. “Hang on Sloane, I’m coming!” he turned on his heel to rush back the way he had came.

The Goblin King appeared in front of him. Hoggle gulped.

“Well, if it isn’t you” The Goblin King leant against the stone in front of him, hands behind his back “And, uh, where- are you- going?” he leaned forward emphasising each word.

Hoggle spluttered “uh, um, well I gave the little lady the slip like you told me to- I was uh, just checkin’ she hadn’t followed me back or nuttin’ ”

The Goblin King pushed himself off the rock. He bobbed his head “I see”  looked around the isolated scene airily “for one moment I thought you were running to help her but, uh, no, not after my warnings, that would be stupid” he tilted his head at Hoggle pointedly .

Hoggle waved his hand “oh-ho you bet it would! Me? Help her after your warnings?” he doubled over with an over-the-top uproar of laughter turning around only to come face to face with the Goblin King who crouched in front of him cynically “ooh!”

“Oh dear, poor Hoghead-”

“Hoggle”

“I’ve just noticed your lovely jewels are missing” the Goblin King held his shoulder with false empathy.

“Uh…Oh yes, so they are, my lovely jewels…missing- ” Hoggle laughed nervously pretending to search himself for his bag “I’ll have to find them “

“That you will, but I’m not finished with you yet, Hogspew you see, I have one more plan in mind for you” the king grinned mischievously.

“Wh-what? This ain’t to do with the girl is it- I quit!”

“Oh Higgle, I sincerely doubt it-” the King seized his ear causing Hoggle to cry out. “you’ll do it or so help me gods, I’ll tip you straight in the bog!” he hissed to the dwarf.

Hoggle tried to swerve the King “but she’s- bright, she’ll never- listen t’ me!” he pointed out, squirming under the burning grasp.

Between the wincing, Hoggle thought he had seen something flash across the king’s face, something he did not recognise on him. “That she is, Hattle, that she is, but she is also fair of heart, she will trust again”

He leaned forward to Hoggle his voice dangerously light. “You’ll do exactly as I say...”

[mooberg]

Among the Statues

Chapter 5: Waves on the Rocks

All it took was a deal to get me to chapter 5 lol. Not satisfied with this one, but it’s fine. There will be more.

Lvc created by @voiceoflarka

Word Count: 3300 exactly lol

Warnings: None, it’s actually a light chapter

Enjoy!

Horns fell to his knees, sliding in the wet earth and acquiring several tiny cracks from the rocks hidden in the grass. He'd probably feel them tomorrow, not that he wanted to face tomorrow. He didn't even want to face the next couple hours.

There was no way he could wake them all up. But if he left them there…

He felt himself running away from that courtyard of shards even as he stayed rooted in the field. He couldn't bear to see his team in that state. They were... family. They were family. And he hoped he'd have the chance to tell them that. He'd make sure of it.

With a deep breath, he crossed his legs, flinching at the pain in his knees. Okay so maybe tomorrow had come early. And maybe he'd have enough strength to push through.

~

He weighed his options carefully as his eyes moved from face to face. Ultimately, he knew who he needed first.

"Agh, my wings!" Her voice jolted Horns out of his trance immediately.

"Gamms?" He rushed to his feet and then to her, hoping to help in some way. But he should have known she'd be able to handle herself, and he reaffirmed that notion as she methodically crunched through the ice encasing her wings.

"Horns." She eventually looked up at his offered hand, allowing him to pull her to her feet.

"Are you alright?" He asked worriedly.

"Me? I'm fine." She dismissed. "You woke me up, so you resisted her spell again. Are you okay? Did she hurt you?"

Horns shook his head unconvincingly. "I'm fine."

"Horns." Gamma stepped closer, trying to get a better read on his face. "Did she hurt you?"

"I said I'm fine, I just-" Horns cut himself off with a sigh. "We have bigger things to worry about."

Gamma chose to let that drop for the moment but made a note to circle back. She looked across at her team with worry.

"I don't think I can do it." Horns said quietly.

"And we can't just leave them here."

"And if we try to move them..."

"But I don't want you pushing yourself too far..."

"We don't have a choice." Horns' whisper was laced with defeat.

"What's that going to do to you?" Gamma asked, knowing he'd already resigned himself to pushing too far.

"Wish I knew." He replied. "Then maybe this wouldn't be so hard."

"You've proven to be capable of four dives in a day-"

Horns cut her off with a shake of his head. "No, I'm not nearly that close yet. Waking up the four of you almost killed me. I could barely manage three."

"And now we have six." Gamma sighed.

"I have to do it." Horns decided, hopelessness in his voice. He walked back to the spot he'd fallen before. Gamma followed, stretching out a wing over him to shield the rain as best she could.

"Wake up Psi first. He can help." She said, placing a hand softly on his shoulder. There was nothing else she even knew to say in this near-impossible scenario. Horns needed Psi, but she did as well.

Horns just nodded, staring down the team with fearful determination.

~

"... could be waking back up at any moment now. It would not be advisable to continue into multiple mind dives without consulting us first."

"Are you my Rabbi now?" Horns asked as he slowly opened his eyes.

"Technically, yes." Psi replied without missing a beat. "But do not call me that again."

"Okay Sifu Psi." Horns quipped.

"I am glad to see the situation has not dulled your sense of humor." Psi sighed. He shuffled a little closer to where Horns remained seated, ducking under Gamma's wing.

"Well," Horns shrugged, "there's something to be said for laughing through the tears."

"Or laughing through the fear." Psi shot back.

The remark sobered Horns up immediately and he looked away. "Something like that..."

"It's too much." Psi echoed his thoughts as he crouched next to the trainee. "Far more dives than you've ever done, or even are aware of having capacity for."

"I want to be able to do it." Horns whispered, voice barely perceptible over the falling rain. "I need to be able to do it. I'm just afraid..."

"That you cannot." Psi finished.

"I can't leave them behind. Any of them." Horns' eyes flashed with a spectrum of emotion as he looked at his team. Fear, anger, apprehension.

"You will not." Psi placed a hand on his shoulder. "You are stronger than you know."

Horns pulled away from his touch with a wince, a similar sentiment in a more icy voice echoing in his head.

"What is it?" Psi asked, brow furrowing in concern.

"You're not the first one to say that to me today." Horns shook his head as if to clear it. "But we don't have time to talk about that right now."

Psi filed that away in his mind, with a mental note to circle back at some point. "You are not alone here, Horns."

"But they're all frozen-"

"What are we to you, chopped liver?" Gamma joked, nudging his shoulder with her knee.

"And as you wake them up, you will have them at your side." Psi added.

Horns nodded. That whole speech didn't go how Psi had intended, Dragon ruined it. Dragon had ruined a lot of things lately. But Horns could see he was trying, and that was enough. He knew Psi always tried, and so should he.

"Alright." He sighed, settling into the grass. "See you on the other side."

 ~~~*~~~

 "He's shaking." Jolly reported, pressing her hand against Horns' chest where he leaned against her as she began to feel the vibrations.

Psi tore his gaze away from Glitch where she was braced to catch Callow when he woke up, his last memory being the fight with Dragon. That top hat could go off any second. He made his way quickly to the pair huddled under Gamma's wing.

"Did this just start?" He asked softly, feeling for himself.

"I think so." Jolly nodded. "He's really cold..."

He watched Horns' pulse for a few seconds. It was elevated and brighter than normal, but not to an alarming degree. He gave Jolly a small nod. "We will get him warm as soon as possible."

"He's got to be exhausted." Gamma remarked.

"He will be. I doubt he will stay conscious for long if he wakes Callow up." The signs of fatigue were clear and based on the Satyr's reaction last time he pushed himself too far, he was confident in his assumption.

"When." Jolly corrected firmly. "When he wakes Callow up."

Psi hesitated, ready to correct her, but instead just nodded. He didn't want to upset her with his realism, no matter how much faith he had in his trainee.

"If she can freeze us so quick... how are we going to stop her?" Equo spoke of Dragon, turning in place to continue her pacing. The grass would have a permanent line in it soon.

"We'll just have to be more on the ball." Peony said. "This was the first time we fought her. We didn't know what we were up against."

"We couldn't even land a single punch." Glitch agreed, her focus on Callow unwavering. "Her reflexes are something else."

"We can strategize once we get somewhere safe." Psi said. "We do not even know where she is currently."

Peony quirked an eyebrow. "Where are we go-"

"Come at me bi- oh, hi Glitch." Callow halted his run quickly, an explosion going off a few dozen feet behind them. It was thankfully in the treeline and likely wouldn't cause any harm. "What the fuck happened?"

"She got away." Glitch explained quickly. "Not before freezing us. Horns has been waking us up."

"Is he okay?" Callow asked her softly. Glitch's pained reaction spelled out the 'I don't know' better than her words could, and he gripped her shoulder tight for a moment.

"We don't know where she went, what she wants..." Peony shook her head. "We don't know anything."

The Gator virus whipped out his tablet, holding his hat over it to protect from the rain. "Nothing on surveillance. She just... disappeared."

"We need to do the same." Gamma said. "We need time to regroup and rest. Especially Horns."

"Where are we going?" Peony tried to ask again.

Horns came out of his trance slowly, slumping onto Jolly with an agonized groan of pain and pulling everyone's attention. She and Psi reacted quickly, supporting his exhausted frame.

"Did I do it?" He asked, voice barely even a whisper. "Are they okay?"

"You did it." Jolly replied even more softly, kissing him on the cheek. "You can rest now, Horny, we're okay."

With a sigh, he collapsed further onto her, completely spent.

"That is that then." Psi announced with a curt nod.

"Then let's get going." Gamma finally folded her wing behind her back and scooped Horns up bridle style. "It's a bit of a journey and we should stop at the dorm for some dry clothes."

"But where are we going?"

 ~~~*~~~

 The world slowly melted into a sea of pain as Horns felt the sweet embrace of sleep ebb away. Wave after wave of agony washed over him, throbbing in his skull like the bass at a concert. It stole his breath away until he felt himself gasping for air.

Hands were suddenly on him, pulling his arms away. He didn't understand why until he felt the pressure of his palms against his temples. He was trying to find some semblance of relief but in the process may only be finding harm. He let the hands guide him, listening to their muted voices far too distant to comprehend. One ran down the side of his face, but he flinched away from what could once have been a calming gesture.

The pinprick in his right arm that normally would have pulled his full attention was swept up in another wave of pain. The hands remained, but the voices slowly faded away, washing back to shore until he was left in the soothing black void once again.

~

The second time Horns slipped back into consciousness was much slower and, thankfully, calm. Black gave way to soft yellow, and this time he actually managed to open his eyes, blinking against the light even though it was low. A quick self check-in showed a slight headache remaining, and a mental exhaustion unlike anything he'd ever felt before. But his body was done with sleep, so he sluggishly looked around.

The walls were old, muted in colour. Everything was lit up with a series of lamps, casting spots of yellow and white light in various random parts of the room. And the ceiling... was covered with webs. Horns had to force himself to lie still, knowing that if he shot up now like he wanted to he'd spike his headache. In any case, his view of the ceiling was quickly blocked out as an angel overtook it.

"Welcome back." Jolly greeted him with a soft grin.

Horns didn't say anything, just pulled her to him and held her close. He pressed his lips to her hair and just breathed her in for a couple of minutes. To her credit, she didn't say anything. But he supposed there was nothing to say.

"Are you alright?" He eventually whispered, voice hoarser than he anticipated.

"Yeah." She replied. "Yeah, we all are."

Horns let out a long sigh, letting his eyes close.

Jolly squirmed in his grasp and he loosened his grip to let her, drawing his eyes back open as he felt her gaze on him. "What about you?"

"Let me wake up all the way." He said. "Then I'll give you a full report."

"Sit up at least." Jolly prodded him. "Everyone's been waiting."

He let her pull him up, the 'everyone' causing his soul to flare. Everyone. His team. Were they okay? Had he really done it? Or was Jolly just lying to him to make him feel better?

She wasn't. Horns could have sobbed right then and there as he took in the sight of them but fought it down. They were okay. They were alive and whole and right here with him in... wherever they were. Relief wrote itself plainly across his face.

"You're... okay." He sighed. "You're all okay."

"We're alright." It was Callow that responded first, and the softness in his voice made Horns smile at his old friend.

"How long was I out?" He asked, rubbing his tired eyes with the hand not in Jolly's soft grasp.

"Almost thirteen hours."

That startled him more than it should have, and his hand froze in it's descent towards what he now realized was an air mattress. He looked around at his team hunkered down in the small studio apartment.

Glitch was at the foot of the air mattress, curled up like she, too, had recently woken up. The mattress was only a double, and Horns would guess she'd let Jolly sleep next to him so they could still give him some space. Peony, Equo, and Callow leaned up against the left wall, Equo's legs in Peony's lap. Psi and Gamma sat on the edge of an actual mattress, propped up on what looked like stacks of books. Horns briefly worried for their backs in that position, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

They looked happy to see him awake, but there was an obvious tiredness underneath. It looked like they'd been keeping themselves occupied in the restless quiet for hours, which they probably had been while they waited for him to wake.

He sighed. "I haven't slept that long in forever."

"You were exhausted. Understandably." Horns gave Psi a once-over. His expression was unreadable as usual, but the prominent tension in his shoulders belied the stress they all felt. Magnified, no doubt, as this was his team of trainees.

"How'd we get here? And where is here?" Horns looked himself over. "...and who changed my clothes?"

"That was me." Glitch said, too tired to wink or react in any Glitchy way. The relief was clear on her face, and the fear she must have been experiencing over the past thirteen hours or more hit Horns like a ton of bricks.

"We stole some bikes and I flew you here." Gamma also looked tired, but the familiar spark in her eye was not gone, and that soothed him more than he'd ever say. "We're at one of our safe houses in Night Lover."

Horns was tempted to ask about the webs, but let the question die before it even touched his lips. He couldn't be sure, but he had a feeling his mentors wouldn't want to give the answer.

"Any activity from Dragon?" He asked.

"None." Callow replied. "Streets have been stupid quiet." For Callow to be in sweatpants, the situation really must have been dire. They were designer, and printed with little white stars, but still. Horns couldn't decide if they clashed with the top hat or not, but that was more Cal's specialty anyway.

"The situation has calmed and is under control, Horns." Psi assured him. "It would be prudent to worry about your own wellbeing for the moment. How are you feeling now that you have awoken?"

His knees suddenly piped up to remind him of their cracks, but he brushed that aside. "I'm still exhausted but I don't think I could sleep more even if I tried. And my head still kills."

"Here, drink this." A water bottle was suddenly thrust into his hand. Peony looked down at him with hard eyes, the mask she typically adopted to hide her emotions shielding her from the world. "You hungry?"

Horns shook his head, missing the way Psi frowned at his response.

"Would you try eating if I brought you something?" Peony prodded.

"No I..." The thought of food actually made him feel nauseous. "I'm really not hungry."

Peony just nodded, going to sit back beside Equo. The shorter woman's silence spoke more than her words ever could; exhaustion, frustration, and fear taking root deep within her. He held her eye, the two silently checking in. She was fine, but she'd be better when all this was over.

"So..." Jolly nudged him with her shoulder. "you have any visions?"

"Dreamless sleep." Horns shook his head.

"We don't know where to go from here." Peony said.

"No leads, no idea what she wants," Gamma purposefully looked right into his soul. "nothing."

Horns sucked in a sharp breath.

"What happened?" Glitch asked softly.

"We would have been frozen at least a few minutes before you could wake one of us up." Psi chimed in.

"What did she say to you?" It was Jolly's ever soft tone that grounded him, and he leaned toward her slightly.

"She didn't tell me anything." He said. "About her goals, her intentions, anything about her at all."

"She didn't say anything to you?" Gamma pushed.

Horns made a few noncommittal facial expressions, too tired to even bother with gestures.

"What. Did she. Say?" Glitch growled, her protective nature pulling at his heartstrings in a way no one would expect from the anger in her voice.

"Well... you saw the way she looked at me!" The words burst out of him, the fear and anxiety untethered with the sheer exhaustion that still blanketed him. "Like I was some prize to be won, some exotic bird she was just itching to lock away in a guilded cage."

He looked briefly at Psi. "She told me I had potential, practically salivating at the idea of the... power I hold, I guess? And the thought of her helping me unlock that power. Training me. And she said that she knew me, knew more about me than I thought. I think she's latched on to the idea of testing me through all this."

"So it's become some sort of sick game." Gamma summarized. "Now that she's got the world in her grasp, she wants to play with the only one who keeps getting in her way."

"I guess." Horns frowned, the prospect deeply disturbing to him.

"Then we'll just have to not give her a chance."

~

With little else to do, the team settled in to the quiet of the small apartment. The storm had long since passed, and there was, of course, no city noise outside. Every word spoken cut through the silence like a knife. At some point Gamma and Psi had left through the bramble covered front door, the thorny vines receding when they passed through, and growing back once they were gone. Psi wasn't taking any chances.

On his orders Horns had remained in bed, continuing his rest. He hadn't needed much convincing. Glitch and Jolly piled in with him, the rest of the team letting the triad have their space. And, well, they didn't want to pop the air mattress.

"You're worried." Glitch said quietly, looking over the lines etched across his face.

He pulled himself out of his thoughts to look at her, tearing his eyes away from Jolly sleeping soundly across their laps. "I mean... yeah."

"What do you think she'll do to you?" She asked.

"I wish I knew." He sighed. "The way she spoke about teaching me, 'shaping my mind'..."

"Do you think she'd want you for her own?" The question stung, but it had to be asked.

"I think she'd be delighted to try." Horns said. "And once she had me- well, I'd rather not think about that."

"We're not going to let her take you." Glitch promised him firmly.

Horns offered her a weak smile. Deep down, he didn't think it would matter if they even tried.