#no wonder so many people left threads so quick

[the-dancing-fairy]

Okay so I was trying to find a content community that doesn't really exist here or on Twitter and Instagram kept showing my threads ads that were sort of what I was looking for, so I finally checked it out and oh my God how does it suck so bad??? Like it's actual trash I can't believe this shit was ever hyped. There is no tagging system meaning the search function only works for very specific app backed topics, and thus the search feature only shows you those topics and users. The only way you have to tell the app what you want to see is who you follow and all the data they get from your insta. Nothing is discoverable, which means you're just scrolling through slop. It's like they were trying to make a scrolling algorithm experience like tik tok but for text but that's not how text works so it's just garbage. And even tik tok lets you actually tag and search for real things. How was this deemed acceptable? What was going through these people's brains??

[ilovetoxicfictionalmen]

BABY GIRL

Pairing - Jackson Rippner x fem!reader

Summary - Jackson likes to keep you doped up for both of your safety.

Warnings - Non-con, dub-con, drugging, manipulation, degrading, p in v, edging.

Word count - 1.9k+

Notes - Guess who wanted to work on one of her WIP's but decided to watch Red Eye and just had to write another one about my favourite boy.

You laid on the bed, completely naked against his body, he only wore his boxers, your left leg draped over his hips, his hand slowly caressing your back as your face was pressed up against his lean bare chest. 

The audio of the television was muffled, your sight blurred as you slowly breathed in and out. The sheets were hardly covering your flesh, but you were too dazed to pay attention to it. The sensation of his large fingers caressing your tender skin was enough to earn gentle moans from your soft lips. His cold blue eyes watched you like a hawk. Almost skeptical that you would commence a ploy against him, despite your doped state. 

Jackson Rippner was fascinated by you. The moment he saw you, he knew that you would be his. It was unfortunate with the circumstances you met under. Star crossed lovers in his opinion, a bit of a spiced uniqueness to your relationship.  

You were assigned to investigate him for terrorism. Many times you were warned about your high levels of ambition, your eagerness put you in danger. But you were always too stubborn to listen to your superiors. 

“Jackson” you murmured against his chest, almost drooling. He sighed lightly, his hand rubbing circles around your lower back. 

“Yes baby?” He asked softly, there was silence for a brief moment. Jackson waited patiently for you to respond as you raised your heavy head. 

“Are you going to keep me drugged up forever” you slowly questioned, your eyes ached to stay open, your thoughts blurred with sweet nothings. 

There was this blank, emotionless stare from him. As he was questioning himself, he really did wonder what he’d do with you in the long run. The thought of him keeping you mindless for the rest of your days made the blood rush to his cock. Only being mentally capable to muse the thought of him touching, fucking, loving you. 

But then he also wanted to take you out for an expensive dinner, vacate at a ski resort, hold you from behind as you cook him a loving homemade meal. Jackson never considered himself a romantic, but different people create a better you. The idea of having a life as one together made his heart flutter. 

“No baby girl” he answered eventually. 

“When will you stop” you breathed out, a small smile on your lips, a thread of hope. There was a small grin on his lips as his hands gently rubbed your hips. 

“When I know you’ll be a good girl for me” Jackson mocked, pulling you completely over his hips to saddle him. 

“I am a good girl” you countered, your head felt heavy yet your thoughts light. 

“Because you’re drugged up” he laughed softly, his large hand caressing your cheek as your face fell limp on him. 

“Touché” you snorted and he patted your cheek a couple of times. Sluggestly, you lifted your head back up, looking at him with innocent eyes. “Please sir, I promise to be good” you assured, but your small smile was all so devilish. 

That title always got the blood flowing to his cock. You could already feel his size growing underneath you. 

“Really? You cross your heart, hope to die, type of promise?” Jackson razzed, flashing you a toothy grin as his fingers slowly moved closer to your core.

“Yes sir” you promised, batting your eyes towards him. 

“Oh baby girl, how can I be so sure?” He toyed, titling his head to you. 

The scratches on his face were faint. Whenever he sobered you up, you were quick to get in every shot you could at him. However, you were foolish not to carefully plan out your scheme to escape, or as you preferred to do, attempting to kill him. 

“Because I love you cock Jacky” you moaned, his fingers toying with your clit. 

Within a blink, Jackson had flipped you onto your back. Holding your throat down against the mattress and huffing, flaring his teeth at you. “What did I tell you?” He snarled, his thumb rubbing over your chin.  

“You hate being called Jacky” you choked out, but you were still grinning at him. 

“And I thought you wanted to be a good girl” he pouted to you. 

“I do” you almost sang, coughing at the restriction to your throat. 

“Fix your mistake then” Jackson ordered calmly. 

“Because I love your cock, sir” you choked out, emphasizing the correction. With the release of your throat, Jackson sighed. 

“That’s a good whore” Jacksont grinned at you, flexing his hips forward. You pouted to him. “My good whore” he corrected himself, dropping his lips onto your neck.

It was pointless, trying to deny the sensation Jackson always brought over your body. It was too much effort to try to hide the pleasure he always bathed you in. 

This is where you belonged, underneath him, figuratively and literally. 

In small circular motions, his tongue swished over your heated skin, his hands ran slowly up and down your torso, his fingers playfully scratching at your nerves, his stubble tickled you. Your arms gradually enveloped around his back, your fingernails scraping at his skin lightly. 

“I’ll always take care of you baby girl. You know that right?” Jackson asked as he pushed his boxers down enough to free his throbbing length. 

“Yes, Jackson” you breathed out, laying your head back carelessly. 

“Could have gotten you killed, interfering with my business, like a little fucking brat. But I saved you…” Jackson grinned as he lined himself up with your gushing entrance.  

“No Jackson” you shook your head, moaning out softly as he gently pushed himself inside of you. 

“Who are you lying to?” Jackson snorted as he rested himself completely inside of our canal.

“This isn’t living” you countered, your hands rising up to the back of his neck, your legs raising up to your hips in unison.

Jackson couldn’t help but to laugh as his hips snapped back and forward. His lower lip was stuck in between his teeth as he searched for the perfect pace and speed.

“For someone who is constantly high, you sure as hell are conscious” he remarked, his hands holding onto your sides.

“I was always smarter than you” you murmured, biting onto your lower lip. 

Jackson laughed gently as his teeth nipped at your earlobe. 

“Yet look at where you are now. Be my good girl, I want to spoil you rotten. Don’t you want those things?” He toyed, his fingers rubbing your sensitive bud. 

“Yes Jackson” you answered emotionlessly. 

Most of the time it was easier to give him what he wanted, your complete submission. You were always so weak, tired, feeling out of body. The effect his touch had on your body was the biggest punishment. If you weren’t always so high, you’d be heavily humiliated with how badly you craved him. The control he had over your body was frightening, he was your puppeteer, always pulling on your strings despite how desperately you tried to cut yourself free. 

“I want to give you the world” he professed as he found the perfect rhythm to fuck you to. 

“I want to kill you” you whined out, face twitching as the high stimulation took over full steam ahead.

“No you don’t, you could never do such a thing” he mumbled, his hands pinning yours above your head. 

“But I’ve tried” you groaned as he hit your cervix. 

“And that’s okay” he assured you, kissing you in a sloppy manner as if to comfort your distressed thoughts. “You’re learning to be my good girl, yeah?” Jackson asked, teasing your bundle of nerves as he kept your pleasure swimming by the edge. 

“Yes Jackson” you shamefully admitted, your eyes swelled with tears as his thrusts became more painful. 

His mouth fell open into a large smirk at the sight of you crying. It was one of his favorite looks of yours. Over mere seconds, your tears formed into a stream as you sobbed underneath him. The clarity of your predicament washed over you once more. 

“Yeah, you’re so fucking pathetic. Acting like a tough, stuck up bitch. But you’re nothing but a little whore for cock, my cock to be precise” he grunted, feeling your walls clench around his throbbing size.

The sounds of your troubled moans always felt like a melody to him. The mixture between your logical and sensual thoughts left you in shame. Jackson kissed you deeply, your mouth was wide open but you refused to kiss him back. The taste of your tears made him growl like a wolf.

“Fuck, your director would be so disappointed in you. Everyone thinks you’re fucking dead. So get the stupid thoughts of breaking free out of that little mind of yours” he sneered, his free hand holding your chin in place as you tried to turn your head to the side. 

“Stop talking Jackson” you whimpered, desperately trying to focus on the pleasure and not his taunting words. 

“No one is looking for you. I have no tails, nobody cares about me. Only you did, you felt it too from the beginning, just like I did, our connection” he grinned as his balls slapped against your entrance. 

“Shut up Jackson” you whined as you felt your climax build. 

But Jackson loved watching you cry. It was amusing to watch your emotional strength crash, it was pleasing to look at your humiliation. A wonderful reminder of how reliable you are on him. Jackson loved to pull your strings around, to keep you on your hands and knees as he yanked you across the dirt. 

“Bet you wanted me to steal you away from your useless life. Now your biggest stress is wondering how many times you’ll get to squeeze my cock each day” he moaned out, kissing your tears away. 

“Shut the fuck up Jackson!” You screamed out as loud as you could, your weak body thrashed under him but it quickly left you exhausted. 

“Someone’s getting sober” Jackson pointed out with a grin, holding you down effortlessly. “Might just keep you tied up instead, I like your screams” he winked to you. 

“Please stop, please, please” you begged repetitively as he continued to fuck you senselessly. 

“Then tell me what I want to hear” he sighed, his hand combing back his damp hair from the sweat that trailed down his forehead.

“N-no” you shook your head, you could feel him twitch rapidly inside of you.  

You knew exactly what he wanted you to say. It was the thing you hated doing most. He always wanted you to say it when you were so close to finishing. 

“Please” he toyed, playfully begging you as he kept your built orgasm dangling from the edge.  

“Come on baby girl, make me feel good” he grunted as he smacked your rear. 

There was another weak shake of your head so Jackson held his body still inside of you. Pathetically, just like he always described you as, you whined out at the pressure built in your core. All you wanted to do right now was come undone, feel something good in this torture. But Jackson stared at you sternly, menacingly. His hands pressed down on your hips as you tried to rock yourself around him. 

“I-I love you” you admitted, your cheeks beet red. 

Instead of fucking you senselessly like you assumed he would. Jackson pulled himself out and jerked himself over you. Quickly, his white ropes of semen sprayed over your sweaty stomach. You panted, looking at the mess he made on you as your distressed expression made him chuckle silently. 

“I love you too” he replied blankly. 

As you caught your weak breath, Jackson laid his body on top of yours, his fingers touched your sensitive core, gently teasing you. You moaned out, ready to do anything to free yourself of your painful climax. 

“But so, drugged or tied?” Jackson cocked an eyebrow to you.

[bendycxmet]

Pierced—Vash the Stampede

Summary: How did Vash get that hoop in??

Word Count: ~1.2k

Pairing: gn!reader x Vash the Stampede

Content: fluff, a lil angsty, Vash deserves his sense of self ok

a/n: @aboveweirdest gave me this wonderful idea while we were analyzing this man to death! tyty was thinking about this when i got another helix piercing done recently so i whipped this up before bed

In recent days, you’ve seen Vash eyeing you. At least, more than what is normal. It was unsettling everytime you felt his gaze on you whenever you tried passing the time by creating something out of scraps you found into jewelry, specifically earrings. 

For instance, he was doing it now, as your hands worked the small pliers expertly to transform a piece of gold wire into a hoop. You either usually pierce your own ears with your creations, or sell them in town for some extra cash you both could use for bullets or food. Vash wishes he could be as good as you on the artsy side, but you always remind him that he is good with his hands. No one can beat him in marksmanship.

“Like what you see there, gunman?” you tease, side eyeing him for a split second. Caught in the act, Vash blushes a lovely red that reaches the tip of his ears. You love getting a rise out of him.

“Do you wanna learn? Is that it? Because you’ve been a little too curious these past couple of days.”

“Mm.. ‘s not that. I just… How many piercings do you have?” 

The question comes out of nowhere for you. You think it’s obvious, since mostly all of them are on your ears. Doing mental math, you count what you have on your ears.

“Uh, around 11? I’m thinking of doing more, but we’ve been too busy lately.”

He simply nods, humming to himself as he visibly thinks through your answer. 

“Why do you pierce your ears?” You quirk your eyebrow at him. “Don’t mean that in an offensive way!” He quickly puts his hands up, offering a sign of peace. You laugh at his gestures. “I just been noticing lately that your usual customers are people with loads of piercings, and I never gave it much thought before to get one of my own, but I think…they look so cool on others. They seem so happy with them too, expressing themselves without even saying a word.”

Your hands still at his words, something dropping in your stomach and twisting at his solemn expression. Vash never revealed much about his past, and you never probed him further. Anytime anything connected to his past came up, you could clearly tell whatever happened had left its scars on him, physically and mentally. You respected his decision to close up those details, and reminded him that whenever, if ever, he was ready to share that load with you, you would be there.

You look back down at the gold hoop in your hands, an idea coming to mind. You quickly add the finishing touches, putting a little more effort into it as it was for someone special now. 

“Hey, what do you think of this?” You hold up the hoop to Vash’s eyes, catching the glimmer in his eyes at your recent creation, like that of a thief spotting expensive items through a window. Greed and envy swirling together.

“It’s beautiful! You always amaze me with how you turn a piece of trash into such a pretty object. That one’s gonna sell fast Mayfly!” You warm at his praise and nickname for you. His confidence and support for your skills potentially outweighed yours for how he handled his gun.

Yet, you can’t stand the fake smile he plasters on his face, masking the jealousy he feels for the future owner of the golden hoop.

“Think I’m gonna sell it for free. It’s for someone close to me.” Vash simply cocks his head to the side. You roll your eyes at his obliviousness. “How about letting me pierce your ear for you?”

The change in his demeanor is quick. He straightens his back, eyes shining brightly, nodding eagerly at you. “I’m in your hands!”

Grabbing a small threading needle from your kit, you order him to sit close to you on motel bed. Cleaning your hands and the needle, you search his face, looking for any signs of regret. 

“You sure about this? Do you know where you want it?”

He’s pensive for a moment, eyes looking past you. He hums, pointing at his left lobe. How perfect, you think, same side as his cute little mole. 

You fidget, rethinking piercing his ear. You’ve only ever pierced yourself, so now that you have someone else in front of you, you feel like a total amateur. 

“Hey. Get out of your head there. I know what you’re thinking.” Vash’s voice breaks through your brain fog. He wraps his hand around your raised arm, poised and ready to pierce him. He gently tightens his hold on your waist. “I trust you.” You feel your heart twinge at the soft vulnerability in his eyes.

“Ok, this will be a slight pinch. I know you’re used to pain-” you interject, noting his slightly raised eyebrow, silently telling you been there done that. “-but just follow my rules. Ok, breathe in for me.” You raise the needle to his ear. “And breathe out.” As you feel his breath ghost your arm, you push the needle as quickly as you can through his ear, quickly adding the hoop to his ear. 

You turn around to wash your hands. “And there you go! Your first piercing ever! Crazy, considering that you’re like 150- hey don’t touch-” you catch him as he’s going to finger his new piercing, staring straight at the mirror on the vanity opposite the bed. The warning dies in your throat at the sight of him nearly in tears.

“I…I love it,” he says in a warbled voice.

“Oh Vash, what’s wrong? Did I hurt you? I really tried to be careful. Always with you.” You sit beside him, leaning onto his shoulder, rubbing his back in comfort. He sniffs. 

“It’s not you. It’s just…this is the first time I feel like I’ve done something for myself. I feel like my own person. With just a hoop.” Wet tears trail down his cheeks. You press your fingers to his cheeks, wiping his tears. You know how he’s been burdened with his past, no doubt still feeling the shadow of his brother and the destruction that’s come from his actions. Perhaps this earring meant more than you could ever imagine, perhaps it finally binded him to the present, and to his own future that he can create. 

“You’ve always been Vash to me. Never your brother. Just you. Vash the Stampede. The most amazing gunman to ever walk into my life.” He turns to you, wrapping his arms around you and pressing his face into your neck.

“Thank you. Now, I feel like everyone else. Maybe they can see me as one of them. Not this humanoid disaster.” You nuzzle into him, hands returning to their rubbing against his back.

“You look nice by the way. It suits you really well. The gold complements your blue blue eyes,” you tease, hoping to get a chuckle out of him. 

He pecks your cheek, another thank you from him. He presses his face tighter to you, jolting suddenly. “Ow!”

“Yeahh, it’s gonna be a bit tender for a bit.” 

masterlist

divider by saradika

[outsideratheart]

Adios Amor (Alexia Putellas x reader)

A/N: I'm back baby! This fic was inspired by a line in a movie I watched recently. I hope you guys like it.

UEFA's end of season gala is one of the most prestigious nights in football. No awards were given and ego's were left at the door. The large ballroom is filled with circular tables each hosting different teams from across the world, both men's and women's alike.

It a night to celebrate the sport and to catch with with people who for most of the year are considered the enemy. It is how you found yourself staring across the room at the woman who crossed you path many years ago. It was a night you will remember for many different reasons.

"Why is Y/N Y/L/N staring at you?" Aitana asks Alexia who not so subtly looks your way.

When you lock eyes you raise your class of very expensive champagne. It was a innocent gesture but one that makes Alexia's stomach churn. She shakes her head and hastily turns away. The lack of acknowledgement gains the attention of her fellow Barcelona team mates. The two of you had played against each other a few times at both club and country level but now they think of it, they have never seen you interact with each other than the pre and post game hand shakes.

Then Jenni comes sauntering over and their curiosity only grows.

"Are you going to talk to her or carry on ignoring her like you have been for the past 5 years?" Jenni says fully unaware of the thread she is unravelling.

"I feel like there is a story here" Mapi pushes for more all whilst wondering how in all the years she knew you did she not know you knew each other.

"No story, just history, that's all" Alexia is quick to shut down the conversation given that it took her years to stop thinking about you, or least she had tried to do so.

Alexia's watches in worry as all of her team mates eyes widen and their attention turns to something or rather someone behind her.

“Well, the history is about to become the present because she is coming this way" Jenni quickly downs her drinks knowing that she will need another before you get to them.

You can see 3 Barcelona players looking at you as you make your way towards them and one player is looking anywhere but. Just as you approach them Alexia turns to leave but stops in her tracks when she hears your voice.

"Walking away from me, i'm getting Deja Vu" Although you are joking, it becomes clear that Alexia knows the true meaning of your words.

"Y/N" Alexia says with a low tone.

"Alexia" you say in return.

The energy between you shifts. No words are exchanged but you eyes never leave Alexia's. It is only when she hears Jenni clearing her throat does Alexia break her gaze but yours remains.

"This champagne is amazing" she says in attempt to ease the tension.

"Lefevre Brut" You turn to Jenni when talking to her but by the look at her face she is clearly confused, whether is be by your french accent or something else "The champagne? that is what it's called"

Ale--" you don't get the chance to talk more to your fellow Balon d'or winner as one of Presidents of UEFA calls your name.

"I guess we will see you at the Euros" Aitana tells you only she doesn't quite get the reaction or reply that she expected.

You face drops at the mention of the summer tournament. Alexia expects a clever retort about how Spain won't win if it comes to facing France. The two of you might not have talked for a while but the passion you have when you represent your country is unmatched.

“I'll apologise now for when France beat you, if you get that far" You reply arrogantly hoping that it will cover your delay in response and look on your face which you know you didn't hide very well.

It seems Alexia is the only one who doesn't buy your act. The way you phrased your sentence, how you said France instead of we or even I, it didn't settle well with her.

This time it is her turn to watch you walk away and she couldn't help but enjoy it, she is only human after all.

"Something is wrong with her" Alexia says to no one in particular.

"Why do you care? It's not like you're friends" Mapi is clearly surprised by her friends concern.

"Because Y/N was Alexia's first" Jenni says nonchalantly before taking another sip of her drink.

"She was what?" The blonde defender says in shock.

"That's enough for you. I don't need you telling everyone in this room about my sex life" Alexia takes the champagne from her best friend's glass, downing it herself before putting it on one of the waiter's trays.

"Sex life? So it wasn't just the one time" Aitana joins in.

"We ended up sleeping together more than once over the span of a few years but then I found out she was sleeping with other people.” When she sees her friends about to ask more questions she hold her hand up “It's in the past"

That was the last time your name was mentioned until they watched France play in the first pre Euros friendly and your absence both on the pitch and bench is the hot topic within the Spanish national team. It was during the half time commentary that the world learned the reason why.

"I have spoken with Y/N this morning. She told me that she sustained an injury during the Champions League final against Barcelona which she down played in order to help her team win and she wanted to end the season on a high. She had hoped that rest alone would heal it but unfortunately surgery is required. This is why she is not in the squad today and why she won't be travelling with the team to England for the Euros"

Despite the bad blood Alexia and you shared she couldn't help but feel incredibly sorry for you in this moment. So much so that she wants to reach out to see if you're ok but when she pulls her phone she realises she no longer has your number and messaging you on social media seems too impersonal.

Little did Alexia know she would be joining you on the sidelines after tearing her ACL.

***********************

Alexia was limited in what she could do when she wasn't at rehab so she spent more of her spare time mindlessly scrolling through social media. If asked, she would deny it, but she had been keeping on eye on your accounts and even had a notification on for when you posted. She wanted to know you were ok but the only thing you posted was a photo of you in your hospital bed with the caption 'The cost of victory is high'.

She saw that her sister Alba has posted on her a story which wasn't strange considering the amount fo time the younger Putellas spent on social media. What was interesting is who was in the photo with her. There you stand, your arm wrapped around her sister’s shoulder with the beach as your backdrop.

It wasn't an old photo because it showed Alba's tattoo, one she had only got a few days ago. It caused Alexia to be both confused and intrigued. What were you doing in Barcelona and why out of all people were you with her sister.

Alexia only has one thing on her mind when Alba arrives at her house the next day to take her to therapy. Although she is not sure how to bring you up with it leading to more questions. The fidgeting and constant glances over to the driver’s side of the car doesn't go unnoticed by Alba.

"Ale" she turns her attention to her sister when they get to a red light "What is it?"

The two sisters are close and very open with each other. If one of them has something to say then they will say it making the current situation a little bit concerning.

"What were you doing with Y/N Y/L/N?” Alexia asks. 

“Why do you do that? Say her name like you don’t know her?” When it became clear Alexia won’t answer her question, Alba continues “I bumped into her a few summers ago. She said came to surprise the woman she loved”

This got Alexia’s attention. Whilst Alba knew the two of you were friends, she had no idea just how close the two of your were. You always said your visits to Barcelona were for work, not an international booty call. 

“In the end she never told her. Y/N didn’t want to waste her trip so she starting training here, now she does her solo off season training in Barcelona every year before going back to France”

When the car pulls up to the rehab centre Alexia is out of the car before Alba can say anything else. The midfielder’s mind was running a million miles a second. Part of her couldn’t help but think what if she is the person you came to see. 

When Alexia hears a knock on the door of her physio room your face the last one she expected to see.

"Sorry wrong room" you don't push an interaction with her and chose to walk out before a conversation could be started. 

Alexia wishes in that moment that she could chase after you, she had so many questions for you.

Like she had for the past couple of weeks, Alexia completes her therapy to the best of her ability even though she quickly becomes frustrated at her lack of mobility.

Just as they finish the session, the physio's phone goes off, rightly or wrongly Alexia glances down at the screen. 

Y/N L/Y/N is calling. 

“You can answer it” Alexia says when she notices the therapist declined your call. 

“It’s ok. You’re my patient at the minute” 

Did that mean you were her patient at a different time. 

“Do you know why she is in the city? I thought she would be in France working on her ankle” the Catalonian asks. 

“She did her aggressive rehab here. In France there are too many reminders of what she is missing out on. She, like you, has been struggling with missing out on the euros”

Alexia’s body tenses at the mention of the Euros. The fact that she is missing out of a tournament that she had been preparing for years for, has been hard for her to deal with. 

“I don’t think you should be telling me this?” Alexia knows that the therapist is bound by patient doctor confidentiality. What is discussed between you and her during your sessions should not be talked about. Had the therapist been telling you about her, about how she is dealing with things.

“Your thoughts are very loud Alexia” the therapist jokes “To answer your question, no I don’t tell her about you. The reason why you know is because Y/N told me to tell you. She knew that once you knew she was here you would ask questions”

A small chuckles escapes Alexia’s lips. You always did know her well, it should come as no surprise that you still have the ability to predict her behaviour all these years later.

“When is her next session?” Alexia asks hoping to talk to you.

“Considering we have over run I would say” The therapist looks at her watch but then there is a knock on the door “Now. Shall I tell her to come in?” 

Alexia only nods her head.

She watches you walk in the room. Your ankle is in a boot and you are still limping, the grimace on your face is clear to see.

“I just have to grab a few things, i’ll be back in 10 minutes” 

The therapist leaves the two of you alone in the room. Something that hasn’t happened since she walked out on you.

“How’s the knee?”

“How’s the ankle?”

“You didn’t answer my question”

“Neither did you”

The silence that follows is comfortable but the tension is thick. The words that has been unsaid seem to weigh you both down yet neither of you are willing to be the one that breaks first. Alexia sees you turning the ring on your pinky finger and watches are you brows furrow, you are thinking and whatever you are thinking about is making you nervous.

“Why are you nervous?” Alexia asks.

“The last time we were in a room together you walked out” the memory of that night replays in your head and the feelings that followed soon come rushing to the surface.

The frustration Alexia feels is borderline overwhelming. She recognises the hurt on your face but cannot bring herself to care, or at least she tries not to. Ever since the night of the gala Alexia has a feeling in her gut that this moment was coming.

“And who’s fault was that? You slept with one of my best friends” 

Your head snaps up in the direction of your former friend. The venom in her tone hurts. 

“I didn’t know she was your friend” When you see Alexia open her mouth to cut you off, you hold you hand up to stop her. If Alexia wanted to do this then you would say everything you have wanted to say for years.

“When we talked about exclusivity, I recall you been the one to say we should keep it casual” you remember the moment clear as day. You hated that she didn’t want anything more but you were happy to have no strings if meant be able to call her yours, even if only for a night.

“Because that’s what I thought you wanted” Alexia tries justifies her decision.

“Well Alexia, me taking you at your word doesn’t make me the bad guy, it does however make you a liar” 

It worries Alexia how emotionless you are in this moment. There is no sadness or vulnerability in your tone, it is as if you are numb.

When you realise that this conversation is not going to have a happy ending you decide to change the subject..

“Like you said at the gala, that is the past” You laugh a little at the shock on Alexia’s face, clearly she didn’t know you heard her.

“How is your ankle?” Alexia asks sincerely.

“On the mend, I guess. The doctor said that if I got treatment when the injury first happened then I wouldn’t have needed surgery”

There is something that had been bothering Alexia since she heard you got injured in the champions league final. A feeling of guilt had settled in her gut and she knew it wouldn’t go away until she knew the truth.

“It was when I tackled you wasn’t it? You didn’t even have the ball but I was so frustrated and you were unstoppable. I knew I had to do something and I guess I jus—“

“Wanted to punish my for my sins on and off the pitch”

“Y/N I’m—“

“I don’t want your apology Alexia” You says truthfully.

Alexia doesn’t get the chance to respond.

“You ready for our walk?” The therapist comes back into her room, unaware of the moment she is interrupting.

Alexia watches as you take your boot off. The scar and bruising is still there. You wince as you put on one of your trainers and its’ like Alexia feels your pain. 

“Before I go. Remember I have been where you are, be patient. I’ll see you on the pitch soon Alexia” 

Those are the last words spoken before you leave the physio’s room.

You would like to say you haven’t thought about Alexia since that day in the physio room but she is all you can seem to think about. The past has been playing on a loop in your head for days. You had debated messaging her as a friend just to see how she is doing but bailed. In the end a 3rd party ended up making the decision for you. 

The text message from Alba was unexpected given that was 10pm and you was about to go to bed. 

It read I need your help, something’s happening with Ale and I don’t know what to do. 

You knew what was going on in the Catalonian’s head because you have been having the same thoughts. 

Alba picks you up the next day and uses her key to let you into Alexia’s apartment. 

“Alba I said I needed a day by myself. Why can’t you do as I say?” Alexia snapped when she heard the door open and footsteps approaching her. 

It was hard hearing that alexia wanted to be alone but it wasn’t surprising. Alba hadn’t told you much about why she needed your help but when you looked around the apartment you see why. The blinds are closed, the lights are turned off, the only evidence that someone is home is the small sound coming from the TV. You follow it until you reach the living area. 

There she lays with her leg elevated and the look of defeat on her face. You do see a brief look of happiness when she sees you, yet you remain in the doorway waiting for her to invite you in. There had been so many things taken out of alexia’s control and having people come into her home uninvited shouldn’t be one of them. 

“I heard misery loves company so here I am. Can I come in?” You ask her.

She makes you wait a little longer than you would have liked but when her face softens she pats the seat beside her. 

“I’m not miserable” Alexia pouts. The expression stays on her face when Nala jumps over to your side of the sofa, something that shouldn’t happen given that you have never met the dog before.

“We disagree, don’t we nala?” The furball barks in agreement making her owner laugh but only a second before her stoic face returns.

“Let me guess, this has to do to with Barcelona being in France for the AMOS cup? Missing out on international duty is one thing but missing club football, that is tough” You are speaking from experience but the pain and frustration Alexia feels blinds her from seeing that.

“You wouldn’t understand” Alexia absentmindedly begins playing with the velcro on her knee brace.

“Really? Lyon is in Portland for the WICC cup and I can’t be with the team so trust me when I say I understand how you feel Alexia” 

“How are you so…” Alexia tries and fails to come up with a word to describe your energy.

“Not pissed off at the world” Alexia nods at your choice of words “because I know that me being mad and pushing everyone away won’t change anything” It has taken a while for you to come to this realisation but now you had, things seemed to be getting better.

“Really Y/N? You have pushed everyone away because you are here in Barcelona when you live in Lyon” still Alexia chooses to argue with you but you let her, you know she needs to let her frustrations out.

“You know that isn’t true. I haven’t pushed anyone away I have simply chosen to see different people. I saw Lola the other week and then yesterday I went to lunch your new team and my former team Lucy Bronze. As for me being in Barcelona, I come here every year since” you stop yourself when you realise what you are about to confess.

“Since what?” Alexia asks even though she knows the answer, well half the answer. Every since Alba told her that you came to Barcelona years ago to confess your true feelings, Alexia has wanted to know more.

“Since I came here to tell you I loved you” you shrug your shoulders when you see Alexia’s eyes widen in shock.

Alexia stumbles over her words and she cannot manage to say a single sentence.

“What? Didn’t expect me to be honest? I know Alba told you” you knew this would come up since the her younger sister told you Alexia has asked about you. 

“But you never told me. Why come all the way here and leave without doing what you came to do” Alexia wants to know why you never told her, why you let her hate you for all these years when you loved her.

“I wanted to Alexia but then I saw you at the beach with your friends. You were so happy and knowing how much I hurt you, I didn’t want to risk you feeling that way again. It was clear that you had moved and I knew in that moment that I missed my chance”

You felt like a weight hand been lifted off you shoulders and placed on top of your heart. Now that Alexia knew how you felt it opened you up to being vulnerable and you didn’t like it. Alexia’s face gave nothing away and it only added to your anxiousness.

“You’re wrong Y/N I didn’t move on and I think part of me still hasn’t. It why I still has these feelings for you, some that are obvious like pain and frustration but then I have moments like when I found you were injured and I knew that I still care about you, more than I would like to admit”

Now it was your turn to be at loss for words. Alexia has always been your what if but now things could be different.

Instead of waiting for you to reply, Alexia asks a question which you wanted to know the answer to as well.

“What does this mean for us”

“It means we have a chance Alexia”

You look down at the time of your phone. When you stand to your feet it is obvious that you are going to leave.

“What are you doing? I want you to stay” Alexia begs.

“Unfortunately today is my last day in Barcelona, I need to go home” when you see the look of disappointment on her face you know that once again time is not on your side.

“But there’s some much more I need to say”

“Alba has my number. I’m only a call away”

As you walk away you do with a heavy heart. You didn’t think you would be leaving Barcelona having said what you came to say all those years ago but you are happy you have. 

“Goodbye Y/N” Alexia reluctantly says.

“Adios Amor” A nickname you hadn’t used in years comes out so naturally and by the look on Alexia’s face you can tell she likes hearing you say it just as much as you like calling her it.

[farity]

Sorrow, part 4

Aemond extended a hand, and for a few moments as she stood still, he feared that Elyse would run off instead.

He saw her turn to the maid and ask for help removing his cloak, and then she walked to him and once again placed her hand on his.

"Begin," he said to the Septon, and rubbed gentle circles on the back of her hand.

Her eyes never left his, not when they both said the words, not when the Septon proclaimed them husband and wife, and only closed when he leaned in to brush his lips against hers. Her hands tightened on his then, and loosened again when he pulled back.

She thanked the Septon and when he and the maid had left, she turned to him.

"Why?"

Aemond stopped, and turned to face her. "Did you wish to go back to your family?"

"No," she said immediately. "They would have just sold me to the next old man with two coins to rub together."

"I know I should have probably asked," he said as he took her hand and began walking toward the keep. "But I feared if we did not act soon, you might have been sent away from here."

She stopped, tugging on his hand. "Back to . . . to . . . ?"

"No," he said quickly, but then realized he didn't really know. "I don't know."

Her little nails dug into his palm and she stared up at him. "You must promise me something. As my husband."

He waited, watching anger, despair, fear, crossing her features.

"If I am to be sent back to that hell, you must kill me before it happens."

Aemond said nothing, the need to pull her to him and assure her that no such thing would happen tamped down by the fact that he knew well that between his mother and his grandfather, they could make it happen.

"Promise me," she whispered.

"Elyse, I can't take your life."

She gripped his other hand. "I will be dead anyway," she smiled sadly. "But you can give me a quick death instead of the years of sorrow that await me there."

He could almost taste her desperation, and this time, he did pull her to him, feeling her stiffen when his arms went around her, her hands fisted between them.

"I did not marry you just to lose you," he said softly. "I will slay anyone who attempts to harm you, I will take you away." He was threading his fingers through her hair, soothing her like a child, and his words, which so often were thought clever, were not enough for him in that moment.

Slowly he felt her soften against him, and then she looked up at him. "Will you ever tell me why?"

He smiled bitterly. "Once, my impulses led to another's death. This time, I thought they might help someone."

When she said nothing, those haunted eyes still on his, he added, "I don't know why. I saw you weeping in your chapel, thanking the gods and I knew terrible things had happened. Then I saw your horror when that man said he was marrying you. My gods-damned impulse took over."

"Do you regret it?"

"No. Not for one moment. I will not hurt you. I will not allow anyone to cause you harm. I will do my best to keep you safe."

He watched her as she studied him, her scrutiny one of someone who has been told many lies before.

"I believe you."

* * * * *

Otto Hightower was waiting for his grandson and the girl he'd so rashly married. He'd heard about the septon leaving his residence very early and with what Alicent had told him, he knew in an instant what was about to happen.

The soldier he'd sent to stop the hastily arranged wedding had arrived at the garden as the couple kissed, and had immediately turned back, still unseen.

He saw the two young people turning toward the keep and clasped his hands behind his back. Aemond, of all people. No wonder Alicent was so disappointed and angry. He was the one she was closest to and the one who understood loyalty the most. Or so Otto had thought.

"Grandfather."

Otto stared at Aemond.

"May I present my wife, Princess Elyse."

His eyes stayed on Aemond's for a few seconds, but he looked at Elyse and bowed to her. "Princess."

As Aemond began to lead Elyse into the keep, Otto stepped forward. "I would speak to you, grandson."

"You may speak right now," Aemond said smoothly, "although you may first wish to deal with your errand boy for not completing his mission."

Elyse looked up at her new husband, noticing the smirk on his face, and then at Ser Otto, whose jaw tightened. The familiar fear coursed through her, but her hand was linked through Aemond's arm and she felt that most rare of feelings, safety, around him.

Otto tilted his head and turned to go to his study, and Aemond looked down at Elyse. "Come, wife, it shall be the first of many conversations we shall have today."

He'd called her wife when Ser Otto was clearly displeased - who wasn't? - and she nodded, but she did not know what he'd meant by the errand boy, although anyone who didn't do what Ser Otto wanted them to should probably be fleeing for their lives right now.

* * * * *

"Princess Elyse," Otto began, "surely you can see how this is a most incorrect and unbecoming way of doing things. Prince Aemond will marry for-"

"I have married, grandfather, and you are correct in calling my wife Princess Elyse, for she is one now and shall be until the end of her days. Her family is of an old and noble lineage, which cannot be incorrect or unbecoming, and the ceremony was performed by a Septon of the keep with a witness." Aemond smiled. "Or two."

Otto leaned back in his chair, and looked back at Elyse. "Are you with child?"

Elyse paled, and Otto leaned forward. "No, Ser Otto."

"You shall not hide it for long if you are, unless you mean to get rid of it."

Aemond stood. "Now this is incorrect and unbecoming, grandfather."

"Why?" Otto smiled, and Elyse shivered at the reptilian expression in his face. "If she is pregnant and wishes to pass off the babe as yours, it is something we will-"

"I am not pregnant," Elyse said, her breathing unsteady as she looked up at Aemond. "I swear it."

"Do not trouble yourself with these questions, wife, for now we take our leave of this most incorrect and unbecoming conversation." He nodded at his grandfather and put his hand out to Elyse.

He led her out of Otto's study before the anger he felt could unleash. From everything he'd observed, it would only succeed in terrifying his new wife.

She was silent as they walked down the corridors but once in his rooms, she let go of his hand and turned to face him. "I am not with child, Aemond."

"You do not need to say it again, Elyse, I believe you."

She looked at him for a moment, the sound of her name on his lips calming her nerves just a little. "But there are things you should know."

* * * * *

Aemond awoke to the sounds of screaming, just as his servant rushed into his room. "Prince Aemond, it is the Princess."

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he ran to the room adjoining his, and saw her, so small amidst the bed coverings, shaking as her maid tried to sooth her.

"Elyse," he said gently, but she did not hear him.

He did not wish to frighten her even more, so he walked to the end of her bed, reining in his impulse to take her in his arms, and measured each step until he was near her. "Elyse."

She looked up to him then, and he sat on the edge of the bed as her eyes focused on him.

"You are safe here," he added.

"I came to her as soon as I heard her, Your Highness," the maid said, rubbing Elyse's arms.

"Thank you," he said, his eye not leaving the terrified face of his wife. "Do you wish me to leave?"

She shook her head.

He nodded.

"May I bring you some tea, Princess?"

She turned to her maid as if seeing the young girl for the first time. "Yes," she whispered, and the girl left.

Aemond extended his hand to her and was rewarded with a small smile and her cold fingers on his palm. He moved up the bed and wrapped an arm around her. "I'm sorry you had a nightmare."

She turned to him and placed a hand on his chest before she realized he was only wearing sleep pants. She pulled her hand away but curled herself against him, letting his warmth envelop her.

"I hadn't had one in a few days."

"Maybe talking about it brought it all back," he said, speaking from experience. How many times had he woken up covered in cold sweat after seeing Vhagar kill both Arrax and Lucerys in his dreams?

She let out a breath. "I am sorry," she began. "This must not be how you envisioned your wedding night."

Her words put images in his head and he ruthlessly pushed them away. "I meant what I said. We need not consummate the marriage until you are ready. It changes nothing. You are my wife, by choice and by law."

He was so warm, and felt so good as he held her, and Elyse, who had never learned what desire was through the years of marriage and grief, felt something new inside of her.

Aemond felt her muscles slowly loosen up and allowed himself to kiss the top of her head. He had yet to fully examine what she had told him earlier, and had gone to sleep with the ember of anger burning in his chest.

He'd managed to avoid his mother and grandsire the rest of the day, always keeping Elyse with him. Helaena had given her some of her embroidery materials and he'd found his wife making almost invisible marks on the delicate fabric, stepping back to survey her work before going back to adding more marks.

When the maid returned with the tea, she found Aemond sitting on the bed, asleep with his back against the headboard, and Elyse sleeping in his arms.

They made a handsome pair, the maid thought, although the princess needed to eat more. Her shoulders were so thin and she was so pale. But she had golden hair and pretty eyes, and she seemed so sweet. And the prince, well didn't he look very fine bare chested, holding his wife. The noble ladies might turn their heads from his eye patch but the maids knew better. For once, he didn't go around pinching their bottoms like the young king. They all fought to go around the corridors surrounding the training grounds just to catch a glimpse of his silver hair flying as he worked every day. They had heard from a Baratheon servant that he had been meant to marry one of the daughters, but he looked very much at ease now, didn't he?

Whatever bothered the princess so much, the maid thought, had to be truly awful.

The maid placed the tea on the table near the bed and left to go to sleep. They were having guests tomorrow and she had much to do.

[setsugekka]

❥interview with the littérateur (m)

↳ With your career hanging on by a thread and at the mercy of your publisher, heading up to the old estate on the mountain for a couple of months to write a biographical piece about the keeper feels a bit of a whimsical blessing.

Only to find one of the most brilliant, beautiful minds wasting away within the walls.

→ the last installment of the paradise lost universe.

kim hongjoong x fem!reader — strangers to lovers, romance, heavy angst, slow burn, pining, sexual content. [24,7k wc] cws: mental health struggles, depression, substance addiction (alcohol+pain meds), overdose (vomiting), unhealthy relationships & coping strategies, their relationship is not really the healthiest but it makes for good fiction. penetrative sex.

As the antique clock strikes eight at night, you blink through a relatively empty thought and become starkly aware of your immediate surroundings once more.

Tongue dragging over your front teeth and chin clasped in your hand, you realize your staring out into the nothingness of your quiet apartment — a cup of tea now long since chilled from the cool breeze wafting in from the open window across the room, and your phone sitting face up as you sit in wait for the inevitable phone call that more certainly will be arriving at any moment now.

It's been months coming, this phone call. Months of slow work and even slower payoff as a result of the work that does get done, the conversation that you're about to embark on with your publisher is far from anything new, and the information being given to you by the man more of the same.

Part of you is merely hoping that you'll end the night with your employment still intact.

Eyes screwing shut as you attempt to fight back the emerging thoughts of doom that threaten to overtake you, you instead make the quick decision to stand and head into your kitchen for a wine glass and a much-too-large offering of red to calm your nerves.

Yes, it's a Wednesday. No, you do not care.

But really the problem reside in the fact that you feel as though all options already exhausted: in a world where people and media seems to be constantly in shift, you can't help but wonder if perhaps the golden art of the written word simply be on the outs. That maybe the world is simply moving on without you.

Journalism and the writing therein being a craft that you've honed for so many years — as long as you can recall, really — the thought of moving on to something different or new not a decision that you take lightly. Rather, it's not one that you care to take, at all.

The vibration of your telephone comes in suddenly, and much louder than you had anticipated against the stained glass of your living room table. Shockingly even to you, your reach towards the device is swift as you answer the call with the utmost urgency.

Some part of you desperate to meet an end, in ways.

Taking work calls this late and so far from billed hours isn't uncommon, and is something that you've grown rather used to in your time doing this line of work. If the city never sleeps, then neither would its inhabitants, and if there comes to be a story to tell — well, you simply have to be able get there to tell it, don't you?

"How are you?"

A kind consideration from the man on the other end rather than a genuine curiosity, due in part to the fact that he very well know precisely how it is that you're doing. You suppose that you're doing as well as any other person would be when their career is hanging on by a thread, and as a result, everything else about their life as they know it.

The bills have already begun to pile up as a result of the cutbacks and lack of commission checks — no more bonuses and at this point, you've made it to the final round of employees still left in your line of business at the agency.

Until the guys at the top tire of bleeding money endlessly into a division of craft seemingly long since lost and forgotten by the people of this town.

"Oh, you know," you answer back, and with little effort to conceal the air of devastation laden in your tone.

"I do," he acknowledges with ease and a sigh. "Things are tough and I've had to pull a lot of strings with the guys upstairs to not get our whole place sacked. You know that."

You do.

"On the bright side, if you're concerned about this being that phone call, then I can put your mind at ease for now. It's not."

The words do quell your fears in the immediate moment. Knowing that your job remain intact at least for now means that you'll be able to pay your rent and put food in your mouth for the next month, at least. Beyond that? Only time will tell, really.

One day at a time.

"Your work is good, some of the best I've ever seen in all of my years doing this — and you know I'm not just blowing smoke up your ass, either. It's not you. We've let a lot of good writers go as a result of all of this and I really hate to see it, you know that."

He's a nice enough man, but one thing your publisher is not, is short-winded. A tendency to babble. After years at the firm, you're learned to pick and choose your listening ability — able to hone in only on the important bits that will eventually come to head through all of the other words that happen to fall along side them from the mans tiresome mouth.

"I think I have a lead—"

Oh?

"—you're not going to like it, though."

Oh.

Through the speaker, you can hear him flipping through paperwork sat in his lap, or maybe even on a table in front of him. The mental image of him so easily seen despite his physical absence in front of you: sloppy comb-over hairstyle and a toothpick in his mouth that dangles from the corner at all times, regardless of how recently he has eaten anything, you can't help but perk up at the thought of him — more than likely so proud of himself for finally finding something that might assist the both of you on your journey to not having to file for unemployment in the immediate future.

"Well, I'm not really in any position to turn something down, so lay it on me, I suppose."

"You know the place at the top of the hill?"

Eyebrows knitting together as you attempt to recall the vision of such a thing, you do so quickly, although the idea of what this could have to do with anything still far from your knowledge as you work to put the potential pieces together of where your boss be going with this well ahead of his arrival at the point.

"The manor? What about it?"

"Turns out someone lives there — has for years already and almost no one knows about it," he begins, the slicing sound of pages flipping ringing loud and clear through the phone again as he drawls on. "According to my sources he's an artist. Done a lot of paint work and some photography that did really well but wrote a book after the fact and that's what really ended up catapulting him into whatever sort of fame he landed in."

Gently shaking your head as you listen to him, you can't help but ask the obvious question. The question that anyone else in your position would be asking. "Okay. So what?"

"I think that there is an opportunity here."

Sucking your teeth and glancing up to no one in the empty living room of your apartment, you try desperately to see the angle at which your publisher is seeing this from. You don't wish to be condescending, truly, because you know he wouldn't be bringing this up to you at all if not for genuinely seeing a range of possibility here.

But for you, it is lost.

"So, we're just going to write up pieces about everyone who has ever written a book in this city in hopes that one of them hits it big?" you joke, but only partially.

Chuckling at your reluctance on the other end of the phone, the man inhales deeply — so much so that you can hear him do so. "No, but this guy is sort of a special case — and less than the man or the piece itself, instead it's sort of the surroundings in which the project would take place that would make it special. Which is why I'm bringing it to you, and not to anyone else."

"What 'surroundings' are we talking about, here?"

And without hearing more, you already know that you're not going to like whatever it is that he have to bestow upon you.

"So, this guy is a bit of a reclusive type from what I'm gathering. I've glanced through the book he wrote and it's quite good, but it certainly doesn't give off the impression that should you go up there to meet with him that he'll be welcoming you with open arms," pausing, your publisher flips through another page or two before continuing on with the thought. "And per my sources, he doesn't do interviews, anyway."

Rolling your eyes and gently shaking your head, thankful that the man unable to see your disappointment in this monumental waste of your time, you make a conscious effort to bite all of that back before responding to him once more. "Okay, sounds like a lead that's dead in the water, then."

"Not quite."

Great.

"I know a guy who knows his publisher, and it seems as though management on this guys end is getting rather fed up with the down in the dumps, unwillingness to work act that our little artist has been putting on for a good while now, so as a result, he's willing to cut a deal to get us an otherwise unattainable opportunity."

And while you appreciate his dedication to being incredibly thorough with the unveiling of information to you, you can't help but feel the distinct cloud of dread looming overhead at whatever it is that the man is purposefully avoiding telling you in regards to this 'opportunity,' in particular.

A lot of words, and still no arrival at the actual point of how you are expected to go about this, after all. The manor on the hill a good hour and a half train north, and from the station an additional forty-five minutes up the bend — and that's before you ever even arrive on the property. Suffice to say, it's far from a journey you wish to make weekly, or worse than that, multiple times a week.

You know that he knows this, and that his giving pause almost certainly revolve around this point, in particular.

"And do tell me of this once in a lifetime opportunity," you finally beckon, playfully sarcastic in tone and drawling another chuckle from the man on the other end of the line.

Sighing, as if bested in his own game and with no other option but to relinquish the reigns of knowledge he's been doing his best to avoid, he finally fills you in on just what it is that is being asked of you.

You just about drop your phone to the floor as a result of it, too.

"It's only for a few months!" He insists earnestly, nearly pleading for your mercy already even in spite of your lack of declining as much. "And really, you can leave any time, I just really think this is going to be it. I really think this is our best shot. No one else has ever been offered an opportunity to talk with him like this!"

"You're effectively asking me to write a book, a biography!" You bite back quickly. "I've never written anything like that before, I don't know the first thing about writing something like that, and now you're asking me to move into a strangers home who you admit to being none too inviting towards me in an attempt to pry him open for information about his life?"

Silence blankets the both of you when you finish your tirade, chest heaving and just about out of breath as a result of it when you finish. With a few seconds passing of quiet between you, the man on the other end of the phone exhales heavily again, before answering you with a simple but affirmative, "yes."

Thinking through all of the branches of outcomes that accepting something like this would and could mean for you, you can't help but shake your head in disbelief as you continue on with your loud bewilderment as a result of what is being asked of you.

"You know that I would have to sell my apartment? My belongings? What do I do if this doesn't pay off?"

"How many more months can you afford your place with the way things are going now?"

The response shuts you up entirely — neither petty nor delivered with contempt, rather, an honest question coming from a man that you know reside in the very same position as you do: with the bank notices piling up on the coffee table just next to you and the looming darkness of your job going under at any given moment even after the promise of tomorrow being another day of the same, it is, unfortunately, a fair enough question that you know he already know the answer to.

"I wouldn't ask you to do this if I didn't think there was promise in it," he amends the statement, and with compassion carrying his tone. "I can't promise it'll turn out the way that I hope it will, but I can promise that the result of it not turning out is the same as you not going at all."

You've already arrived to that conclusion, unfortunately. Realizing that at some point in the conversation you've forgotten to breathe, you finally inhale deeply at what this means for you — for your immediate future and your life as you've known it.

The living elsewhere for a few months is the simplicity of it, of course. The beautiful, vine covered manor just at the top of the hill, who wouldn't dream of spending a night roaming the candlelit halls of such an exquisite landmark — and perhaps even calling it home, for however temporary that may be.

Rather, it's the lack of knowing what reside therein: before cutting the call, your publisher tells you that he will email you the details of the arrangement should you choose to accept it, as well as the subjects name and the title of his book. The information reads acceptance of guests as early as the next week, and you can't help but think of how you could possibly have all of your loose ends tied up in time to make this deadline — much less, any of the future deadlines that await you ahead of this journey.

A hard, long close of your eyes before you set your phone back down onto the table and lie back along the length of your uncomfortable, mustard yellow couch — you stare up towards the ceiling as your mind swims in thought at...this. Quite simply, just all of this.

A book titled 'Without Warning.'

If you think back, you find that you do recall hearing some of the buzz about it in the office and even at your favorite coffee shop just below your flat — something that you suppose you've somehow managed to miss during the ardent struggle of figuring out how it is that you'll manage to make your rent payment each and every month, with the words now pressed to the forefront of your mind, it's familiar — and if you're honest, a bit intriguing, now.

And as you lie there in the cold, dead of night and long since resigned to your fate, you think of the picture of the back of the book as sent over by the man you had just been on the phone with only minutes earlier: small and frail as he sit slumped against the edge of a stool for a photograph that he makes no effort in concealing his distaste for, it's the distinct and sharp slope of his nose against otherwise soft features that really has your attention.

Paired with a rather telling unwillingness to look into the camera, as well.

As a result, you can't help but ponder how much of himself lie within the text of the book in question. How much raw, tender, still-beating heart hide buried between pages for the world to cast their gaze upon. So much so that he have no other option but to avert his eyes entirely at the promise of any additional prying looks upon his already open wounds.

How much of yourself have you accidentally allowed the world to bear witness to, and how monumental has the suffering been, in turn?

Transition is difficult. Life carries with it tremendous pain; so tell me yours, Kim Hongjoong.

When the day finally arrives, you're at the very least thankful for the fact that you have little belongings left to worry about from this day on — a certain tranquility resulting from the downsizing of ones things, when the black vehicle meant to take you to your new and temporary home pulls up slowly to the curb in front of the apartment building that you've once called home, you find that you have no choice but to seek peace in the ownership of nothing more than two suitcases full of the comfort of what once was.

There's still some furniture left along with a handful of other things that your publisher is happy to take care of in your absence as thanks for doing all of this to begin with. As a result, it feels a bit like abandoning your life in favor for another one: a quick disappearance and so many unanswered questions about what the future has in store for you — as the driver comes around to take your bags and place them into the trunk of the car, he brings himself further still to open the backseat door for you, as well.

It feels bizarrely upper class and official, being treated like some sort of royalty despite being far from deserving of it, and even more than that, far from meeting with it, as well. The man in question that you're meant to accompany for the next few months no one of nobility or royal bloodline; nothing more than a guy with far more money than he likely knows what to do with, and as a result, hired staff often the obvious decision among the less-common folks.

Only a little less than an hour by car until you reach the large, decorative, black metal gates of the property; part of you regrets having thought judgmentally of the car being sent for you at all now that the travel time is cut down so substantially — even so, with your forehead just about pressed up to the glass of the window as you're gently carried along the gravel road and up towards the residence, your eyes follow along with all of the greenery and decorative architecture that line the pathway for your journey: meticulously trimmed and shaped trees as well as other such shrubbery that is so evidently kept preened and proper, you know that realistically no one who lives on such a property is taking care of it on their own — such a feat nearly impossible as it is — and it's then that you catch vision of one of many presumable staff members that call this massive castle their home in order to maintain it throughout the years.

However, you tend to not think too highly of those with kept staff. Perhaps judgmental of you, but in your experience the sorts of people come along with a bit of a reputation for being quite self-important.

Insufferable, miserable types.

When the vehicle stops finally and just in front of the long, wide set of white cement steps leading up to the front doors, the driver is the first to exit; once again opening your door and shortly thereafter circling around to the back to pop the trunk and retrieve your belongings. As you step out slowly and you make your first step onto the gravel below, it finally begins to hit you just how much of a massive undertaking you've agreed to undergo, and all for the sake of you and your career.

An unfathomably massive landmark of a castle — this much is not news, with the manor able to be seen from just about anywhere in town, but now that you're here you find its greatness far more breathtaking than you had really and truly expected when accepting the terms of this endeavor.

Hard to believe that all of this land, and all of this home, belong to one, single man.

"Your bags," the driver says, and the words come as such a surprise that you're sure you appear just as jarred as you are from hearing them. "It's just up the stairs and through the doors, the madam will greet you inside and show you the grounds from there."

Thanking him, you take your things from him and make quick work of the travel between two places, taking in the sights and scents around you. The air is crisper up here, cleaner, in some way.

It's rather delightful, inexplicably intoxicating on account of being so far out from the inner city now.

Stilling in front of two massive, wooden doors — carved and weathered from years of exposure to the elements — you find yourself already making so many mental notes of your surroundings for the book that you have somehow found yourself responsible for writing, in spite of everything. Surprisingly, you find the desire to document your discoveries here already ever present; the want to quickly get to your lodging and dig out your laptop for jotting thoughts down already making itself known at the forefront of your mind.

Two knocks, but you decide to simply help yourself to entry once you reconsider the likelihood of being heard by anyone in such an expansive place like this.

"Hello?"

Your greeting echoes through the wide open halls of the doorway, and quite quickly you hear hurried footsteps making their way towards you on the shined, dark green marble of the floor as far as the eye can see.

It smells like vanilla and cinnamon — faint, but present nonetheless. Inviting and comforting, you're thankful for that much, at least.

And from your left a woman comes suddenly from around the corner: long, dark blue dress and a towel in hand as she continues wiping her hands while making her way towards you with a gentle smile.

"You're here."

"Yeah, sorry, I sort of just let myself in..."

"That's quite all right," she continues her smile. "You'll be living here, after all. This is your home, too. Come and go as you wish."

Offering her a simple nod in response, your attention instead gets pulled to everything surrounding — dark interior and candles lining hallways in a way that makes the place feel suspenseful and medieval, you hear her let out a bit of a laugh that has you bringing your attention back to hers, only to find her glancing around just the same as you had been moments ago.

"The mister enjoys his dark tones," she says without being asked. "A bit of a dramatic fellow, as artists are most often. Shall I show you to your room?"

Following along with the woman, she informs you that her name is Rosaria, and it not all that necessary to refer to her as the madam — that being on the premises tends to give a feeling of olden times and as a result, people often find it easy to slip into a sort of role play, as it were. Pretending to be in a historical piece you think to be extremely easy the more you walk the halls — everything surrounding you feeling incredibly antiquated and long since lost from its original time, it brings you far more intrigue about the man than you originally had.

What kind of person prefers to surround themselves with so many things that feel so distinctly of the past? Not their past, but a past long before their conception, at that.

"It's here."

Stopping just in front of the doorway, Rosaria unlocks the door and hands the key to you before taking your bags and entering the room with you following closely behind.

It's not only massive, but beautiful, as well.

A single huge bookshelf lining one of the walls and chock full of more reading material than you know what to do with — plush, white rugs on either side of a bed far larger and more ornate than you would ever find yourself needing — you take specific notice of the bathroom and the vanity stationed just next to it before turning your attention back to the woman with a collection of features that is all too telling of your feeling out of your element, entirely.

"The staff are on duty twenty-four seven, so if you ever need anything please use the telephone on the dresser to call down or feel free to come find someone," she tells you with a delicate, placating grin. "The kitchen is just downstairs where we met, you'll find it with ease should you go poking around down there. Is there anything else I can get for you or any other questions you may have?"

"Yeah," you answer, still glancing around nearly absentmindedly but understanding of the question presented to you all the same. "When do I meet him?"

But instead of being met with an immediate reply, instead you're presented with a bizarre and unmistakably cumbrous silence before the woman standing before you takes it upon herself to respond to the inquiry.

"The master isn't around much," she begins, and watching her eyes pull elsewhere you know this to be far from a topic she wishes to be engaging in. Likely because the woman have little to offer you in consolation of the fact. "The grounds are effectively yours while you're here, however, so enjoy your stay. All but the upstairs master bedroom, of course."

"With all due respect," you start quickly and before the woman is able to escape from the conversation in question. "How am I expected to write a book about a man that I'm not able to speak to or get into contact with."

And to that, Rosaria merely gifts you a small, simple grin — one that almost as quickly melts into a frown.

"You do have your work cut out for you."

Upon deciding to take the main keeper of the home up on the offer to wander the halls and make your way to the aforementioned kitchen, you carefully make your way out from your bedroom and into the corridor, marveling at the litany of antique paintings and statued figures that line the walls and walkway as you carry yourself towards the direction from which you came. A home that feels entirely unlived in and more like a museum, staffed with people to ensure the sanctity of the space and that no harm come to the artwork on display within the mansion, it brings to you just that much more bubbling curiosity about the man who chooses to keep himself utterly locked away and alone within such a place.

Surrounded by collections and one of a kind items, but seemingly never to be gazed upon by anyone but the people tasked with their delicate upkeep.

In one room along the way and on the same side as your own, you glance into the open doorway to find nothing but more of the same: a wide array of books, statues, and indoor plants. A place that feels as though it should be wholly blocked off and not meant for anyones entry despite being told of quite the opposite.

Beyond this room and on the other side of the hall you're far from shocked to find nothing more than similar to the last. This time, a small, wooden table with a handful of books stacked one on top of the other, as well as a large, plush chair to accompany the scene. A comfortable, quiet, reading room of sorts, but you suppose for none other than the staff and should any guests happen to find themselves wandering these halls just as you are — then, for them to enjoy, as well.

But you don't figure that such a time comes to pass all that often here.

One thing that you find yourself thankful for, however, is your sense of direction and the ease in which you're able to navigate such an expansive property. Not long until you make your way back down the stairs and into the central welcoming area, you quietly saunter towards the same doorway in which the madam had originally exited to greet you, and through there you find yourself surrounded by a wide open, and immaculately kept kitchen: black marble counter tops as well as black painted cupboards with little golden knobs for accenting — upon entering, you take pause to enjoy the sight of such a place and for a moment you consider just how much could be done with a space like this. Large gatherings of loved ones and people alike for dinner and parties, and just as Rosaria had warned, you find yourself enjoying the fantasy of a decadent masquerade among royalty — the long, perfectly made dining room table just to your right aiding in the beauty of the vision.

Impossible to not view it as a bit of a waste, but none of your business, all the same.

Gently prying open drawers and handles to locate cutlery and dinnerware for the inevitability of needing to feed yourself, once you get a hang of where things go, you take it upon yourself to bring an eye into the tall, stainless steel refrigerator kept just next to the archway from which you entered.

However, inside of it you find very little. Thoughtfully kept fruits and veggies from the kitchen staff for meal prep but otherwise empty as far as food seems to go.

Rather, you take notice of the wide array of alcohol bottles that line the shelves within. White wines and other such bottles that you're not able to discern from one another at a glance, you can't shake the feeling of walking in on something that perhaps wasn't meant for your eyes, at all.

Suppose that food can wait, and especially with more of the property to take in the sight of.

If meant to be living within the walls of a museum, you think it only right to truly engage with it as such: walking further down the hallway and from the kitchen, you pass a large living room with a fireplace. One table and three, enormous, plush, red velvet chairs all seated at some angle to it, it's unremarkable to you how empty and harrowing everything about the home feels. A sort of cold chill that comes from walking the premises unlike anything ever felt before — distinctly feeling as if the property of someone long since passed away, and yet knowing that the man still very much alive and well, pointedly holed up at the highest point and far away from the prying eyes of any potential onlookers such as yourself.

And the truth is that yes, you want nothing more than to look upon him, quite possibly just as much as he wish to not receive your glance. A tug-of-war between two people having never even met before, but in your head you make a point to call out to him in hopes that somehow, some way, he come to hear your beckoning for him.

Whatever you're afraid of, you don't have to be.

Making your way to the end of the dark, marble walkway, a woman enters from through the crystal clear glass doors with gloves and gardening tools in hand. Offering you a smile and continuing on her way too quickly for you to be able to grant her the same in return, you catch the door in hand before it shuts and slowly make your way in the direction from which she came: large, perfectly shapen shrubs lining the same white cemented steps as the front doors of the house now leading you down and into the vast garden of the grounds: as far as the eye can see you find the overwhelming beauty of greenery and colorful flowers — accompanying the sights comes the clear scents of such, as well. Refreshing and alluring, you close your eyes and allow it all to encompass you as you stand at the very last step, a light, cool breeze cascading across your face and wafting the feelings over you all the more.

With a few steps further, you meet the quiet rumbling of a large, beautifully crafted water fountain — small droplets of water splashing out and onto the exposed flesh of your hands and face, you look up towards it and the statue of the figure that sit atop it: a mermaid sort of figure with a large orb of some sort in hand.

Another breeze, and paired with the dampness offered by the fountain, it sends a chill down your spine — the temperature dropping as the night carries on with each passing minute.

It's only the first night and you press upon yourself not to be presumptuous, but after having walked the halls and enjoyed the sights, scents and sounds of the property, you can't help but consider what kind of man wish to have such things, yet not truly enjoy them. Even prior to your arrival and with Rosaria's admittance, the mister of the manor often left unseen and rather accepted as a quiet and unacknowledged occupant of the home, now more than ever you simply have to know more about him.

The kind of man that needs to surround himself with beauty and yet refuses to indulge in it whatsoever.

Back inside of your room and comfortably unpacked, you sit at the study with laptop open and sigh out into the open air at not only what you've come to learn, but the lack of it, as well. You contemplate just how you are expected to interview a man with no clear interest in being interviewed by you — a man who quiet evidently avoids the halls of his own home even among no one else but the company of his housekeepers, now faced with the intrusion of an outsider.

How is one meant to lure such a man out, and even if you were to, how are you expected to get him to talk? Open up? Bare his soul to you, a stranger, when all evidence thus far points to a distinct unwillingness to do anything of the sort.

Glancing over towards one of your suitcases as it lie open on the floor, inside of it you take notice of a book.

'Without Warning'.

Tucked into bed and with novel in hand, it's not long before the hurt nestled between the pages becomes so starkly evident to you. Buried deep within hides a younger, successful, and much more optimistic man — and along the way, documented is all of the ways in which each and every one of those eventually be ripped away from his grasp.

The irony of living in such a place while speaking as if success never having found him at all: no stranger to money, and still with plenty of it, yet, with every turn of the page he tells a tale of loss. Still, through all of the aforementioned, it's none of them that appear to wear on him as much as the one in particular — a word distinctly and pointedly left out from the text in as many ways as he has found it possible. Though, as a reader, and a writer yourself, it's not difficult to discern precisely the word that it is that has found itself decidedly absent from each and every page of his memoir.

Love.

Never said, but alluded to in full — so many pages dedicated to family and travel and a person, but the word never uttered. As if so much as even typing it cause the man in question such grievous heartache that he cannot bear the thought of doing so.

How can you feel so much, and do so without love?

A question presented with the most obvious answer: you don't. As a result, the next most obvious question lie in wait, instead.

Why does love hurt you so?

It takes eight days.

On the evening of the seventh and just after tucking yourself in for bed, you receive the deadline text that you suspect to have been coming all along. Waking up in the morning, the words still hang just as heavily in your mind as if just having read them as you come into consciousness.

'Word going around upstairs is that our department has three months until dissolution, hope you can get something in time.'

So do you.

Faintly, you can hear the sounds from down below of the kitchen staff preparing breakfast for all of the inhabitants of the estate. With a slow roll to your side, you reach for your phone to check the time as the light just begins to peak in through the gently swaying blinds across the room.

Just barely past seven. It smells like pancakes and bacon.

And even through the clamoring of pots and pans downstairs, you think that nothing sound off as loudly as the nearly empty word document that reside all but untouched on your laptop just a few feet away.

A week in and you've more or less gotten used to the routine of the staff within the home — passing by the same handful of people each and every time you make your way downstairs for your first meal of the day and greeted by smiling faces, you suppose that you've found yourself more and more comfortable with your new normal as it stands now. There are obvious perks, of course: a freshly made bed and sheets each day, frequently done laundry and home cooked meals not needing of your own hands for preparation, it's jarring in some ways as something you've never considered yourself living in, much less getting used to — yet, you fall into it with surprising ease.

Three steps down the grand staircase towards the open entrance room, you hear a distinctly unfamiliar voice — two, in fact. Men, as far as you can tell, but no visual in sight yet and only your ears to go off of, you wonder if you're soon to stumble upon previously unmet staff members who likely find themselves busy most hours of the day with activities that don't lend themselves to making friends with passerby.

How delightful, you think to yourself as you continue on your way.

Winding down the rest of the carpeted steps, when the source of the voices come into focus, you certainly wouldn't be able to explain to anyone how it is that you know, only that you do.

One man facing you and the other with his back turned, your eyes hone in on the man not yet having you in his sights — with brown hair that lie long against his neck and shoulders across a thin, long, black cardigan and loose, dark pants that could just as well make a case for being pajama pants — it's the gentleman standing in front of the door and most able to meet your eye that does so first, whatever words on his tongue stalling at the sight of you entering and as a result, pulling the attention of the other man in question.

Turning slowly, the man with the mullet glances back and over his shoulder at you just briefly before switching back to whatever business he happen to be attending to.

"You can't keep putting this off, I can only stall them so much before I need to be able to give them something, anything—"

"I'm working on it."

You're only listening in and yet can't help but notice how undeniably flat the response is, and understanding the lingo all too well, you come to understand this man to be his publisher.

"You haven't given me anything in six months, Hongjoong," the man sighs, evidently grown tired of having this very same conversation for who knows how many times by now. "I need something. This month."

"I know, I'm working on it."

And as you reach the bottom of the staircase, the publishers attention once again pulls to you. Exasperated and beyond defeated, his bids the man of the house a simple farewell before turning and exiting the building.

As for the man left remaining, he merely slips his hands into his pockets, staring at the door in front of him as it slowly comes to a booming close.

Now that you're level with him, you take the time presented to eye him much more closely — not knowing when the next time may be that you're graced with his presence, as it is. Small in stature and dressed as if having just rolled out of bed himself, Hongjoong exhales with a sigh before turning and taking a step towards you.

Thankfully, the time has finally come.

But rather than an introduction, you're merely left with a short glance as the man carry himself past you and back up the staircase just behind you without a single word spoken.

Just silence and an undeniable limp to his step.

"M-Mr. Kim!"

It's the best you can muster up at a moments notice, and thankfully it does give him pause as he stills mid-stride and halfway up the stairs. Staring up at him, you watch as he turn ever so slowly to allow his gaze to befall you.

Still, silence.

"Or Hongjoong, however you prefer to be addressed."

"I don't."

Taken aback at the reply, the most obvious question then comes to mind. "You don't...what?"

"Wish to be addressed."

You would be lying if you said you hadn't anticipated this.

Brushing it off, you continue on with what you need to do. "Do you know who I am? I'm here to write—"

But before you're able to finish the sentence, Hongjoong interjects. "I know who you are."

His tone is dry and his features giving nothing more than his bare responses do, it's difficult to make heads or tails of the man as he stand before you. That is, beyond the fact that he quite evidently has no intention of making this easy for you. Again, you had anticipated this, as well.

However, you don't have the luxury of time on your side, and his unwillingness to partake is simply going to have to sit by the wayside. If it's pride, or self-importance, then the man has no option but to swallow it down and do what it is that you came to do. You simply will not back down with too much at stake.

"Then the quicker you allow me to do what I came here to do, then the quicker I can pack my bags and be out of your hair," you bargain.

Of course, it would be all too easy for him to simply accept as much.

Eyes still lazily pressed down and towards you, with a handful of moments of silence passed between the two of you Hongjoong merely sighs at the words before slowly turning back to continue his climb.

"I'll get around to it."

This much you certainly doubt.

"I'll chase you all around this place if I have to in order to get this done!"

As soon as the words leave your lips, you consider the usefulness of threats within the home of the very same man you're at the mere mercy of, but instead of arguing or flat out denying you such, you're met with nothing more than the silent wave of a hand as if dismissing you of the conversation at hand entirely.

Suppose that it isn't a 'no.'

When you're gently startled awake in the late hours of the night, you don't bother to check the time, instead opting to lie in bed for a moment to allow your consciousness to take you once again through the rhythmic sound of the ticking of an antique wall clock, as well as the dull but pleasant sound of piano keys being sloppily pressed just a ways down the hall — the opposite way in which you tend to go each day.

Out of your door and to the left: the rest of the manor in all of its glory.

Out of your door and to your right: another staircase, of which you dare not climb for fear of what it is that you may find.

You know what await up those stairs in theory — but at this point in time you far and away lack the understanding of making such an unknown journey.

Still, slipping your robe on as well as your house shoes, you carefully make your way out and down the hall in the direction of the enchanting sound; one, lone room hidden away just before the steps upwards with the smallest of flickering lights offering any illumination to signify it's occupancy. Tip-toeing down and just next to the doorway, you press your back delicately to the wall to listen in as the man from earlier in the day press a handful more keys into the most captivating melody. Some keys slightly off, and some missed altogether, you slowly bend to glance inside to take in the sight of the master of the house with wine bottle in the hand not captivated by the piano he sit in front of.

Bewitching is the word that comes to mind.

Candlelight dancing across his features as he slowly bob his head along with the tune he creates at a moments notice, you watch on even with the threat of being caught like this — intrigued and dazzled by him in a way that feels made entirely of fiction.

Perhaps it's the surroundings of the home that have your mind so caught up in the magic of him — a beguiling scene that even you can't seem to make sense of as you watch on.

But the feeling is there, all the same: a bubbling of emotion as you watch him drunkenly key at the instrument between swigs from the bottle in hand.

Peeling yourself away and back down the hall to your own bedroom, as you settle between your sheets and drift off back to sleep with the sound of him playing still carrying through the home, your mind draws back to that first, fleeting moment atop the stairs when you first laid eyes on him and in turn, his eyes on you.

And as sleep takes your weary form, you contemplate how prior to now perhaps the words never holding any special level of synonymous form to you.

Enchanting, and disarming.

As an early morning breeze carries itself into your bedroom from the barely cracked window and bringing along with it the refreshing scent of flowery invitation, you take it upon yourself to gaze out of said opening and onto the land as it presents itself to you for your visual taking of it: a vast land so immaculately kept and yet barely enjoyed by anyone on the premises beyond those set with the task of making sure of its upkeep, you decide today to be the perfect day for partaking in it in just the way that so many others unfortunately unable to do so.

And others choosing not to.

Slipping your laptop into your bag along with a writing pad and a pen, you shrug onto yourself a light coat and make your way down the halls that by now feel so familiar to you. Even in the bright offering of daytime, the mansion remain dark and dreary — perfect for tragic musings as well as the downfall of self-reflection, but sometimes, you simply have to get out of the clutches of these walls and see the sunlight once again.

Rosaria is the first familiar face you see among the staff halfway down the steps and into the wide open space of the front of the house: two bags of laundry slung over her shoulder and hurriedly hauling them elsewhere for their making, you greet each other cheerfully as you continue making your way towards the kitchen and eventually through it into the garden.

However, something stops you dead in your tracks at the archway of the dining area.

It stands to reason that crossing paths with the man who lives in the home shouldn't come as such a shock to you, but given the rarity of such an occurrence thus far, it feels as though you're stumbling in on a place you shouldn't be. All because he is there, as well.

You realize that having exchanged such few words with the man despite your time already spent here makes attempting to engage him in conversation now a chore.

Frozen where you stand, Hongjoong looks up from his mug of coffee as he stand in front of the counter — there's little expression given on his face for you to make any understanding of, but you do take note of the fact that he's wearing the same exact set of clothing as the last time you saw him out and about from the unknown goings on of the top most floor of the manor.

He looks as though he hasn't slept in days, with dark rings under his eyes and a lazily dazed set of features.

With no words exchanged between the two of you and clutching onto your bag, you continue on your way as originally intended — that is, before an idea comes to mind, and really, what's the worst that could happen?

"Would you like to join me?"

Silence once again drawls on between you in the expanse of the kitchen area, and assuming it to be a rather evident decline of your invitation, your lips thin into a straight line as if offering a half-hearted smile and you turn away from the man once again.

One step forward, and you hear him hum.

"Sure."

The walk feels long despite its brevity on account of how acutely quiet it is. Hongjoong doesn't say a word as he slowly follows just behind your strides, as if you're the person who lives there and himself simply being a guest. It's no matter nor difference to you despite the awkwardness of it all, continuing on to a spot you had already made note of in previous outings along the land: a large tree covered in lush, emerald leaves and offering ample shade for the next few hours at least — underneath it, a simple, metal table with two chairs that stands weathered by the outdoors surrounding it, but beautiful and functional, all the same.

You sit, and watch the man accompanying you as he quite carefully sets himself down opposite of you — taking extra care of his right leg, in particular.

Unsure if you're meant to ignore the airy wince that escapes his mouth, you instead pull your vision from him entirely and dig into your bag for your belongings — feigning not having heard it at all.

"Do you mind if I take notes about what we discuss?" You ask.

"Go ahead."

Hongjoong's curtness not something that offers much to work with as far as writing goes, you accept the fact that you're more than likely going to have to do a lot of filling in of surrounding details. Rather, this isn't a book meant to be about you, but it sure is difficult writing it about a man who makes it his mission to give you nothing in relation to your being there to begin with.

You're going to have to work for it. Challenge accepted.

Pen in hand, you glance up as he brings his coffee to his lips — eyes off to the side.

There, but hardly present.

"Can I ask about your career?"

"Sure."

Information pulled up on your phone, you quickly scroll through it to some notes you had taken early into your arrival at the manor and in anticipation of this very moment.

"It says you used to paint, and that you were quite successful at it. Want to tell me about that?"

He hums into the rim of the mug. "What's there to say beyond that? I painted, people liked it, they bought them."

Oh, he's going to make this as difficult as humanly possible. Already you find yourself coming to terms with the fact that getting the man to speak might not have been the most difficult part, and in fact, it's the getting him to tell you anything of substance at all, that's the true mission at hand.

"I've read that beyond that you did a number of well-received photography shoots, as well. Dabbled in music, and wrote a successful book to top it all off. How could someone whose lived so much life have so little to tell about it?"

Given the circumstances, the question is quite aggressive, and you know this to be the case. The truth of the matter, however, is that Hongjoong is far from the first difficult client that you've worked with, and that sometimes simply easing them into submission of telling you their life story isn't going to work — instead, they need to be dragged kicking and screaming along for the ride, and from where you're sitting, the artist is more certainly the latter.

Face turned down towards your phone but eyes pressed upwards to keep your vision on him, Hongjoong huffs a chuckle out through his nose before finally turning towards you and gifting you his full attention.

Leaning forward with elbows into the table, he sets his chin against folded hands. It's the first time you've really gotten a good look at him since your arrival to the property.

Sporting all of the signs of trouble and age, you don't know how old he is, though you suppose if you had to guess you'd place him somewhere around his early to mid thirties — only the finest of lines adorning his face and you can only gather that the majority of his unkempt look is a result of his unwillingness to take care of himself in a superficial, and very much present day sense.

"You want me to tell you about how hard I've had it, how difficult and tragic my life has been to explain why I'm such a shut-in," he starts, sarcastically matter of a fact in tone. It doesn't surprise you, but already you resign yourself to accepting that whatever it is that he's about to offer you is going to be of little use to you and what you've come here to do.

Falling back in his chair and with arms crossed, he looks off and to the side again to finish the thought.

"My parents loved me very much. They sent me to the school I wanted to go to and adored me in spite of everything about myself. Nothing I've ever wanted to do has come especially difficult to me, and I've found great success in nearly all of my endeavors—"

Nearly.

"—In fact, I've been quite fortunate. A bit of a bore, isn't he?"

He's wasting your time, and you've had about enough of playing Miss Nice about it. You sold your belongings to be here, gave up your apartment to be here, and your job lingers in the balance — all in relation to your being here.

'With all due respect, Mr. Kim, cut the shit,' is a thought you have, but you're not quite at the point of saying it out loud just yet.

"No demons, then?" You plainly question, not bothering to grace him with your own eyes as they remain down and towards the screen of your phone as you so boldly deliver the words to a man that is effectively a stranger to you.

"Quite the contrary," he surprisingly answers, and even with a bit of playful chime to his tone. "We all have demons, but you're going to have to catch me amidst them before you're graced by what they have to offer."

Whatever the fuck that means.

The master of the house takes his leave shortly after, deciding himself that the engagement between the two of you having met its end. In a way, you're thankful for it, now coming to the understanding of it not going anywhere, and ultimately, never having the chance to, either.

However, there is insight gained. In his attempts to wall you out, you're still very much able to begin piecing together parts of the puzzle that make him.

If one thing is for sure, it's that Hongjoong believes that the layer protecting him from you as well as the rest of the outside world is so much thicker than it really, truly is. With every word spoken and averted gaze, just another piece gained.

Sometimes the most knowledge lie in the words unspoken, rather than those given. Either way, it's a date, whether he knows it or not: see you in the late hours of the night to share a dance with the devil, as invited.

Calls with your publisher come few and far between.

You're thankful for this on account of having little actual work done thus far, but the feeling of distance between you and the people and places that you call home begins to wear on you with each passing day. Feeling locked within dark pathways that offer little joy or comfort, your patience begin to grow thin at a rapid pace, and all the while, a bubbling curiosity about the man upstairs who wishes nothing more than to have as little of your company as he can manage.

You don't see Hongjoong for over a week, but occasionally in the dead of night you're able to hear his existence through the gentle carry of piano keys down the starkly darkened hallways of the manor.

A single ring coming through, you answer your phone straight away.

The conversations grow tiresome in having to constantly explain the difficulty of the project you've accepted. Not being here, and not speaking with the man in question — your publisher simply waves off your concerns about the inevitability of failure if things continue to progress on in this fashion. 'You don't know what it's like,' being a line you find yourself delivering all too often, and only to be met with the dire voice on the other end of the line insisting that you carry on to deliver the product until the very end.

Only a handful of pages into a document on account of Hongjoong's unwillingness, you think it may come down to a battle of which of the two of you less willing to lose the war: little does he know, however, the danger of an animal backed into a corner with nothing else to be taken from them.

It's sort of dramatic, you suppose — no threat or danger to the man in question actually being presented, of course, but still — you have a job to do, and you have every intention of getting it done.

Because you have no other choice but to do so.

When your eyes part and you come back into consciousness — disoriented and much too tired to enjoy the creeping of sounds that pour into your bedroom in spite of the walls that surround your weary body, this time you make haste in dressing yourself and exiting your space — nearly bolting down the hall and towards the room in which you already know the tune to be coming from.

You've grown accustomed to it, but with little more than a bother now offering itself to you, you grow irritated by the sound of piano keys ringing through the late hours of the night. Haunting and uninviting as they may be, you still carry forward as if beckoned not only by them, but your anger at everything surrounding them — what they mean, specifically. A careless reminder from the man that your presence is not desired, and that he has no interest in or respect of your sharing a home with him.

Passive-aggressive in nature with every key into the instrument pressed. 'You're not wanted here, get out.'

Turning into the doorway and making no effort to keep yourself concealed as you normally might, you take in the sight of the man sat there with a candle lit and a bottle of wine sat atop the large, black ornament. He sways gently to a tune that barely comes to fruition by his hand — a result of the alcohol consumed, rather than the music played, you have no doubt.

"Must you do this so late into the night? Surely you know that the sound echoes through these halls."

Arms crossed, you watch on as he blankly look up towards you. Another couple of keys pressed before the ever so slight curl of a single corner of his lips takes his features.

As if pleased by the sight of you in some way.

"It's late," you add, unsure if he has any intention of replying to you at all. "Maybe you don't sleep, but I imagine the rest of us do."

"Am I bothering you?" He finally asks, as if it isn't obvious enough already.

Rolling your eyes, the irritation bubbling up within you makes itself just that much more known as a result of his annoying reply to you.

"Yes, you are bothering me, and probably everyone else stuck with the unfortunate fate of sharing a living space with you."

And for whatever reason, that response seems to please him.

"Sit."

Inhaling sharply, this is far from the time that you'd like to be engaging in this sort of scenario with him, but with so little offered to you by him, you find yourself far from the kind of position to deny him of such — knowing tomorrow to be a different day entirely, and that once sobered up and perhaps even somewhat rested, you're likely to be met with the very same and exquisitely difficult man that accompanied you into the garden, previously.

You're being given a chance, you have no choice but to take it.

Carefully stepping into the room, you make yourself comfortable in one of the large, ornate chairs off to the side but still near enough to Hongjoong that you're able to hear him speak should he be so inclined, and you figure with the invitation being offered, that the man much more willing to bestow on you an inkling of knowledge that you've been so eagerly anticipating.

Silence blanketing the room once more, you watch him as small, dainty fingers press into the keys before him into a simple but harrowing tune, as if to set the mood for the scene about to play out between the two of you here and now.

Thus, you sit in wait for the next move of the proverbial chess piece this evening.

"When I was writing my first book," he begins quietly, the words in and of themselves enough to perk your curiosity and cause for you to sit forward just ever so slightly, you listen on intently for whatever it is that Hongjoong be willing to give to you of himself. "I was living in Spain. I had a small, quiet flat just on the sea edge that I bought for the sole purpose of writing."

Wishing to have your pen and pad with you, you have no other option but to file away every movement, every word away into memory as if them being the last things you're to ever come to hear.

Hongjoong sways along with another simple tune he plays before continuing again. "About a year after I sold my last painting and gave up the craft for good. I sold my loft and all but disappeared."

"What were you running away from?" You ask, captivated by the way in which he retells the story even in spite of how general it may be.

But he only smiles at the question before parting lips again to respond to it. "Everything."

Taking pause, you think over the answer given — once again turning your attention to the nearly empty bottle of red wine perched on top of the musical instrument in front of him.

Another key pressed before you speak out into the otherwise empty air of the room.

"Why are you telling me this now?"

Hongjoong's lips curl into a soft grin once again, before turning just enough to glance over his shoulder and towards you.

"I did tell you to meet me with my demons, didn't I?"

And for the first time since your arriving at the manor, well over a month into your stay, you slowly saunter back down the hallway and towards your room — only this time, with company beside you. Hongjoong, with his evident limp to his step and hands stuffed away into the pockets of his cardigan, merely staring at the floor in front of and below his feet as the two of you make your way to the entryway of your bedroom.

Standing with your back against the dark wooden accenting of the passage, your eyes trail over the man as he still in front of you with a small wobble — only then looking up to meet your eyes.

Slightly glazed over but hiding so much mystery and enchantment behind them, you can't help but find yourself absolutely captivated by him as he stand before you like this. Unwilling to let you in, and only granting you the smallest of looks inside of him, you're well aware of the way that curiosity can manifest and shift within ones consciousness, ultimately forming into something entirely lacking of reason.

Fascination, allurement, and for some indiscernible reason, attraction. The desire to know him, to understand him — to find the pieces of him that lie fragmented and readjust them in such a way that brings him ease.

Enamored by the unknown. The broken artists curse to cast upon the unsuspecting.

"I want to talk to you again."

A bold insistence from you with little rapport built between you and the man, it gives him a chuckle at the very least. Hongjoong sways in his intoxication again, this time losing his footing just a bit more on account of his leg and pressing the palm of his hand against the wood next to your head to save himself from a most unpleasant meeting with the marble beneath both of your feet.

The sudden lurch forward has his face only mere inches away from your own — the scent of alcohol so strong you think you may end up with a buzz by mere proximity, as a result.

But more pressing than that is the way your breath catches in your throat, as well as the ever present pounding of your heart against the inside of your chest.

"Two days," you stutter out in an attempt to ignore the curiosity slipping up and permeating through your mind. "Meet me in the garden again."

Cocking his head, you watch him glance down the features of your face — not sure if towards your lips, past them, or something else entirely — but either way, in your best interest to ignore it, completely.

This not being the path you wish to walk, after all.

"Sure," he finally answers, pushing himself back up and to his feet, thus creating distance between the both of your bodies. "I'll try to be more mindful of your bizarre sleeping patterns."

And just like that, Hongjoong slowly makes his way down the hall and up the stairs towards his room. Leaving you with nothing more than the knowledge of Spain and an inexplicable mesmerism towards the man with the wine bottle and the unrelenting mystique surrounding him.  

As you watch the time on your phone shift to five minutes past two in the afternoon, you think to yourself how you had expected this.

Specifically, that it would be quite presumptuous to expect that the man show up on time. In some ways, you're a bit proud of yourself for coming to such a distinct understanding of him already with so little to go off of — Hongjoong was simply going to be late, because at the end of the day, this isn't really all that important to him. An unfortunate truth of the matter, but a truth all the same. Another thing you simply have to resign yourself to if you're to have any hopes in regards to being successful with him.

When it's twenty past, however, is when the irritation in regard to his complete lack of respect towards your time sets in.

By chance you happen to catch Rosaria out of the corner of your eye to your right as she tends to one of the numerous gatherings of flowers just nearby as you sit at the same little table in the garden as you once chatted with the man before. Calling her over, she's quick to tend to you with watering can in hand.

"Do you know if Hongjoong's been down yet?" You ask curiously, eyebrows slightly knitted together as if holding more concern than contempt.

The woman cocks her head to the side just a bit before offering you a gentle smile. A smile that says 'you poor thing,' as if you're the last one in on the joke.

"I doubt that, dear. It's a bit early."

Recalling just what time it is in the afternoon, you allow her to carry on with her chores around the land and pack your things quickly. It's certainly embarrassing to some degree, waiting here for a man who has absolutely no intention of showing up, and who seemingly has known that the entire time despite making such plans with you to begin with — beyond that, however, is sitting within the gaze of all of the passerby who are far more kept in the know about Hongjoong's personal timetables than you are.

So now, you're annoyed, and you have every intention of letting him know precisely how much.

Up the first set of winding stairs and through the hallway — a woman on a mission who certainly will see it through, as you meet the bottom of the next set, the set that you know to lead up to precisely where it is that you've been asked not to go, you realize as you stand there in pause that there is an inkling of uncertainty swimming about in your gut.

As if asking yourself once more whether or not this is something you wish to go through with. One foot on the first step, you swallow hard and inhale deeply before taking the next and following through with your decision before you have a chance to talk yourself out of it.

Reaching the top, you find little: a relatively small space compared to the rest of the expanse of the manor, just one tiny room off and to the side with book cases and a table inside from what you can tell and further in front of you — two large, tall doors that you're quite certain lead to exactly where you want to go.

And so, you do.

You suppose that the irony in it all is that by the time you get this far, you find that your anger has waned — instead replaced by unsureness and guilt in effectively trespassing.

But still, you're here, and for what it's worth you should let him know that this sort of behavior won't be tolerated. A gentle reminder needed that you're here to do a job, and you're not enjoying it any more than he is.

Your memory briefly takes you back to the moment in front of your bedroom door that night, but you shake it from yourself just as quickly.

Two hard, echoing knocks against the wood of the door, you wait to hear a response from the man who surely resides inside.

Nothing.

Two more knocks against the door, this time harder and more pointed, you wait less time afterwards to hear back from him before taking one of the dull, brass knobs into hand and twisting it open for your entry.

What you find is not anything you would have anticipated.

Along a large, red, plush couch fixture across the wide open space of the room lies Hongjoong — not asleep, and speaking, in fact.

To no one in particular.

At a glance you count three empty wine bottles strewn about the room, but that's only at quick notice, and you can't be sure how many others are cast about the place should you care to look for them.

He's drunk.

"Hongjoong," you start sternly, still standing at the door as you begin the thought. "We had a meeting, I waited for you."

Turning his head lazily, the man squints across the room towards you.

"That's right," he says, feigning having forgotten such a thing. "Could have sworn there was something on the agenda for today."

"Don't fuck with me," you spit back at him almost as quickly as the last word drops from his mouth and adding another few steps towards the man. "You don't get to disrespect me and my time. I'm here to do a job, which you have agreed to do, so get your shit together and do it."

It must have been the magic touch, because it has Hongjoong springing up and to his feet in a matter of moments with eyebrows tightly pressed together and a look of anger that you've never seen adorning him before. Granted, you haven't been around long enough to experience much emotion from the man, but this comes starkly different from anything else.

"Get out," he says as calmly as he can muster up, but the second demand of the same comes out far less controlled, more sloppy, and loud than the previous. "Get out! I don't give a fuck about you or your time, my publisher made an agreement on my behalf and I'll be damned if some stranger comes into my home and demands anything of me."

When he finally steps up to you — given his level of intoxication, you can't help but step back. After all, you don't know him well enough to have an opinion either way of what he may or may not be capable of.

Hongjoong never raises a hand to you, however. Instead, he takes the few moments of silence between the two of you to stare daggers through you with narrow, livid eyes that quite heavily adorn his lack of sleep on them.

"Get out."

It's quiet this time, almost a whisper. He takes another step towards you, closing the minimal amount of space that was already left between your bodies — as if leveraging himself in an attempt to receive precisely what it is of you that he's asking.

"You're welcomed to leave any time," he starts again, calmer now. "In fact, I insist you do so if your being here doesn't suit you."

Turning on your heel, you bolt out of the room and back down the stairs towards your room — slamming the door shut upon your entry, you sling your bag down from your shoulder and dig through the front pocket to locate your cell phone. Incredibly fast in your dialing of the person in which you wish to have the conversation with, you take three, four deep breaths to try to calm yourself back down — enough to have this conversation in any sort of a productive way.

At least, an attempt to.

Halfway through the fifth ring, you cuss under your breath and pull the device away from your face, but just as you're about to cut the call you hear a mans voice on the other line.

"Sorry, it's busy this time of day, you know how it is around here. What can I—"

You cut him off within the thought. "I'm leaving. I'm not doing this."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he says first, unable to miss the hurried concern in your voice as you quickly run about your room to gather your belongings all over again and messily toss them inside of your suitcase. "What's going on over there?"

"There's no point in my being here. This guy won't cooperate and more than that, he takes joy in the fact that I'm chasing him all around this fucking nightmare of a home in an attempt to make him!"

"You know what it means if you leave..."

Stopping everything you're doing to drive home the point of your next comment, you turn your face towards your phone as if looking directly at the man on the other line for emphases. "Did you know he's an alcoholic?"

He sighs. "I had heard some things."

Rolling your eyes and huffing out one of so many irritated sighs, you shake your head to no one but yourself as you continue corralling your things. "You send me out here to live with a strange, quick-tempered alcoholic and expect any good to come of it. I thought you were better than this."

"It was a last ditch effort, you knew that just as well as I did."

"I didn't know! And evidently you were omitting some of the finer details on purpose."

Pausing again, you close your eyes where you're knelt on the floor and take a moment to recenter yourself. There's silence between you and the man on the other end for what feels like a lifetime before he finally speaks up again, tone low and riddled with understanding.

Perhaps even guilt.

"If you want to come home you can, no one is stopping you," he says, and for some reason just those words are enough to quell the majority of your anger and concern towards the situation before he manages to finish the thought. "I just want you to understand what coming home means."

It means nothing. Quite literally. You will be coming home to nothing, and with equal amounts gained, as well.

The unfortunate truth of the circumstances that you find yourself in now is that leaving before time is up, or the writing is finished, means that it was all for nothing. Your apartment is gone, your belongings are gone, as is your career should you choose to accept failure in such a way.

So what was the point of coming here at all then?

It's with a deep sigh that you end the call with your publisher and set the phone down on the bed just beside you. With a burgundy colored blouse in hand, you shut your eyes to inhale another breath — a breath that you hope will start everything anew.

You unpack your things once again.

One late night with your eyes strained from staring at the screen of your computer and an empty stomach, the kitchen beckons you, drawing you out from the dimly lit comfort of your bedroom and down the same halls you wander through everyday to reach the very same place you've come to find yourself in numerous times before and at just about the same time of evening.

Long past the staff have taken themselves to sleep, there's an eerie calmness to the manor that causes you to feel far more alone than you typically would here. Over the weeks, you've made yourself comfortable enough, but it's times like this that you can't help but wish for the joy of a familiar face, or the bed you've long since abandoned back down the hill and into town.

But what you come to find upon turning into the dark granite adorned room is a familiar face, indeed.

With a small, crystal class of a brown liquid that you can only assume the composition of, you watch as Hongjoong tosses back something into his mouth — the way that pills of some sort are typically done — before chasing it with a swig of the drink in question.

You're only able to get a quick glance of the bottle in the other hand before he quickly slips it into the pocket of his loose, thin, cardigan — turning towards you to meet your eyes for the first time that evening.

He says nothing to you as you casually make your way to join him; pulling a glass down from the cupboard and filling it with water to drink yourself as you settle on a banana that lie out on the countertop, far from the mood to fuss with much more in the late hours of the night.

Turning to face him, your eyes connect again, and for once it feels as though Hongjoong is the one intrigued by you, rather than the other way around — though, his expression would never tell such a tale.

Relationship between the two of you damaged already and with such little foundation to keep it afloat, you're far from interested in pulling any punches as far as concern for his discomfort goes. Tipping your glass towards him as you raise it to your lips for another sip, you speak into the rim of it.

"What are those for?"

Averting his eyes, he answers plainly. "Skiing accident."

Far from the type of man to appear interested in sports of any kind, you assume the answer to be a lie — turning and exiting out of the kitchen just as quickly as you came.

On a particularly cold and dreary night, you enjoy as much of the garden as you're able before the dark clouds of a storm come rolling through the sky and blanketing the estate land with heavy rain and lightning. Hurriedly packing your things away and rushing inside, you instinctually duck at the loud clashing of thunder overhead as you take your first step back inside of the home and shut the door behind you. As the rumbling fades from your ears and you steady yourself again, instead, you take note of the all too familiar sound of piano keys being played from upstairs in the mansion.

It's earlier than his usual playing time, and for that, you are thankful. Still though, any disruption in the mans usual routine leaves you with an inkling of curiosity that only stands to be sated one way in particular.

In all of his faults, and all of his flaws, you still find that you're unable to control the insistent need to know more, understand more about the master of the manor in which you reside.

You tell yourself that that's what you're here to do, and force back any emerging thoughts that may suggest it to be anything more than that.

One thing that you can't help but note is the mans ability to play a cohesive tune tonight — as if playing with every intention of luring you to him, as you reach the hallway of your bedroom and subsequently the room where the piano reside, you're quick to realize that the music is not coming from this level of the residence at all.

Rather, it's coming from one floor up.

This revelation has you recalling one, small detail of your brief entry into his room — a piano that also sit there — pristine white in color and standing as if never touched at all, unlike the one in the room that you find yourself passing now, there is most certainly a part of you that wishes for him to be calling to you purposely. An artists call to come to him when worlds fail him, or when they're simply too difficult to make use of.

And so, you climb the staircase for the second time, and as the large doors come into view once again, you find them to be cracked open just ever so slightly. No wonder that the sound carry through the home with such ease now, you delicately press a palm to the wood and peak inside towards the direction in which you recall seeing the instrument.

There, you lay eyes on Hongjoong: clothes that appear much more freshly washed and less worn than what you typically find him in, he sways gently along with the tune that comes to pass as a result of his deft fingers against the keys. Eyes closed, you think him to be long since lost in a world of his own by now, perhaps not expecting any visitors, after all.

Still, you're pleased by the sight of him here, like this. Seemingly not as intoxicated as he usually is by this time of night and able to express himself clearly with the sound of the piano before him.

A melancholy tune that in spite of everything feels sad.

"You can come in."

Heart jumping into your throat at the sound of his voice and having evidently been caught, you make your way inside and slowly towards the man, watching him intently along the way.

"Beautiful song."

Truth be told, you're not sure how better to open up the dialogue, and for what it's worth, you could simply stand here and watch him play in complete silence all night long if the option presented itself to you.

His lips take into a soft smile at the words. "When I lived in Hong Kong for a few years, I met a woman there who owned the building I was staying in. My second book — rather, what was supposed to be my second book — was all about her. We fell in love hard and fast, ironically, the kind of romance you read about in literature."

"What happened?"

"What always happens," he answers back without missing a beat. Finally, Hongjoong opens his eyes to meet yours before finishing his response. "Life."

A gentle reel at the lack of response, you push further. "What does that mean?"

Chuckling under his breath at your insistence, the man blinks slowly as if resigned to the necessity of answering your questions in some capacity.

"An old friend tells me I display fearful-avoidant attachment style."

A bizarre reply, but now that you have him talking, you can't possibly allow the moment to get away from you. It feels a bit like a maze that you're navigating — always given the smallest amount, and perhaps in hopes that you're willing to find out more.

"Is your friend in any position to be diagnosing you?"

"He's in some position."

Allowing the topic to fall to the wayside, you instead watch on as Hongjoong sways gently to the tune, but it's much less time than anticipated by you before the man is parting his lips to speak out to you again.

"Can I ask you something?"

The question takes you aback, but quickly you nod in acceptance.

"Why do you stay?"

Turmoil bubbling ever so slightly in your gut as you listen to his question, there is of course the most obvious answer. The one that realistically — the both of you already know to be the answer to his inquiry.

However, his presentation of the question at all alluding to the fact that he thinks there to be far more hidden behind the guise of the sake of literature.

A chill down your spin as a result of feeling so raw and exposed before a man who has all but made no effort to know you at all — still yet understanding so much without the information ever truly being granted to him. Fingertips cold to the touch, you clench them tightly into your palm for the warmth offered there as you make the choice that Hongjoong will almost certainly see right through.

"I have to write this book."

And as if never having asked the question to begin with, Hongjoong beckons you towards him with a simple and quiet "come."

Walking towards him as he slides further down the length of the bench, you seat yourself down next to him with ample enough space between the both of your bodies — only for the man to press towards you once again, and close the distance so quickly that it has your head spinning.

A dizzying discomfort that comes from the unknown, every moment with Hongjoong feels exciting as well as terrifying — the image of him drunk and angry still burned into your immediate memory even now, despite his sobriety in this current span of time.

But with a delicate touch, the artists hands come up and over top of yours as you lightly place them over the keys of the piano — hands soft in a way that would allude to having had a particularly luxurious life — you know this to not be far from the case, but still, it's the scent of cinnamon that exudes off of him as a result of your close proximity that has a surprisingly bewildering effect on you.

"Do you know how to play?"

"No," you answer rapidly, and with a voice far more shaky than you would have liked. "Was never any good at the arts outside of writing."

Smiling softly, Hongjoong takes control of your hands as you slowly begin to play a tune with the help of his talented fingers. "Writing is the most beautiful of them all, you're lucky to have been gifted that one in particular."

Nerves beginning to quell as a result of his words, you quietly exhale a laugh before responding to the remark.

"And some people are the chosen favorites who get to have it all, aren't they?"

You don't really think twice about the playfully honest remark before it leaves your mouth, but as your head turns to face him you become starkly aware of how close he is to you now. With the both of you facing one another and only a few inches between your faces, you watch Hongjoong's eyes as they once again dip down from yours and to some place lower between you — almost certainly your lips, and in a way that has you nearly trembling within his grasp as silence cascades down and around the both of you in the aftermath of the all too illuminating compliment towards him.

Moments that feel like a lifetime, you think you could write countless books about this alone.

Hongjoong's eyes suddenly shift, pulling his gaze from your own and distancing himself from you just ever so slightly before his hands slip back and away from your own.

"Yes, well," he nervously says after clearing his throat. "Not everything."

You think back to the one word so deliberately excluded from the text of his novel as you drift off to sleep in the empty comfort of your own bed that night.

As the days carry on, your documentation of your time spend on the premises begins to shift in shape and form.

Far from a conscious decision, your musings about the man and your time spend with him take form in a diary-like feature of what it's like being within his company. It's an effort to bring forth some sort of understanding of what it is, exactly, that is taking place in the here and now of your shared accommodation.

More than that, however, it grants you the ability to be honest with yourself, and the distinct emergence of feelings for the master of the estate.

It doesn't come without guilt, however. You're aware enough to understand the romanticization of his pain and struggle. Something ugly and dark within Hongjoong that brings about such a violent desire within yourself to care for him. A broken man with his fair share of demons that he's more than happy to present on full display for you — it feels as though it's the rawest form of intimacy shared between two people, and something that he would quite possibly never be willing to share with anyone else.

Show me the worst things about yourself, so that I can love them in spite of everything.

There's nothing beautiful about pain. Rather, an inevitability that all people will eventually possess. You don't want to fix him, and you know you can do no such thing, anyway. Instead, you find yourself clinging not to the actions themselves, but what the actions mean behind it all. Pulling back the curtain of Hongjoong's willingness to divulge himself to you only under the most specific circumstances — not for the book, and without notebook in hand, you can see as plain as day what really lies there behind it all: a man that wishes to be heard, but only by you, not by the world.

"So, tell me what happened with your second book."

The first time you get Hongjoong sat down for a proper interview is in the open living space next to the kitchen.

Large, cozy chairs and a plush love seat just next to the crackling warmth of the fireplace, Hongjoong sits with a glass of wine in hand as he stares off into the nothingness past your head. You wait patiently for whatever it is that the man may bestow upon you — suppose, the likelihood of him mentally picking and choosing what details he wish to divulge all for the purpose of a write up as he sits across from you along the room in silence.

Nothing but the sound of wood burning and the gentle ticks of a large, antique clock set opposite of him and next to the fire.

Lips parting ever so slightly and long before words move to leave them, Hongjoong continues his gaze out and into the air surrounding you.

"There is no 'second book,' in all likelihood, there never will be one."

The response doesn't come as a shock to you, however. Halfway anticipating as much, you find yourself a bit proud of having already arrived at the point before his allowing you in.

"Why not?" You follow up, eyes down to the pad and pen sat in your lap. "It's lined up from your publisher, surely he doesn't know that you have no intention of ever writing another one."

The response pulls a chuckle from the man on the love seat across the way.

"No, I suppose he doesn't," he acknowledges, lips pressed to the rim of his glass. "To be completely honest with you, I'm not entirely sure where 'I don't want to write another book,' and 'I'm unable to write another book' begin and end."

Startling honesty from the man, but not unlike your usual bouts with him. So long as he has the comfort of alcohol to guide him along his way.

Scribbling on the paper, your eyes remain glued to it. "Your first was incredibly well-received, surely you have the ability, no?"

Hongjoong responds quickly to that. "My first book was an accident. Rather than a book it was a diary, I never wrote it with intent to have the world read it."

"Then why have they?"

"You'll have to believe me when I say that I'm not entirely sure," he says with another sip of wine. "Being young and acting out of impulse, I suppose. I used to think that I had everything to offer the world, that every thought that came to mind was so brilliant it would be a crime not to share it."

"You don't believe that anymore?"

Hongjoong laughs at the question. "No. Rather, I think that every thought I have serves as another shackle in the containment of my mind, like a prison."

A painfully honest self-assessment, and all too evident of where it derives from. You shift uncomfortably in your chair, unsure of how to proceed with this line of questioning despite it being almost everything that you came here for.

But it's a delicate path. For a man that's already exposed so much of himself to the world, is it too much to ask of him to detail his suffering just that much further?

"How is your mental health?"

With an eyebrow perked up, Hongjoong's eyes pull to the side to land on you now — as if amused by the forwardness of the question.

"—In relation to your ability to work," you amend.

"I've always struggled here or there, but don't we all."

"I don't think most people would refer to their brain as a prison."

"Would they not?" He hums, as if never previously having considered the fact. "How pleasant for them, then."

Leaning forward, Hongjoong takes into hand the bottle of wine placed on the glass table between the both of you, tipping it to fill his glass once more. Settling with his back against the seat again, his eyes once again find their way to you.

All the while, you doing your best not to cast your own upon him.

"And what about you?" he asks suddenly, a particularly loud pop of the fireplace nearly startling you out of your thoughts. "How did you end up here?"

Clearing your throat, you offer him a gentle albeit slightly uncomfortable smile. "I'm not the one getting the book written about them."

"Anyone can have a book written about them," he states plainly, and quite evidently speaking from incredibly painful, personal experience. "Just depends on what you're willing to do to play the protagonist in someone else's story."

"I don't intend on being much more than a fly on the wall."

"Then simply entertain the idea of it," he sighs with a contented close of his eyes, as if basking in the ambiance of the dimly illuminated room. "You know everything about me."

Doubtful.

Regardless, shifting in your seat slightly, you set the paper and pen down onto the table in front of you and make yourself a bit more comfortable where you sit. As silence blankets the room between the two of you, you think carefully about what it is that you wish to make him privy to. Information that cannot be taken back, and cannot be unlearned — you realize the care and difficulty in parsing through answers such as this, and as a result, you begin to understand his reluctance in truly sitting down with you for moments such as these.

"It's probably hard for you to understand from your position, but the art of writing is a bit lost on the people, nowadays."

Pausing, you glance up past Hongjoong's head, instead focusing in on a painting of the garden out back behind the house. A beautiful, watercolor piece that you have half a mind to ask the man if he has painted. Maybe another day.

"I do journalism and I enjoy it, but it's a bit of a dying craft, I suppose," you awkwardly chuckle. The pain of admitting defeat sitting bitterly on your tongue with every word you utter. "Publisher sent me out here as sort of a last ditch effort to hit it big with something to save the wing."

"People only enjoyed my book because they enjoy reading about other peoples suffering," Hongjoong responds quickly, pulling one side of his cardigan over his chest and closer to himself. "Nothing makes us feel better about ourselves and our lives than the hyperawareness of someone else's tragedy. If my diary had been about how happy and in love I was for all of those years, do you really think it would have been as read? Of course not. The acclaim it received was because, for once, people got to have a glimpse inside the mind of a suicidal man without any of the responsibility of being there."

Mulling over the words, you part your lips to respond only for him to add onto the thought before you're able.

"It is a dying craft, and the only thing keeping it afloat is the alluring promise of death itself."

The addition has you swallowing down any words you might have thought to express as a result of his musings. You find irony in this being his most revealing, and perhaps most honest retelling of his experience writing the words found in the diary — off of the back of insisting that you bare a bit of your soul for him to see.

You can't help but wonder how much of yourself can be found in precisely the person he be referring to, now.

Silence befalls the otherwise empty room again, and as Hongjoong leans forward to set his glass down against the table, the both of you glance up to one another for your eyes to catch through the blissful flickering of the fireplace light. His descent back into a more lazed position is slow, calculated — as if contemplating his next move in real time. He's thinking, that much is certain, but nothing could have prepared you for the next utterance out of the mans mouth.

"Come here."

And you hesitate at the quiet request. Words spoken from under his breath and meant for your ears alone as if surrounded by onlookers — it feels like a secret, something that he shouldn't be asking of you and that you almost certainly should not grant him. Yet, you do.

Sliding across the floor towards him as he presses himself further to the side to make room for you, his eyes don't falter from you for even a second as you make your way to him and seat yourself beside him — a gentle hand coming up to lightly cradle your cheek as you do — the feeling of his fingertips against your skin is electrifying, but not even half as much as the uninterrupted gaze between your eyes as you sit still and anticipatory for what's to happen next.

Leaning ever so slightly towards you, Hongjoong whispers into the warm evening air again. "You remind me a bit of someone."

"Someone from your book?" You bravely ask, but the question seems not to deter him as his focus drops down to your lips as it has so many times before.

"Yes."

A single finger under your chin and a delicate tip of your face upwards, he leans in so impossibly slowly that you think it all to be happening in slow motion. Mind racing a million miles a second, you know that this is not a line that should be crossed for a plethora of reasons — but even with that knowledge; eyes fluttering to a close and limpness taking you as you fall desperately under the mans spell from within his grasp, you await the moment that you suppose you've been allowing yourself to fantasize about for far too long, already.

"Is there anything I can—oh."

An unfamiliar voice chiming out from the kitchen area that has the both of your heads turning in an instant, as well as Hongjoong's hand pulling away from you just as quickly. You come to find one of the late night staff standing there — just as uncomfortable with the sight stumbled upon as you are for having been swept up in it, you're the first to clear your throat and stand from the small sofa with intention to create distance between you and the man in question.

"I should get to bed, it's late," you insist with a nervous beat as shaking hands rush to gather your belongings from the table. "Thank you for your time."

Shuffling off towards the exit, you don't look back on account of already knowing what you'll find. The intense gaze of him felt on your figure until you're well removed from the scene, as you finally reach your bedroom, you all but slam the door shut as if having been chased by the guilt of getting caught up in the moment. Back leaned against the wood and heart beating hard within your chest, you clutch tightly to the notepad you had been taking notes on — only one question swimming through your mind now.

What are you doing here?

With the deadline for the project drawing near, calls from your publisher begin coming in far more frequently, and often go ignored by you.

Every message is the same: time is running out, how far along are you, how is it all coming? His insistence on being involved in a project now that the hands of time are ticking unfavorably when earlier he preferred to be far more hands-off in your experienced turmoil related not lost on you by any means — you can't help but notice the voicemails becoming more and more harrowing and stressed.

All the same, until the most recent one.

'The deadline is right around the corner now, at this point if you're not just about finished it's best if we dump the project entirely and I'll try to find something quicker that we can turn around in hopes to buy us more time.'

You know this to be a lie, the man having already divulged the doom of your sector prior.

It's only to this message that you finally feel it necessary to type up a response.

'I'm close. I'll stay a bit longer to see this thing through.'

And you know this not to be enough. Not enough information, and not enough reason to believe that this thing should eventually see the light of day. The truth of the matter is that you're not close, either. Rather, it's a bid for time in not having to leave, as the project ending in turn results in your time spent with the master of the manor also ending.

A stay that revolved around a piece of writing that has now transformed into something entirely of its own making, and almost completely out of your hands, despite those hands being the driving force of it.

You can't leave — for numerous reasons, but the ubiquitous desire to see this thing through being at the helm of it, all the same.

On one particularly dreary night, you allow your inhibitions to get the best of you.

With laptop open and half a bottle of white wine down, as you glance at the time you come to the realization that you've been sat in the same spot, doing this precise same thing for well over a reasonable amount of hours time. The awareness of such also bringing to your senses the stiff state of your back and shoulders has you leaning into your chair for a long, wide stretch of your arms over you head, as well as a groaning yawn escaping your mouth and to be heard by no one but yourself.

A little more intoxicated than you usually tend to be when you do your writing and cursing yourself for the amount of revisions you'll most likely have to do the next day as a result, you stand from your chair as you shut the device and begin your journey to your window for some fresh air, only to reconsider it entirely and settle on a late night stroll through the residence. Well enough past the hours in which the staff would be bustling along the halls — the place is yours for the taking, and relatively uninterrupted, at that.

You can use the mobility, that much is certain.

Slipping on your robe and house shoes, you turn the knob of your bedroom door and gently pull it open — slipping out through the smallest crack is if with intent to not be caught in spite of not doing anything wrong. You attribute it to being caught drinking on the job, in ways — you're a professional, after all, and this is most certainly not the way you typically conduct yourself as far as work goes.

Then again, a lot of professional lines have been blurred, if not crossed entirely during your time here.

And with your back to the hall as you quietly pull the door shut, only the faintest of clicks sounds off. You're thankful for that.

"You're up late."

The voice is low and despite it's familiarity has you just about shrieking into the night, anyway. Head snapping to the side to find Hongjoong standing there with a particularly knowing glint in his eye, you bite back the whine of having been found out like this and instead stand proud and tall in front of him — perhaps even in hopes that he not find out about the deeds you've been up to behind closed doors.

"Drinking on the job?"

Shit.

This groan is audible now as you let down the facade and slump into visible regret at your actions, but Hongjoong only laughs at the sight before him. "And while working on a book about me? I fear for what may come of that when it goes out to the presses."

You know he's being playful, but the humiliation runs through you all the same.

"It's not like that," you sigh, rolling your eyes. "I mean, it is like that, but it's hardly that bad. Give me some credit."

Rather than a verbal response, his vision upon you remains in silence as he watches you squirm from beneath it. The temperature of your skin seemingly white hot as a result of your chance meeting — eyes that once laid upon him now pulling away entirely in favor of absolutely anything else that could have your attention at that moment.

"Can't a man express concern for the way he may be perceived through someone else's eyes?"

Closing of the distance just ever so slightly having gone unnoticed, as the words leave him you can't help but look back towards him, but only to find him much closer than he was only seconds prior.

The tension is palpable, and here like this — no chance of being stumbled upon, either.

Allowing your figure to lazily fall back and against the door, Hongjoong follows suit in caging you in with one arm — only this time, instead of averting your eyes, you make it a point to watch him so intently that you may very well stare straight through his soul.

You can't help but wonder if that be precisely what he's hoping for, after all.

He doesn't touch you this time, other hand dangling to his side as his head dips down to once again close the distance between the two of you. There's a distinct pause — as if silently requesting that you be sure of the decision going forward. An act that will almost certainly change everything, and if you know anything about him as a result of your time spent getting to know him, as far as he's concerned: a change that will do you more harm, than good.

You wonder if he's asking you to be better than him, without the verbal expression of such. You pretend you don't hear his silent insistence either way as his lips finally meet your own.

A kiss that's far more gentle than you might have expected it to be — as if worried that you may crumble and break as a result of his touch, instead, you lean into him further — fingers reaching up and into the thin fabric of his cardigan and gripping tightly to hold him firmly in place as his teeth ghost across your bottom lip before slowly pulling apart from you entirely.

"Chardonnay," he whispers all but against your mouth, and propped up by his forearm pressed into the door behind you, you feel his fingers begin to curl stands of loose hair around them. "Good choice."

But truth be told, you don't care about any of this now. Only a couple of glasses down through the wine bottle offering you the slightest inkling of intoxication, you find the most inebriating of all being the feeling of his flesh against your own.

And with this barrier broken, you desire more. A slippery slope of doings that can't be undone.

Leaning up and against his mouth again, your lips part to whisper into him.

"I want you."

Hongjoong stiffens within your grasp in that moment and you worry that he may remove himself from your grasp entirely. He doesn't, but his answer to your request remain far from the desired outcome, too.

"No."

But with him here and against you like this, you can feel the internal fight within himself. A constant back and forth of wanting, desiring, distrusting, and most of all — self-preservation.

"You don't," he amends the initial decline of your advances, slowly pulling away from your body and creating space between you. "Get some rest, it's late."

And with that, you watch the man slowly limp down the hallway and up the stairs towards his room. Never once looking back towards you, nor faltering in his decision to do so, and as your heart finally comes to a more reasonable pace within you, you contemplate all of the ways in which this has gone to hideously awry.

Outrageously out of your hands. How did you get here, and most of all, how have you fallen for him in spite of everything?

The night of the eve of your intended departure you find something entirely inexplicable that summons you to the highest floor of the manor.

Slow, quiet footsteps that feel as though they drag with every stride — there's a heavy hang in your heart as a result of the infrequency in which you and the master stumble upon one another's company through the dark halls since the passing of your fleeting physical exchange.

It reminds you starkly of how unreachable he was when you first arrived: stricken with terror at someone present in his space. A man intentionally locked away so that he can remain unshared and unseen by the world, only for those very same walls to slowly crumble down before you — one by one.

Now? Nothing. Neither empty wine glass nor pressed piano key through the darkness of night.

The doors are closed to his bedroom, and upon offering two knocks, you are once again met with silence just as the time before.

Your slow entrance into the large, lavish room allows you to take in the sights of it now in a way that you hadn't before: massive, white marble walls and flooring lining the space with plush, white fur rugs beside the enormous and perfectly made and couch. You think that for a man relatively unkempt in appearance, it's bizarre for him to have a personal space so alarmingly and beautifully unlived in.

Moreover, the man is no where in sight — heard, however, is the distinct wretch of a person who most likely lies bent over the once pristine porcelain of their toilet bowl.

"Hongjoong?" You call, unaware of the location of the bathroom but allowing your feet to carry you in what you think to be the direction of the sound previously heard nonetheless, your heart drops at the mere idea of what it is that you may stumble upon, but nevertheless, you have to go.

What you find, you worry to be the rawest form of himself on display for you, yet.

The litter of white, oval pills across the navy blue tiling of the bathroom floor — so bright and stark in contrast — is what catches your attention first.

"You shouldn't be here."

The words come out in a choked groan, throat raw from vomiting from what you can only suspect to be a toxic concoction of substances that shouldn't dare mix within his stomach.

As your eyes turn up to settle upon Hongjoong — throat tight at the sight — your eyebrows knit together as you step over the spillage of medicine and towards him. He sits back against the walling next to the toilet with sunken, dark eyes and brown hair matted to his damp, sweat-sheened forehead; barely able to focus on the sight of you bending down to him at all.

"Hongjoong," you say again, this time in barely more than a concerned whisper as your hands take his face into them. "Christ, are you alright? I'm going to call someone—"

"Don't," he groans, more out of perceived inconvenience of dealing with such a thing rather than much else as a result of it. "They've seen it all before, I'm fine."

"What do you mean you're fine?" You insist with worry still more than evident in your voice. "You're sick, you—"

But saying the words, and the implications behind them makes it far too real. Something that you've known all the while having been here now made all too evident in front of you now.

Some demons simply unwilling to go ignored for too long, and always waiting to make themselves known.

"Oh, come off it," Hongjoong chuckles as he pulls his head away and from your grasp. "You've never drank too much?"

"Not alone in my room, and not mixing painkillers with it, either."

"Then consider yourself lucky."

With little more to say, you step back and away from him as he slowly makes his way back to his feet and towards the sink — faucet on and with a rinse of his mouth, you watch him all while he carries on as if the scenario that you've stumbled upon isn't something to be given another thought about. Eyes meeting in the reflection of the mirror and with concern still lacing your features, you watch Hongjoong's eyes roll before rinsing and spitting water into the sink for the last time.

"What?" he finally asks, hurriedly and with irritation evident in his tone. "What do you want me to say? That I'm an addict? That I'm fucked up and this is how I manage it?"

You don't know how to answer those questions. He carries on through your silence, turning from the reflection in the mirror to face you head on instead.

"Here's the truth then, so you can hate me: when I was twenty-seven, I drank too much one night — like I always did when I drank. My wife and I got into a blowout fight — like we always did when I drank. In my fit of drunken stupidity I slipped down the stairs and injured my leg so irreparably that I'm in constant pain. Everyday. For the rest of my life."

Hearing the way he chokes up as he recalls the evening in question, and how his eyes now find themselves incapable of resting upon your own, you wait in silence for him to finish. All the while regretful for the scene that you have stumbled upon.

"I take these so that maybe for a few minutes each day I don't have to feel the constant reminder of all of the ways that I've failed, and I drink when I remember it all, regardless."

As the last word leaves his mouth, silence comes between the two of you like a wall. Unsure of what to say, you simply offer nothing.

He speaks again, as if uncomfortable with the lack of response.

"Isn't this what draws you to me?" Hongjoong asks with a slight sneer. "Are you not pleased? Even more than before?"

"No!" You all but yell in retaliation, biting back the tears that threaten to emerge from bloodshot eyes.

For a single moment, it seems to be enough of to placate him as his features soften at the sound of your broken voice.

"Hongjoong," you whisper, eyes glancing up towards him now for the first time since the beginning of your exchange. And reaching a hand out towards him, he lays eyes on it — following the length of your arm up with his gaze to meet you.

"Let's get you to bed."

With a new set of clothes on you watch closely as Hongjoong slowly settles into bed and between his dark vermillion sheets — patting the bed twice as to insist that you join him, you crawl on just as carefully as the man had previously, making yourself comfortably on top of the duvet as you watch him from your place on your side.

"That was the first time I've ever heard you mention your wife."

Blinking slowly, he lies there in stilled silence as if to allow the words to wash over him.

"We were a good bit younger when we met, and I don't think either of us were really ready for it, either," he starts with a sigh, staring almost longingly up towards the ceiling ahead. "We both hurt each other tremendously, and I think sometimes you just can't come back from some things no matter how much you try."

"Did you love her through it all?" you ask through a quiet whisper, watching the way he smiles at the inquiry before turning his head to look at you.

"Endlessly. Pitifully, excruciatingly. But I was never able to forgive her, and in spite of her forgiveness, I created more reasons to make her hate me."

Turning back towards the ceiling, Hongjoong sighs aloud. "She loved me for everything I was, and in spite of everything. I repaid her in forcing her to watch my self-destruction, my alcoholism, and inevitably the downfall of our marriage."

"Did you ever learn to forgive her? Even after everything?"

He smiles again.

"No."

Painfully and tragically honest in his flaws, you watch Hongjoong drift to sleep that night from next to him on his bed — and as tiredness threatens to take you soon after, you can't help but think of all of the ways in which people torment one another all for the promise of love. That love, in essence, is violence.

You find that the morning light seems to shine differently in this room as you gently come into consciousness — still dressed in all of your clothing from the night before and no more nestled into the covers than you were when you first lied next to him.

In the very next moment, you startle to the sound of the doors to the bedroom loudly swinging open, and three women entering the room to begin their morning routines. However, it's the sight of shock on their face that has you reeling — a quick understanding of precisely how this looks with Hongjoong resting next to you and only barely beginning to stir to life on account of the noise now.

"I-It's not—" you start, weary and stuttering out the words as you sit up in bed. You know that they can see you very well from where they stand, but regardless you feel it necessary to make a point in showing just how fully dressed you still remain at this time of morning. "I just...we fell asleep, it's not—"

You hear Hongjoong grumble a laugh into the pillow beneath his face.

"S-sorry, we'll come back," one of the staff insists with a bow before ushering the other women out along with her and closing the doors behind them.

Their exit, while bringing you comfort, can't undo the humiliation of what's already been done.

Feeling the man beside you stir just that much more, you turn your head towards him to meet his sleepy eyes — a wide grin pulling at his dry lips.

"What's funny?" You ask him calmly and playfully, lying yourself back down against a pillow to look at him. A moment to take in the sight of him in a new and enchanting way: that slope of his nose and the beautiful narrowness of his eyes — the all too apparent and slightly bewitching upturn of his lips that has you wishing for not much else than to feel them on your own once again.

Blinking slow as if taking in the sight of you all the same, Hongjoong groans slightly on the likely account of a hangover before pulling himself closer towards you and once again lightly pressing his lips to your own.

"You," he whispers against your mouth. "This."

"I have work to do," you say with flirtation to your tone, nestling further into him despite your words. In turn, Hongjoong finds one of your hands in his own, bringing it up between both of your faces and ghosting over your knuckles with the lightest feathering of kisses.

"I think for once, I do, as well."

Your heart feels full as you close those doors behind you upon your exit — a beating excitement in relation to this budding romance, or whatever the case may be — you know it well enough to be ill-advised and that you can't fix him. Quite the contrary, however, you don't wish to fix him, at all. For all of the flaws worn on Hongjoong's sleeve, you feel a growing adoration for the man just that much more. Someone so willing to be themselves, of course, you understand it to be the case that he's rather incapable of anything more or less, you quite simply look back upon your time first entering the estate, and how things have manifested over time and as a result of your engagements together.

Truthfully, it's treacherous waters, and you know well enough that you're engaging in behaviors that you shouldn't be. You have no intention of damaging the man any further, but you suppose no one ever really does.

No intention to fix him, and no intention to worsen him: you're going to have to do some deep inner searching for precisely what it is that you wish to achieve by involving yourself with him.

Regardless, the way your heart beats for him in his presence is not one easily ignored. There's nothing beautiful about peoples damage — it does not make them better or more alluring — but damaged people are more than their trauma, as well.

Strolling into the kitchen, you pull a large, white mug down from the cabinet, and as you pour yourself some coffee to start your day, you hear the quiet rumbling of one of the members of staff from behind you. Turning, you meet eyes with Rosaria, only for her to quickly pull from your gaze and seemingly hurry along with the tasks that bring her within your presence.

An unusual air between the two of you: someone who once met you so warmly, your eyebrows knitting together in slight confusion, you verbally greet her as if to test the waters, only for her to greet you back in what could only be described as the bare minimum of nicety required of her by employment.

You don't push it, instead taking your mug into hand and making your way back through the archway. However, it's then that her words seemingly catch up with her mind, speaking out before you exit in full.

"You shouldn't be involved with him like this."

Already well aware of what it is that she's referring to, you merely still in place, slowly turning towards the woman to face her and to take in the sights of a worried complexion. Eyes glued down to the marble floor beneath her feet after allowing the words to leave her, you don't answer her.

Frankly, you're not sure what to say — in part, because you know the woman to be right.

Inhaling sharply to speak again, Rosaria sighs first. "This is not going to end well, he is not well."

You know.

And instead of arguing the point, you turn back and carry yourself up the stairs in outward silence; mind racing with unending screams of doubt about the ethical and moral validity of your being here at all.

As the days carry on, you find the passage of time comes to feel more like an arbitrary concept.

Contact from your publisher waning with every day past the deadline, you inevitably forgo checking your phone for messages at all. It comes as a relief with your mind muddled with all of the other thoughts that occupy the space there: what are you doing? What should you be doing? And perhaps most pressing of all, what will you do?

And more than that even, where does the man of the manor stand on the matter?

Entering your room late one evening with little more than the glow of the moon illuminating the room, your eyes catch on something particularly out of place in regards to your belongings: atop your closed notebook lies a piece of paper, and stepping closer upon inspection you find it to be a note — scribbled with messy, lazy writing.

A beckoning for you to meet them in the garden that night.

Carefully sneaking through the dark halls and out through the beautifully sparkling glass doors, you make your way down the same cement steps that you have so many times prior, only this time, a new air of excitement shrouding your every movement. Feeling as though you're doing something you shouldn't dare be doing as you make your way past perfectly kept greenery and flowers towards the very same table under that large tree that you've come to grow so fond of, you can't help rushing towards that place in hopes of not wasting so much as a second of time before meeting the person you're intending to meet.

Like fated, secret lovers: not meant to have or hold, and against all odds.

Eyes laying upon him as he stand there gazing out into the cool, night sky — there's a snap of a twig from beneath your foot that alerts him of your presence, and as a result, you watch him turn to cast his eyes upon you with a gentle smile. Stilling beside him to look out into the same sky with him, for once, you find yourself enjoying the very same silence shared between you — now in a new, enchanting way. Something that once brought you contention now offering a sort of comfort despite it never having changed, at all.

"Quite a mess this has turned into, hasn't it?"

And while not entirely sure of what it is that he's referring to, you're most certainly able to make your best guess. 'This,' the concept of it and all that it entails — the goings on between the both of you in some sort of hidden and relatively unspoken on engagement.

You opt out of a verbal response, instead allowing the words to linger in the air between you.

Because yes, it most certainly has.

Sneaking back into the house together as to not alert the staff of your being together — two adults more than capable of making decisions for themselves and yet still feeling as if under the judgmental, watchful eye of the people around them, Hongjoong takes your hand as he all but drags you through the halls and up the stairs towards the both of your rooms. Quiet, muffled giggles and you nearly tripping on the last step as you attempt to follow closely behind him, the both of you pause only for a second — Hongjoong's back against the wall as he pulls that all too familiar pill bottle from his coat pocket and shoves an undisclosed amount of the capsules into his mouth.

You choose not to comment on it. What good does it do, anyway?

Your understanding does little to quell the bubbling sadness that manifests deep in your chest, however.

Slipping into your bedroom through your barely cracked door, you finally allow yourself the full-bodied laugh previously bitten back during your endeavors with the man. Hongjoong's back leaned up and against the shut wood, the two of you look towards one another once again and this time — perhaps for the first time for sure — you find adoration for you there.

Dimmed lighting and the comforting offering of a chilled breeze in through your cracked window, you make your way towards the vanity perched next to the bathroom door frame. Hands reaching up towards the back of your neck to unclasp your necklace, you find it to be caught into the threading of the light cardigan you adorned yourself with prior to meeting with the man, and with a gentle, frustrated huff Hongjoong already begins his journey across the room and towards you for aid.

"This thing always gets stuck," you bemoan, delicately attempting to pull the items from one another without breaking one or the other. "I keep forgetting not to wear them together."

"Stop," he all but whispers as he stills behind you, hands coming up to brush yours and to take over the task with better ease. "Let me do it."

But time feels as though it comes to a stand still with his presence over you like this: the feeling of his fingers brushing against your sensitive flesh, and the ability to feel the warmth of his breath from his stance behind you so wildly intoxicating despite offering so little. As you feel the delicate retrieval of your jewelry from its confines and him carefully sleeping it to the front of your neck to allow your full removal, as you set the item down on the wooden furniture before you it's that very moment that you feel the light press of familiar lips against the exposed skin of your shoulder.

Talented hands carefully pressing the thin fabric further down your arms and out of the way for him to access you, with your head lolled to the side and eyes closed to truly take in the feeling of him like this you find all worries, all concerns, and all reluctance swept out the very same window that the fresh scent of flowers billows in from.

But more than that, one of his hands doesn't stop on it's journey downward: snaked across the front of you and slowly dipping down into the fabric of your pants, it feels like a lifetime in the making when he finally touches you like this. One, single finger pressed against you as if only to test the waters — you melt into his touch as he delivers slow, methodical circles in place. Knees already threatening to give out beneath you even at as little as what he offers you now, you focus on the way his lips drag across your skin, no more hurried now than before — as if a man living out a moment that he hopes will never end, enjoying every inch, every second of you here like this with him.

And just as abruptly, he gently pulls himself away from you. The loss of him feeling so starkly cold, as if never having been there against you at all.

Turning to look at him, more than anything else evident on his face, there is guilt. Eyes once again averted from your own, as if having just done something so horrible he can't stand facing you for it, you watch him as he gently shakes his head before speaking.

"I'm...sorry," he quietly offers, nearly a mumble under his breath.

"Why?" Is all you can muster up in the moment, his reluctance in being with you bubbling up some rather unforeseen, painful feelings that you were so sure you had buried deep enough within you already.

It's not the physicality of it, not really. It's the unwillingness, the terror — all that it represents and the feelings that go unspoken as a result of it.

Perhaps even the last wall. That, and the word unwritten.

"It's not a good idea," he sighs, eyes finally pulling up and meeting your own. "I think you know that."

"Hongjoong—"

It slips out suddenly, hurriedly, and with desperation lacing your tone. The both of you give pause at the sound of his name uttered. Watching him stand completely still in front of you, waiting for the rest of your thought, you suppose you have no choice but to take the leap.

He won't do it first, that much you are certain of.

"I...love you."

You're not even sure that this much is true, at least, not yet. In the moment it feels right, and sometimes you figure life simply must be lived in singular moments.

We never know when we're to run out of them, after all.

Eyebrows slowly pulling together as he watches you and listens to the words, you can't help but think that he looks as though he feels pain at the utterance of them. A reminder of a time not long enough ago that still weight so sorrowfully heavy on his heart that perhaps even as much as the idea of living through such a thing again proving to be too much of a risk for the man to take.

Swallowing hard, Hongjoong blinks slowly once before parting lips that once pressed love upon you, as well.

"I think you should leave."

Too stunned to speak out against the demand, you can only watch on as he exits your room in otherwise silence, and as you fall asleep that night you wonder if he is attempting to find comfort in the ever present stinging inside of your throat, as well.

The next day feels uncomfortably like the first.

With there no longer being any evidence of the mans being there in the same house in which you both reside, the halls that over time had begun to soften and brighten to you once again feel cold and dark in a way that feels just as unfamiliar as the first time you walked them. Staff members that once greeted you with warm, kindness now quickly averting their eyes from you the moment of their meeting, you come to find that far more quickly than anticipated — your time here has come to an end.

That very same evening and with bags nearly packed to their entirety, as you scroll through your phone and attempt to drift off to sleep, your attention is brought to the shuffling of light from the crack beneath your door. Footsteps stilled in front of the wooden opening, your heart stutters just the same — a silent calling to who it is that you know to be waiting on the other side.

But he does not come, nor does he call to you.

On the morning of the next day you're awoken by the loud, jarring sounds of a violent storm taking the land. A car that was meant to come for you and take you from this place now no longer willing to offer itself to you, you have no other option but to remain within a place that no longer sees any need or desire for your being there. It feels tragic, and the way that sorrow hangs in your gut is ever present as the hours drag on long into nightfall — nothing more to do that empty your thoughts out into the document that has now transformed far from its initial and intended upon purpose.

Hongjoong's first book was a diary of all of his suffering, a retelling of all of the ways in which he became the broken version of himself that you've come to find love in now.

You find that yours may very well be the same of him.

And just before sleep takes you that night, you hear carried through the still of night within the estate the sound of an instrument not before heard by you in your months having been spent here. Captivating and deep, you come to realize that you're entirely unsure of where it is that the sound be coming from — one thing that you're certain of, however, is the person behind the hands that play.

Back now to an unspoken call, you tip-toe through the dark in the direction of what commands for you. On the lower level of the home and opposite of the kitchen — rather, where the staff tend to move to and fro — you become aware of a doorway that leads downstairs. Something you had briefly taken notice of but not much else beyond it prior, you notice it to be cracked open and the lightest flickering of candle light shining through as if summoning you down the spiral stairwell and into whatever it is that wait beneath.

The haunting music persisting, you usher forward in your nightgown. Chilled to the bone in the evening ambiance and unsuspecting of what it is that may be lying below.

Upon reaching the basement level, you're stricken with awe at the sight of it.

Far from an average sight, instead you find it perfectly crafted and attended to for keeping. A library, of sorts, and sat in the middle of it all atop a large, red rug stands an organ — as well as the man you've wanted nothing more than to experience the presence of if for nothing more than one last time before your departure.

A half empty bottle of wine next to him, you choose instead to focus on the sounds emanating from his fingertips as you finally make your way to the floor level of the room.

But there's anger there, as well. Frustration as a result of the push and pull from him, and having to watch someone that you've grown so fond of choose despair, as if they think themselves deserving of it.

So, stepping up behind him and clutching your robe shut in the freeze of the room, you say the thing that looms heavy on your mind.

"Why do you insist on being miserable?"

And you don't expect him to answer you, rather, the question comes out as cathartic. Almost as if speaking to no one at all, and not intended to be heard by another person beyond yourself.

"We've been happy here, haven't you been happy?" you continue on with a tremble to your voice that you're unable to fight back in its entirety. "Why can't you just let yourself have that?"

But Hongjoong does still for a brief moment — perhaps something said by you being felt within him, after all. You wait with bated breath for a response that, while not initially anticipated, you think may actually come.

Then, another lifeless press of a key into the instrument. As if the sound of it meant to convey everything he finds himself unwilling or unable to verbalize.

It's not good enough.

Having grown tired of this game with him, you snap forward and clutch the aforementioned wrist into your hand in an attempt to force him to be there and be present with you. It's perhaps rougher than intended upon, and immediately you feel guilt for it, but Hongjoong does react with a swift turn of his head towards you and just as rapidly bringing himself to his feet to face you.

It's a bit of a whirlwind of motions, that much you have to admit, but you suppose it no different than anything else you've experienced regarding the man, thus far.

Hands coming up to seize your face within them, Hongjoong's lips crash hard upon your own. A kiss that's laden with teeth and tongue as well as all of the unspoken wishes and desires held between the both of you all of this time spent together. He walks you backwards all the while keeping you within his grasp until the backs of your legs meet the plush of what you can only think to be a sofa, messy and hurried you catch yourself from falling too roughly against it as he climbs on after and over you — the haste pull of his light jacket from his arms before allowing himself to fall forward and on top of you to taste you all over again.

The scene plays out unlike any of the others: this time rushed and hurried, as if both of you are afraid that the other may pull away at a moments notice. As if this is the last possible opportunity to have this, to be like this.

To have one another.

And you feel as though being with him is a kind of raw, inhibited passion that you've never quite experienced before. Skin that feels hot against your own with every press of his mouth onto you — every inch of your body explored at a moments notice and as though he's never been offered the ability to do so with anyone before — fingertips that dance ever so gracefully across the most sensitive areas of your flesh, you just about fall apart beneath him at his insistence.

Another work of art as you lie beneath him, and with the first press of his hips against your own the two of you stare longingly into one another's eyes — not willing to miss a single thing about this shared intimacy that by now feels an unspeakable length of time in the making. When your breath catches in your throat at the feeling of him within you, Hongjoong closes the distance between your mouths all over again, drinking down the sound of your loving need for him.

For intimacy that started so rushed, the act of it carries out slowly, carefully — a man with every intention of taking his time with you and your body, you have no other choice but to melt into the feeling of him as he methodically unravels you from beneath him — with quiet, strained whimpers of his name faintly expressed upon his lips, as well as the distinct and unforgettable curl of his fingers between your own as you give yourself to him in the quiet calm of such a fatefully stormy night.

Slipping back into consciousness and a bit dazed, you're unable to parse through how much time has passed, but the gentle shift from just next to you pulls your attention from the thought, anyway.

Moonlight falling in through one of the windows only a short distance away, you take in how it illuminates the pale flesh of the man now seated up next to you — the both of you still undressed from the goings on before, you watch him dig out something from his pile of clothing, and then toss it into the back of his mouth.

Reaching a hand out, you lightly graze his back with your palm; it pulls his attention towards you and thus, a grin sprawls across his features — only barely seen in the dark of the lowest level of the home.

"You can't fix me," he says with a chuckle and the gentle shake of his head. "In fact, it's far more likely that I'll only drag you down with me."

Carrying on with the physical comfort that your hand brings him, you merely smile back at him — the gentle huff of air through your nose at the words.

So candidly himself, at all costs. It's that which makes him beautiful — nothing more, and nothing less.

"I meant what I said," you offer him, so quiet that you worry he may not even hear the words at all. Truthfully, there's horror there. The worry of the unknown. Of rejection still, like felt before.

But you have to try.

"You're not your damage, you're not your trauma. None of us are."

Hongjoong turns his head to look out in front of him and towards nothing, as if mulling over words he has never before considered, or at the very least, not in quite a long time. There's a slow nod as he gazes out into the darkness of the basement level, and now much like so many times before, you wish nothing more than to know what it is that he is thinking about. How many ways that he is inevitably trying to talk himself into making a choice: not that serves him, or brings him happiness, but rather the choice that allows for him to remain walled away and far from the eyes of any onlookers. Far from the potential of judgment.

And further more, from reopening still healing wounds as a result of all of his past mistakes.

He inhales slowly and deeply before speaking again. "I'm not entirely sure I remember what love is or what it's like—"

Hongjoong turns to look towards you again.

"—But I'm willing to try, if you are."

Sending off the finished product of your book feels comforting, in ways. After going over the finishing touches and the final notes you've made — you hope that it's not too late to do anyone any good. Granted, the nights spent now far more productive and enlightening, the finalization of it coming to and end encapsulating you in glee in a way that you suppose you hadn't quite anticipated.

Attaching the document to the email before sending it off to your publisher, you make certain not to forget the additional document that, while not requested of you, serves just as much importance as the written piece itself.

You hope it finds him well. A genuine send off, and a fitting note to your resignation from the company, as well.

An unspoken aspiration for it to be the salvation desired — littered with hopefulness, and no shortage of a word once left unwritten within the despairing pages of a work just like it.

♡ send me your thoughts and feelings in my ask.

[minalblood]

The Winchesters 1x13 Review

Let’s just dive into this, it’s been a looong time coming:

-I completely forgot that John had had no idea what to do until he got the letter. I wonder if this is something that may have happened in OG SPN? Also, adding to this, we know that when Henry leaves in SPN, the Winchesters are still in Illinois, but in TW they are already moved. I want to know if there is a thread that matches the OG universe and if so when exactly it diverges. Like, did SPN!John have this feeling of complete loss of purpose when he returned from war? We have some hints to tell us yes, but ultimately we don’t know. Did SPN!John know Murphy? Did Murphy die/was his death impactful to John in SPN as it is in TW? I wish we had a bit more details about the similarities and differences in the universes.

-The fact that TW!John called Dean “sir” hurt me as much as it hurt Dean. You can see the pain. I also want to know how Dean left so quickly. Like suspension of disbelief is fine, but considering we have pictures of him in 1970s Lawrence in his car going place to place makes me think he’s at least somewhat constrained to physicality. So did he just dash? Also how did he get upstairs so quick also? So maybe he isn’t as constrained as I was picturing?

-Speaking of, how did Dean get that letter? I may be misremembering things here cuz it’s been a while since ep 1, but I always assumed that Dean would’ve gotten it from the MOL clubhouse prior to him deciding to interfere right? Is did we ever get this answer? If so though, I want to know how long Dean’s been in TW universe because it’s much longer than I remembered it being and how long did he ponder whether to interact with one of his folks? 

-I fully believe Dean lied about the “one last hunt” to Bobby. There are reasons for this and I will mention it a bit later, but for now I want to mention that he can keep this promise and claim a loophole if he so chooses. He hadn’t left Heaven to hunt, he went searching for something personal and stumbled upon the Akrida. He’s still Dean Winchester, there was no way he’d be able to walk away and not at least try to help, nevermind the Akrida showing up because he and Sam defeated Chuck and he’d likely feel even more responsibility.

-I know this ep is coming full circle on all of aur characters growth, but I need to shout out Samuel here for asking Mary and actually backing away once she clarifies her own uncertainty despite his clear shock. The Samuel we met in the beginning of this wouldn’t have stopped until this devolved into a huge fight because Mary isn’t doing what he wants from her. Same to Millie, she just subtly prompted John about Mary leaving hunting and how he’s dealing without badgering or pushing. I also deeply appreciate both Samuel and Millie here inquiring about their kids’ emotional states, great progress. 

-Joan mention! I cannot wait to get into this once she shows up fully.

-And speaking of growth of characters, I also love that for all we see everyone having evolved and developed, they are still to some degree who we met: case in point Mary’s knee jerk reaction if to withhold information. She ends up not really doing this, even trying to have a proper conversation with John later, but her reflex is still to withhold. It’s just that now she’s aware enough that she’ll change her approach.

-Adore the foreshadowing for the Akrida’s defeat “anything not of this Earth”. Especially with the sheer focus on Dean from both in-universe from the Scoobies and out of universe from the fans. 

-Speaking of things I love though, can we just give a full round of applause for Ada not lying and keeping the secret about the spell from everyone? How many times has stuff exactly like this led to worse outcomes exactly because people didn’t communicate? And what’s more, it’s exactly because she mentions this that Lata gets a head start into a solution (second round of applause for this, especially since it’s so rare that we get actual contingencies set up before the really risky move is executed rather than scrambling for a patch work after the fact) and they don't end up using the spell until it’s really unavoidable which leads to the third round of applause for Carlos who prevents Ada from preemptively using the spell (hello direct answer to Jack turning himself into a bomb for Chuck and the plan derailing completely cuz they jumped the shark with it).

-Something to note though: souls function differently in TW apparently. In SPN the closest similar spell we have to what Ada has is Lily Sunder’s angelic magic which also uses fragments of soul as fuel, however unlike SPN where Lily burns piece by piece but ultimately still has the remaining soul after the spells, in TW they clarify that Ada’s soul will slowly dissipate if they take a fragment of it. It's so interesting to see the difference. I wonder why? Maybe souls evolved differently here, maybe the spell, by virtue of being one of Rowena’s (be it her own making a la soul bomb to kill Amara and save the sun or Book of the Damned bomb using your own life as sacrifice to close hell) makes it act differently? I really want to know. 

-The bar being filled with Akrida possessed people is such a call back to the demon filled bars of SPN days and I love it.

-I do think that Joan knowing Dean couldn't interfere too much/make waves is very interesting. Especially since the Akrida are a Chuck designed failsafe.

-Also how did they get him into the portal? I need to know. 

-Joan saying “his body will be torn to shreds for centuries” is doing multiple things for me. One, it’s recalling hell - especially having it be connected to Dean in pain for an extended period. Two, it’s giving us a hint of how Dean will survive while maintaining the stakes for the Scoobies (and to some degree for us since at this point on a 1st run through since we didn’t know how the portal would interact with Dean - dead or not he had a body that could be interacted with).

-“I’m not Akrida. I was human once” is sooo much fun to consider. Joan is very much this amalgamation of so many things, her former humanity, her ties to the Akrida and all that monster essence, and she’s essentially done it to herself, created Frankenstein’s monster outta Frankenstein. No wonder it went off the rails. She and Cuthbert Sinclair are two sides of a coin for me to be honest in this regard.

-It’s also here at the bar that Joan’s main strategy for dealing with the Scoobies gets shown, trying to appeal to the versions of them she has info on. Something that to be honest would’ve worked at the beginning of the season, even maybe halfway through the season might’ve worked. She tries with Samuel first, bringing up the hunting legacy of her family, then with Mary and John. Then when she gets to the clubhouse she goes for Lata, and in the final fight she once more hits John, Samuel and now Carlos. And she clearly pushes very specific trauma triggers for each, focusing most on John’s anger and Mary’s disillusionment with hunting because I think those are the ones she most relates to. Meanwhile with Lata and Carlos she almost pushes opposite by trying to point out how their changes are detrimental. By this I mean, with Mary and John she’s trying to reignite those feelings in them because she can tell they are still there to some degree (as mentioned they’ve both grown but still have a while to go) meanwhile for Lata and Carlos their growth was more foundational since they actively tried to heal versus Mary and John’s pushback against the healing. I hope this makes sense to y’all.

-Having Joan’s motivation be keeping hunters alive initially is so much fun to dig into. Everything she says to them about why she’s doing what she’s doing is something we’ve heard people talk about before, especially in SPN, especially Dean tbh. We’ve seen Dean struggle with the endless loss, with the weight of the responsibility to keep humanity safe, the toll saving the world took on him. Having Joan act as this dark mirror was a great choice. But also Dean would have never reached this point. Even at his darkest moments, he always drew a clear line about what he’s willing to sacrifice - yes, he also never had to deal with the loss of literally everyone everyone, there was always at least one thread, one person, but still. 

-Lata fighting against the Akrida possessing her? Absolute queen behavior! Love her so much. Also Joan reducing her choice to be a pacifist as a black or white thing is very in line with what I was trying to say above. I can exemplify better here though so bare with me. Lata’s pacifism is both a very personal choice that means a lot to her and gives her personal meaning, is a part of her values. But it also used to be a literal blockage for her before ep 11 where any type of violence coming from her side reminded her of her father especially and of that trauma. More specifically, Lata also felt she had to be a pacifist otherwise she would be exactly like her abusive father. Ep 11 had her confronting her trauma and coming to terms with it, something she was already trying bit by bit to do, and re-evaluate what pacifism means to her. So Joan trying to reduce Lata attacking her to say that hunting has tainted Lata, is to completely ignore the complexity of Lata’s choice to be a pacifist and to ignore the very complicated relationship that Lata has to fighting. In this instance, Lata choosing to fight is a testament of how rooted in her sense of self she has become. She can fight back and not feel the guilt she used to, not feel like it’s a failure on her side to do so because anger and fighting do have a purpose and are important sometimes - like when your life is being threatened. 

-Having Joan’s lover be the final thing that got her down the path of destruction is absolutely a choice on the writer’s side that I adore - definitely tying into the SPN!John of it all. I also find it interesting from another perspective. When I 1st watched the bar scene, Joan’s like of “that’s the John I know” had settled into my brain very differently to the point that I was almost certain they were going to reveal that Joan is actually another version of Mary a la Apocalypse world Mary who lost both her family and John, but much earlier. Basically, Joan is continuously this amalgamation of multiple things at once, the worst parts of each.

-Humanity wasting their second chance speech is giving Jigsaw to me tbh. I vibe.

-I love them figuring out that they can use the journal to bring Dean back, but imagine the version of this story where unsteady they use the journal to defeat Joan. It would’ve been hilarious.

-Love that the one Akrida that has had it out for John especially is the one possessing Lata btw. It makes the vitriol feel more personal and makes me think of both the Leviathan’s who hated playing Sam and Dean and of the disdain Lucifer has for humanity, but especially the Winchester brothers. I love this being another creature who is so pissed to deal with Winchester adjacent people that it’s begun just personally having a vendetta against all of Earth. 

-“How many Campbells and Winchesters have to die” goes so unbelievably hard. Especially in the finale of the show now rewatching, but even on 1st watch I remember being hit right in the heart by that line. It’s the fact that I actually completely understand that reasoning and even agree with it that makes the Akrida and Joan especially so fascinating to me. She does have a point is the thing, especially considering the very personal interest God has had in the Campbells and Winchesters bloodlines. And following this up by talking about how history and legacy are playing a heavy role in this continuous suffering is also fantastic, because it is true, but it’s not the whole picture either. It’s not the only legacy and history the Campbells and Winchesters have to tell.

-And once again Chuck had done what he does best: created another world ending being that he then locked away to ensure the world doesn’t get destroyed ahead of time. He did this with Amara, Lucifer, the Leviathans, the Shedim, angels and demons getting thrown in the Empty counts too, the monsters being thrown in Purgatory also falls under this pattern of behavior. He really is a one trick pony on every level.

-Adore that Ada didn’t even hesitate to use the spell to save Lata. And even more love for the fact that everyone is sharing info so they can make a plan together, no one going off on their own like a moron, god the satisfaction of seeing this is unmatched.

-Cutting off Mary before she can say anything to John as they’re saying goodbye essentially, after he more or less poured his heart out? A choice on the writers part that I wholeheartedly agree with. Love the implications here.

-I also adore that it’s a swordfight. This show has gone out of its way to ensure minimal gun use and I think it was a great choice. Also love that all three of them, Samuel, John and Carlos get attacked at once by at least 2 Akrida. 

-BABY!!! (this was the only reaction needed here - just BABY!!!)

-I wonder if Josie existed in this universe? Like did Joan just get rid of the MOL before Henry and Josie went to the church and meet Abaddon? Does Abaddon just not exist in this timeline? Did Henry even try to do field work in this universe? I have questions!

-Dean saving Mary will never not make me emotional ok? That’s what he’s wanted since he was 4! 

-I also love that we have the most roundabout way of referencing Sam here. I will go into more detail why I especially love it, but just know I do.

-I do hate though that Dean still looks surprised that he got into Heaven and the reminder that he’s dead. I hate remembering that 15x20 is a thing that happened still. 

-Living for Dean instantly jail-breaking Heaven though and then basically breaking his parole to interfere when he found the Akrida. Of course he couldn’t help himself, it’s Dean, he has never been able to ignore when something is wrong and he can help.

-Jack saying it’s time for Dean to return to his own story… I don’t disagree but I do object to the “there’ll be peace” mainly cuz Dean clearly isn’t done. And now I need t go into this a second. Because Jack is treating this situation with the Akrida as though this was Dean’s goal here. But the Akrida are the side quest, the thing that derailed the actual thing Dean’s been looking for when he took off from Heaven. Dean isn’t done. This may have helped him make peace with a chapter of his story, but that’s just it. It’s a chapter, the one about this parents’ tragedy. But he’s still looking. He didn’t leave heaven cuz he was looking specifically for John and Mary, he left the second he say Baby with no clear objective but the knowledge that he had to go. He found some meaning in his restlessness by looking for a version of his folks where they’re happy, but that’s just part of it. And you can see it by how he responds to Bobby in the beginning, how he talks to Jack here at the end. He isn’t done. 

-“They’re family” is one of my favorite moments in this finale tbh. Because not only does he say this explicitly, he does so after introducing them by name. Which brings us back to what I was saying about Sam. In choosing to not name Sam to the gang, but explicitly naming Jack and Bobby who are Dean’s chosen family, it narratively sends a message that goes in direct opposition to what 15x20 was pushing. And to be clear, we do get Sam mentioned by name too, because Sam isn’t important to Dean just because he’s blood related to him, Sam is just as much part of Dean’s chosen family, but Sam is mentioned to Jack and Bobby, who, like us the audience, already know this information about Sam’s importance as opposed to Jack and Bobby who (and I am aware we the audience is aware of their importance too) are representative of all the other chosen family that gets pushed aside in 15x20 in favor of the blood relations. Sam here is important because of what he as a person means too the 3 of them, not because he’s Dean’s blood relative, but it does bare repeating that Jack and Bobby, not blood relatives, occupy the same level of importance in Dean’s life. This went so far in patching up some of the bullshit 15x20 peddled imo. I love it.

-I do gotta say I still think Jack was changed by the god power and I still don’t like it. Chuck won theory or not, Jack is visibly acting different from what we’ve become used to in SPN and that is a sadness I cannot begin to explain to me. He also deserved to live his life free of all this responsibility thrust upon him since he was conceived.

-Oh, I am so emotional about Dean imparting his journal to John and the Colt to Mary. I was mentioning earlier about legacy and history and this is exactly the part that contributes to that discussion. John, the MOL legacy gets the journal - the theoretical help more or less, especially with Dean’s journal having focused, as opposed to SPN!John’s very practical entries, on the emotional and mental side of hunting and how to handle all that hunting will throw at you. And Mary, the Hunter legacy gets the gun - the practical help, but even here, having the Colt be one of the only guns in the series makes it stand out without you needing to know the full significance of it being the Colt, and moreso, Dean is giving it as a protective measure as we the audience know it’s the only thing that can kill the yellow eyes demons. More than that, he is also actively healing with these both of the trauma’s SPN!John and SPN!Mary impart to him - with John the emotional absence and with Mary the physical absence while still helping these versions of them John with his still existing anger issues and Mary, as she’s navigating this no-hunting life, having the means to ensure she survives it. And on top of this, he is reclaiming the legacy/history of SPN!John’s journal and SPN!Mary’s death this way. I love everything about this choice.

-Now the ending scene. 1. The fact that we full on get to see that Ada will eventually be fine, adore it! 2. The reference to the famous beach episode wth, unmatched joy about it. 3. Mary and John actually compromising and finding a way to meet in the middle with everything? Fantastic. 4. Millie letting John go easily? Such a departure from the acidic words she’d thrown his way at the beginning of the show. 5. Samuel actually letting Mary know he’s going and saying he’ll keep in contact? Same vibes as Millie, love to see it. 6. Mary’s iconic baby blue car? I have missed it so much!

-And now, Ramble On closes us off and what a fantastic choice that they got it. It truly is the perfect song for this story. Because it makes it clear that this isn’t an ending. It’s a moving on to something else once you’ve finished whatever/wherever you were at. Dean’s story here has come to a close but he’s moving on to something else, he’s still behind Baby’s wheel searching. John and Mary’s story has ended for now, especially this chapter that had interference after interference from on high (Chuck’s especially via the Akrida and then Dean’s trying to clean up Chuck’s mess) and they can move on both from Lawrence geographically and from this predetermination that said interference was pushing via calling back to SPN as much as it was, now they can live their own lives, like Mary said, she saw every possible version of her and chooses to make her own path instead. (I do wonder what Dean saw, he was there much longer than her). So yea, the story has ended and the story goes on. Perfect choice for song closer.

-EDIT: I forgot to add about the title... oops! Basically, it's kinda tied to what I was saying about the song choice as well aka it's not an ending so it's not a goodbye per se. Something you have echoed actually by Mary and John twice in the episode. And it works as a pushback toward 15x20.

And so I am done too and figuring out what I’m moving on to! I’m sure there are still things that I can come up with to say about this show, and probably will continue to for a long while yet, but the reviews are done now and I’ve said most everything I wanted most to say so til I get something else I feel like mentioning, see y’all in the reblogs! Hope this was fun for you and I deeply appreciate all those who have been patient and stuck around to hear my opinion on this. Bye bye!

@shallowseeker, @noybusiness,@inspnity17, @pleaseraisemefromperdition, @doctorprofessorsong

[skylarstark4826]

Spider sat in one corner of the Sully marui weaving a basket, his smaller hands making quick work of tying sturdy knots out of material new to him.

In the other sat Neytiri, skinning fish after fish and placing them on hooks, quick and efficient with her blade.

The hut stayed utterly silent aside from sounds of their labour, yet it barely felt awkward. After all, both inhabitants were focusing for a reason. The chores were a distraction.

A distraction from the horrid disaster they’ve been through. 

Strangely enough, since loosing the oldest Sully and arranging a funeral, both of them avoided talking about him; even in passing. It caused too much pain, like rubbing salt into a bleeding gash, but while Neytiri knew such agony well, to Spider it was all new. He escaped any thoughts about Neteyam because he was afraid he’d break down again, like he did the night of the funeral, when the emotional whiplash fully caught up to him and he broke, emitting barely-human noises as Kiri wept, holding him. He’d never been this vulnerable, never cried to the point where there were no tears left, and hoped to Eywa that he wouldn’t have to repeat the process, although witnessing Ms.Sully break down twice this week didn’t give him much hope. But could he blame her?

No. Not in a million years. The utter shock of witnessing a loved one’s eyes loose light is a horror Spider wouldn’t wish upon anyone.

His work slowed. 

Is this how Neytiri felt when she lost her father? Her sister? Half of her clan? His pain from loosing ‘Teyam felt gut-wrenching, so he couldn’t even begin to imagine how badly it burned Ms.Sully’s soul to have so much taken from her. Truth be told, he felt horrible for resenting her back in the forest. He only ever saw his own part of the story.

As he wandered deeper into his thoughts, so did the matriarch; except she had a bad habit of quickening her pace whenever she could not find focus on the present. She couldn’t let her children or husband know, but she was holding on by a thread. No amount of crying and screaming and throwing objects into the sand could quench her agony, despite Norm saying that it’d be healthy for her to let it out. No matter how much she let it out, there was too much still left, and it grew like a mold as soon as she’d stop screaming. Maybe she was well past the point of "letting it out" years ago, though she certainly tried many times.

She looked at Spider. 

Yes, she tried hard to let it out indeed…and this boy became her accidental target. He came under the line of fire because through his veins coursed the blood of a demon, and she recalled herself justifying that behaviour more than once by telling her beloved that said boy walked on a slippery slope, bound to repeat the mistakes of his ancestors. 

And yet, there he sat. After enduring months of captivity and torture, as he’d told them when Tonowari organised a council to hear our whatever information he had gathered, he was still loyal. 

He witnessed villages burn, had to beg the demon, *cry* for him to spare the people, and it eluded Neytiri how or why the monster listened. She didn’t want to put the puzzle together just yet, trying to erase the incident on the ship out of her memory. Eywa knows, Kiri hasn’t looked at her the same since.

“Ack!” She hissed when the knife inevitably drove into her finger, causing a bleeding. She then sees Spider react on pure instinct, fetching a bandage-like cloth and sitting next to the woman as he treated her injury. He was good at it, that much she was aware of, as she saw him treat a deep wound once. A human ally pilot bled once, but Socorro never lost his cool and swiftly bandaged it. 

She wondered how often he had to treat himself, to get this precise with his movements.  She also wondered why she let him touch her, but the last seven days have been a complete mess, and neither of the two had strength to be passive-aggressively avoidant of each other. There were bigger sorrows to mope over.

***

The crowd of Metkayina, as well as Tau’nui, roared in frustration at the council. They wanted action, and they wanted it now. The death of many of their loved ones, including the tulkun, has angered them beyond belief, but the leaders had to quieten the crowd so Spider could share what he had gathered about their enemy. He knew he was looked at side-ways, because contrary to how he felt on the inside, blue stripes didn’t make him taller, no matter how much paint he applied to his skin. 

Neytiri grew frustrated as well. The crowd’s fury had been understandable, but their restlessness only stalled them. She looked at the teenager to see if he’d be brave enough to do something about it, since not even Tonowari and Ronal could calm their storm. And he did.

Grabbing the tube filled with a yellow liquid from the mat in the centre, Spider stood in front of the big fire and raised it to the sky. The crowd went quiet, their attention now consumed by the strange device.

“Listen to me, reef people!” He exclaimed, mustering all the confidence he had. “This! This is why they’re killing your spirit siblings!” His voice shook when he remembered the death of a mother and her child.

“What is it!?” He heard the crowd demanding.

“It’s a liquid stored in the minds of every tulkun! They hunt for it because-” He couldn’t believe he was about to say it. “Because it grants sky people immortality!”

Reef Na’vi gasped in utter shock, and even Jake couldn’t keep his jaw from hitting the floor.

“What…what are you saying, child?” Ronal dared to ask, her eyes filled with horror.

“This…this fluid stops humans from ageing! It makes them live forever!” He locked eyes with her.

“But…that is impossible, all energy—”

“They found a way to break that rule. And they break it by killing the tulkun and pulling this out of their heads.” Socorro pointed to where his brain is, his own eyes watering.

The Metkayina and Tau’nui were silent now, processing this new information.

Neytiri felt even more furious than before, but by no means surprised. Sky people cruelty was new to the sea Na’vi, but not her. Not her clan.

Not new to Spider either, she thought, looking at him, and how bravely he held up in the face of a resentful mob.

Yes.

He was indeed quite brave.

***

Water, as beautifully as it sparkled, had never been Neytiri’s strong suit. She could swim just fine, could even fish to an extent, but riding an ilu was still quite difficult for her to grasp, even more when it came to the skimwing. Now that the war was upon them, she had no excuse to stall on learning, so Ronal took time out of her day to offer help. She guided the animal towards her, and ‘Tiri couldn’t help but feel warmth in her chest at its friendly clicks. About ten metres away, Spider sat on the woven pier and helped Jake carve wooden stakes for the nets. Socorro kept stealing glances, wondering how Ms.Sully would do.

Tsaheylu went smoothly but Neytiri shivered, as if cold water was dumped on her. She heard a familiar chuckle and whipped her head, seeing Spider quickly turn his down and pretending to work. She huffed, and listened to Tsahik’s instructions, slowly got on the creature’s back. However, the animal must’ve felt her lack of confidence, as it chirped and bolted away, dropping Neytiri into the water.

Spider tried, honest to the great mother, to hold it in, but the image of such a serious, graceful figure emerging from beneath the waves with the widest eyes was just too amusing. He let out a laugh, before biting his lip and hunching again. Jake looked at him like he just signed his death warrant, and Socorro couldn’t agree more. 

He didn’t see the smirk Neytiri failed to suppress, or her slowly wagging tail as she approached the ilu again, and whispered something into their ear.

He did however, definitely feel the harsh tug on his loincloth, which sent him tumbling into the water with a high-pitched screech. Once under the surface, he locked eyes with the clicking ilu and playfully shoved its face, swimming back up when the most incredible sound graces his ears. 

Neytiri laughed. It was short-lived, but she laughed, and laughed in his presence. Seeing a smile on her worn out face felt like a breath of fresh air and Socorro couldn’t help but chuckle in return, grinning. 

Oh how good it felt, to have the weight of the world pulled off their shoulders, if just for a single moment.

***

Neytiri was at it again; overworking herself because she steadily lost focus on the current task while the eclipse had long since passed. She was expected home hours ago, and the family, deeply scared for their mother’s wellbeing, went looking for her around the village.

Jake and Spider split to search on the shoreline, going opposite directions and soon enough, Socorro witnessed a familiar silhouette resting against the rocks. It was none other than ‘Tiri, with a half-weaved net in her arms. 

The blonde couldn’t help but appreciate that distinct, Omatikaya handiwork; he learned weaving from her after all, but his wonder turned to confusion when he caught the warrior twitching in her sleep. Looking up, Spider met her shut eyes and a forming scowl. It’d be better to wake Neytiri before she falls deeper into whatever nightmare she was seeing.

But as soon as Socorro’s hand touched hers, she pounced on him akin to a vengeful thanator. In a way, she was.

“Hey hey HEY!!” Spider yelled, as ‘Tiri felt for the blade strapped to her vest and unsheathed it. “Neytiri STOP!! IT’S ME!!”

In a fit of rage, Neytiri hissed at him, and on reflex, the blonde hissed right back. That seemed to do the trick, as it snapped the warrior out of her delusion, and she breathed heavily, looking him in the eyes.

After what felt like an eternally long moment, she leapt away, realising what she’d done. “What do you want!?”

“…It’s-it’s eclipse. Everyone has been looking for you…” Spider breathed.

Neytiri turned, eyeing the darkening sky, before giving the blonde a slow nod and collecting the net she’d weaved.

“Let us go.” She looked back at him, waiting for Spider to follow.

***

This night proceeded quietly, like so many others these past weeks, but Tshaka could not sleep. It has been roughly a month, but her scar bled still, as fresh as ever. Keeping her son out of her thoughts as to not breakdown completely has been an exhausting task. 

She needed some air, and slowly, as to not disturb her family, slipped out of the warm hut, shivering at the chill. It was then she caught a distant sound of sobbing.

In said distance, on a pier, sat a familiar tiny figure, with knees up to his chin, and shaking shoulders. ‘Tiri couldn’t help her gasp as she approached, akin to a predator trying not to spook its prey. Was Spider really crying? He hadn’t done that since the funeral. She guessed that he’d been putting on a front, but never considered how heavy the burden of grief would weight on someone who experienced it for the first time. 

Thinking of her child, she let out a tear.

It never got easier, but one’s very first loss always stings the most.

“Spider.” 

She spoke barely above a whisper, but Socorro still lurched, as if burned, before quickly lifting his mask and wiping away the salt on his cheeks. 

“W-what is it?” He croaked, his voice shaking.

It’s only then Neytiri realised that she didn’t actually think it through. Her deep-rooted maternal instinct pulled her towards a broken child, but knowing their history, she had no idea how to provide comfort to him specifically.

So instead, she sat next to him, looking at the glowing ocean.

“I cannot sleep.”

The Na’vi avoided making eye contact with Socorro as to not make him feel further embarrassed, but still noticed him nodding, while hiding most of his face.

“…Neither can I.”

‘Tiri nodded in acknowledgement, and they stayed silent for a little more. Listening to the waves swirl gently against pier’s columns, as well as watching peculiar creatures swim below.

“…How…how do-how do you do it?” The boy then asked, sheepishly turning to the woman next to him.

“Do what?”

“Keep going. After everything…” New tears gathered in his eyes. “I feel like a part of me has been ripped away. Is this how it felt when…?”

“…Yes. It feels like that all of the time.”

The blonde’s eyes widened, another tear escaping down his face. “Then how?”

Neytiri looked back at the ocean, trying to gather her thoughts and give him a hopeful response, but in truth, she had none. Every tragedy was a storm that destroyed her, and then, after a while, she just wouldn’t be crumbling as much.

“…I do not know. I guess…” She sighed. “All you can do is wait.”

“It’s torture.”

“Yes.”

“I want to see him again.”

Neytiri’s heart skipped a beat. “I know.”

“It feels like the world has ended, and everyone’s just pretending like nothing happened.”

That sentence brought new tears to Neytiri’s eyes. Socorro oddly hit the arrow on that one. It really did feel like a silent apocalypse at times; like everything after Neteyam’s death was an afterlife, a ghost remaining of the world that had once existed. 

But she felt that way before. The world had died before, one too many times, and yet here she still was, pushing on. It is thanks to her family that she once more found happiness and saw how her life could yet be full of love and purpose.

“…The sun, Socorro. Look to the sun.”

“What..?..”

Neytiri clenched the weaved floorboards of the pier. “The pain is agonising, and the tragedy may seem endless, but the sun will always rise. No matter what happens here on Eywa’eveng, it’ll greet us the very next morning.”

Spider looked up at Polemius; a giant orb with swirly patterns, gracing Pandorian sky.

“The sun will always rise.” Neytiri said, carefully, ever so carefully, moving her hand towards his, wanting to take the pain she is so aware of away from a boy so young. “Nor is the night starless.” She spoke, their fingers barely touching.

***

Curiously, Neytiri slept like a newborn after the conversation they had. Waking up with the morning rays, she saw that the marui had been emptied of all her family members, but she’d been tucked into a blanket. She’ll have to cook something big tonight, to reward her children and husband for working so hard to help Awa’atlu prepare for the future battle with sky people.

However, next to her lay a holo-pad. A human techno device used by Jake to contact their friends at high camp, and sometimes bythe Sully siblings to take photos. Tiredly, she picked up her head and stared at the screen. One of the icons was glowing, and she knew it meant that someone left a message. She pressed on it, expecting barely-comprehensible science gibberish written by Norm or Max.

Instead, it was a message written directly on this device. Neytiri read into the letters, her mind still foggy. 

Her heart sank into the ground.

Her face went pale. 

She leapt to a stance immediately, running as fast as she could through the village, a hundred emotions fighting to be felt, and a single question screaming to be answered.

Why?

The eclipse was not yet fully over when the warrior reached rocky cliffs on the edge of the island. Spider stood there, on the tallest edge, as still as a statue.

“WHY THE HELL DID YOU SAVE HIM!?” Neytiri screamed on top of her lungs, a human word escaping her in the state of panic.

Socorro turned to her, his face once more stained with tears, but his expression stone-serious. “I did it because….because he loves me, in his own horrible, fucked up way. He cared, and when push came to shove, he chose me over everything else!” He yelled to be heard over the crashing waves. “No one has ever done that for me before and, fuck!” He couldn’t keep up the front for long. “I love him too! I wish I didn’t! I swear I hate that I do! He’s a fucking monster and I regret my choices! But back there, I couldn’t stop myself!” He sobbed. “I was just…I didn’t want to be abandoned again.”

Neytiri glared at him, frantic, a small part of her wanting, truly wanting to understand, but getting overshadowed by anger and fear.

“Foolish boy! Do you understand what will happen?! He will come back for us! For your siblings!!”

Spider shook his head, breathing rapidly. “No, no, he doesn’t care for them. He only threatened you because he knew it would set off Jake. He wanted to bait him into a fight. It was his only goal all along.”

‘Tiri hissed, furious. “What is the meaning of all this? Why come here, to the outskirts, to say it!? Are you too much of a coward to face your sins head on!?”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

Off-handedly, the woman noticed that Socorro wasn’t armed.

“After yesterday, I made up my mind. I can’t make things right, nothing will make it right…but this nightmare can end with me.”

It took a moment for Neytiri to process what the boy had meant, but when it hit her, she couldn’t help taking a step back.

Spider didn’t run out here because he’s a coward.

He ran out here to help Neytiri get rid of the evidence.

“You…you want me to kill you.”

“Don’t you?”

Did she?

Neytiri was angry, and grieving, and afraid, and broken what felt like way beyond repair after the tragedies she’d faced. 

She hated Spider for whom he saved.

She hated what he represented so much.

She…

…

She didn’t want him to die, she realised, tearing up in frustration at herself. She recalled when he was a baby fitting into the palm of her hand, when he followed her like a little shadow and eager to prove himself, when he played with her children, when he gave Tuktirey one of her first necklaces, when he saved his siblings from the sky people who pursued them out of hell’s gate a year ago, when he went through torture at the hands of RDA, that cause him phantom pains, just to keep Omatikaya and their family safe. 

For so long, when meeting eyes with the child before her, she only saw Quaritch. A creature that would inevitablt morph into his exact copy.

But now, when it felt like she had gotten all the proof of it in the world, she looked at him…

And only saw Spider. 

Spider, the human Omatikaya from the forest, and no one else. Miles’s shadow was gone, no longer veiling the blonde away from her.

Neytiri wanted to pluck her eyes out in anger. Why, out of all moments, did she have to see him now? Why did the great mother tortue her so?

She sighed shakily. “I do not what a child’s blood in my hands. I am not him.”

Spider’s eyes widened, as he stared at her in shock, before eventually frowning and nodding. “Right. I’m sorry, of course you wouldn’t…fuck, I don’t know why I thought you would.”

Why did he?

Neytiri hated him, he knew that. They even had an argument once, a short but dramatic one, when the RDA had just returned to Pandora. He’d been so frustrated at the way she saw him, that he’d exploded on her in return that night, saying that Kiri, Lo’ak and Tuk were all the family he had because of her war.

He regretted those words every day.

It was another reason to get rid of him. Truthfully, Neytiri had every justification to go through with his murder. Spider wasn’t even a creature of Eywa, so could it really that big of a deal?

But, of course it was.

Neytiri is not a monster out to get him, though it seems like Socorro had come to believe it at some point because of her sheer resentment. 

And then Neteyam died, and everything made sense. Honestly, Socorro had been surprised she didn’t actually attempt anything herself. Truly, Tsahaka was a warrior stronger than any other he’d ever met. An ideal Na’vi.

He only wished he could have understood her sooner.

But now he did. 

“I get it. I…”

And he still needed to make up for his sins.

“It’s time I act like one of the people for once.”

And with those words, Spider’s exopack flew down the cliff, disappearing into the foam below.

Neytiri’s heart stilled as she watched the blonde choke in slow-motion, before her instincts took over and she leapt into action. 

Spider’s limp form in her arms, she ran back to Awa’atlu, counting down the seconds with her every stride.

Sky people only had four minutes to live after loosing air. 

Awa’atlu resided way further. 

She wouldn’t make it.

But Socorro was not any other human, was he? 

Neytiri held onto that thought like a life-line as she pushed Metkayina out of her way. Had Spider always been so small? So fragile? 

She almost missed the entrance when reaching her home, slipping on the weavings, but regained her footing quickly and dropped Spider off on her pallet, rummaging through technical equipment Spellman had brought two weeks ago for the blonde specifically. 

Somewhere here, it had to be here!

There.

She pulled out a brand new mask, setting a charged battery into the slot before picking up her child and fixing the visor over his face, pressing a button that would start filtrating air. 

For a gruelling moment, there had been nothing but silence, and Neytiri’s heart kept sinking to the bottom of the ocean.

It’s been six minutes.

But then, there was a deep, loud inhale, punctuated by frantic coughing and shaking. Neytiri held the blonde as he gulped for air like a fish out of water. 

A moment or two, Spider had been completely disoriented, frantically looking around him, when his eyes paused, staring into Neytiri’s bright yellow ones, almost glowing in the light of the sun.

Socorro looked heartbroken, on the verge of tears the longer the warrior held him. “Why…why did you do it!?”

In response to his panic, Neytiri snapped out of her initial stupor. “I saved your life you ungrateful boy!” She snapped back, yet holding him only tighter. 

“Wha-no! You were supposed-I should have-” He stumbled over his words, distressed. “I should have died!” He sobbed, trying wearily to push Neytiri away, but his strength was no match for hers. “Let GO!” He cried. “…please.”

“True warriors do not go out like this.” She hissed.

“I’m not a warrior. Never passed the iknimaya remember!?” He blabbered, still pushing against Neytiri’s shoulders. “Ending it all was the most honorable thing I could do!”

“No!” She grabbed him by the bicep, forcing him to look up at her. “The honourable thing would be to own up to one’s mistake!”

“It was not a mistake! Don’t you get it?! I CHOSE him in that ocean. I s…” He whimpered, loosing his will to fight back. “He saw me. And I saw him. You can’t own up to that kind of shit.”

Neytiri’s hold on Spider’s bicep tightened, as she searched for something to say; something that would discourage him from trying that kind of blasphemy again, when a crucial memory surfaced in her mind.

“My mother. The Tsahik…” She began. “She saved a spy once. A spy of the sky people. A spy that helped your father destroy our hometree. That man chose to help our enemy…but he owned up to his choices, and eventually redeemed himself.”

“…but I can’t become rider of the last shadow.”

“No, you cannot, but it isn’t why I chose him. He made a commitment of loyalty, and showed us all that he was ready to fight, whether forgiven or not. You’ve made a commitment of loyalty a long time ago. I should have seen it sooner…should have seen you.” She spoke, and it felt like a puzzle piece missing from her damaged soul had finally been put into place. 

Spider gasped, his heart skipping a beat.

“Maybe if I did…the demon wouldn’t be alive.”

“What!? No! That-it wasn’t your responsibility!”

“It had to be someone’s, and I was the closest thing you ever gotten to a mother. That fact alone should have…cleared my mind.”

Socorro wanted to protest, wanted to take the guilt off Neytiri’s shoulders…but had no idea what to say to make it better. Perhaps a small, dark part of him didn’t want to, revelling in the newfound validation he’d never felt before.

“I apologise if I made you feel like death was your best chance at redemption.”

It was Spider’s turn to ho into Neytiri’s shoulder. “No! No it wasn’t you! I just-I brought so much pain already, I thought it’d be best if I stop being a burden.” Spider croaked. 

“You’re no burden. Never were.” ‘Tiri responded without missing a beat.

Socorro met eyes with Neytiri once more.

She looked back, not a shred of malice behind her gaze. Hate still raged in her heart.…but the love for this strange child, whom she knew practically since he was born, who put his life on the line for the people, was stronger. 

He fit perfectly into her embrace. 

“…Never?”

“Never.”

And the world, as these two knew it, shattered. This time however, it felt perfectly fine.

[cattimeswithjellie]

Stream Recap DocM77, 6/23/24

((A quick content advisory on this stream, Doc and his chat get into an involved and sometimes contentious discussion on the "Man or Bear" thought experiment between 1:11:00 and 1:35:00. I have omitted nearly all of it from this recap because it is literally impossible to fairly and fully recap that kind of discussion in this kind of format and also I didn't want to. Timestamps made during the discussion discuss what Doc was doing, but not what was being talked about.))

9:22 Doc brings his stream live with 52 seconds left on his 10 minute stream-start countdown clock. He is in his studio view and comments that the light appears to be getting pinker than ever. He doesn’t think it used to be quite this pink. Chat agrees that it is very pink. Doc thanks subs and donos from the countdown. Doc’s studio really is exceptionally pink. He makes an adjustment that might help a small amount. Chat is skeptical that anything changed. Doc is streaming on a Sunday today and that’s good, gives a chance to some viewers who might not be available on Saturday. He explains that he had thought the birthday party Doccy was invited to was today, but in fact it was yesterday. It was a good time except a kid almost broke Doc’s nose while playing on the playground with water. He got smacked in the face with a bucket. Chat is sympathetic but also laughing. Today Doccy is off visiting Grandma.

13:30 A chatter asks what happened to the rainbow beacon. Doc reveals that he eventually got tired of fixing it ((Something about the daily server reset was killing the beacon every day, Doc and Xisuma had been working on a way to fix it.)) and Bdubs eventually landscaped over it when he built the courthouse. The beacon is there in spirit, and may be rebuilt somewhere else later.

14:20 Doc brings up Hermitcraft, or tries to. It is a black screen. Things are working great in this professional stream environment, says Doc. He restarts Minecraft, saying this is a problem that happens occasionally. Today, he tells Chat, they get to share Doc’s daily experience of logging on and wondering if anything has been stolen. The alarm system is good, but not foolproof. The Ore Snatcher could use tools like chorus fruit and wool blocks in a risky ploy to steal another block. Doc’s paranoia has reached new heights, but he is also distracted because OBS is still not detecting Minecraft. He troubleshoots it.

17:10 Minecraft appears, but Doc has to fiddle with it some more before it will display properly with facecam and overlay. He logs on, telling Chat more about his daily fear. He logged out above the shop and cannot hear an alarm, so that’s good! He checks for a released warden and finds it in its place, then checks for newly missing blocks. Doc and Chat agree that there are no new missing blocks. Doc sings a smug song of satisfaction and dances on the grave of the Ore Snatcher. He is happy, but commenters have made him paranoid that maybe the Ore Snatcher hit the redstone in Big Wood. He will not feel okay until he checks.

21:00 Doc conducts a thorough survey of the Big Wood redstone. He has gotten a lot more sand paid into the shop and does not find any missing ore blocks, so is in a very good mood. He tells Chat that he has a new, lower sub goal that reflects the fact that the high rollers in Chat can’t keep making huge sub drops. As Doc returns to the trim shop, he responds to chat’s concerns that if the Ore Snatcher stops, nobody might ever know who it was. Doc tells Chat that he specifically designed the alarm system to be not-quite-impenetrable, that someone who is really dedicated… He trails off when the overlay does a strange thing, then takes a moment to thank more subs and his favorite of the Single Ladies. He picks up the thread and tells chat there are ways someone smart and dedicated (Cub, he is pretty sure) could get into the system. Doc is 60% sure at this point that it is Cub. Not many people could be so dedicated, careful and tricky just to piss Doc off, but Cub is just that kind of guy.

25:20 The Bdubs-shrieking phantoms are starting to come out now, so it is time to go inside. Doc switches back to studio view so Chat cannot see the Secrets of the Sand Pile. Chat is pretty on board with the Cub thing, they agree that Cub is the type to keep his pranks quiet and incredibly annoying. Doc disables the Warden alarm and enters into his redstone, only to discover that his secret door is not working. He does some yelling. He freecams around to see if that tricky Ore Snatcher has been at it again, but the cause is benign, a simple mistake probably caused by all the sleep Doc is losing lately. He breathes a sigh of relief but is still annoyed on principle. With the alarms disabled he can break the wall of his shop and access the bed he’s got hidden in the unfinished alcove back there.

27:50 Today Doc must, absolutely must, finish the interior decoration of the shop. He wants to have more armor pieces laying around like T-shirts set out for sale in a clothing shop, but he can’t figure out how to make it work. A chatter activates text-to-speech. Doc is pleased that it is working again. He tells Chat that next week he will be recording the Imp and Skizz podcast, something he’s really looking forward to. He tells Chat that Impulse has asked him what sorts of things he wants to talk about and asks for ideas. Chat thinks they should talk about who the Ore Snatcher is, and suggests that Doc should be as unhinged as possible. Doc asks if he’s allowed to swear, Chat says not much. They suggest no politics or talk about Elon Musk, so as to avoid a podcast that is a hundred hours of Doc ranting, and they want to hear Doc’s dad lore and stories about his basketball career. It could also be an opportunity for Doc to plug his interest in trying out the Life Series. Doc agrees that’s worth thinking about, then gets distracted talking about soccer/football with Chat.

31:20 Chat reminds Doc that his mic is hot. Doc says he likes the hot mic, but he turns it off so Chat will calm down about it. The shopping district is not exactly buzzing on a Sunday morning anyway. Doc points out that this is his area on the server and if people come near him they will hear him speak, just like in real life. This is apparently enough to convince himself and he turns the mic right back on again and goes back to talking sports. He once again declares victory over the Ore Snatcher, but says that the worst outcome would indeed be if the shenanigans stop and they never find out who did it. That would drive Doc and Chat extra crazy. Chat points out that if it is Cub, he has been known not to fess up to pranks for years.

33:20 Chat brings up the problem of shulker boxes to Doc. If a Hermit is using a wallet box and places it down to pay, how would they pick it up again without setting off the alarm. Doc is not worried because the alarm’s not going to be on all the time, and it’ll only be there for as long as the Ore Snatcher is active. So yes, basically anyone who tries to pay will set off the alarm. Doc is distracted by voice-to-text again, then decides what he really needs to do is talk to Xisuma. He searches up Xisuma’s coordinates and heads over there. Doc had ruled out Xisuma from the get-go because X is generally a peaceable guy, but now he has to investigate everyone. He flies down to land at X’s base, singing the “X gonna give it to you” song but replacing X with “Goat.”

34:50 Doc goes into the base and looks around. X is not visible but does tell Doc in chat that he made him jump with the singing. Doc continues searching and calling out, acknowledging that he can be really annoying when he wants to be. He finally spots Xisuma, on the path outside his base and begins a friendly and unsubtle interrogation. X says he has a great alibi, he hasn’t been on the server for the whole past week! Doc asks if he’s heard anybody talking about it, but X says only people in his chat speculating. Doc’s chat speculates that it could be Xisuma with the spelling errors, given that he could not remember how to spell “Field” during Wordle. Doc tells X about the alarm system, brags about his success, and worries that he’ll never learn the truth. Doc lays it on thick how much he trusts Xisuma and how he knows X would never-ever-ever do something like this because he’s such a nice and trustworthy guy. X agrees with this assessment and says it’s more likely that he would fix something he noticed off than break something, but does not come out and say that he is not the Ore Snatcher.

37:40 Doc agrees about X’s penchant for fixing things, but what about Evil X? Xisuma really can’t vouch for that guy, he’s liable to do anything. “But he’s not in the picture right now, right?” Doc asks. Xisuma is not sure, he doesn’t know what that guy gets up to while X is away, and he’s just mentioned being gone all week. Doc tells X that he’s pretty sure Ren is innocent. Ren is too busy; when he’s deep into the lore he can’t think about pranks. Scar is the police and the police can be corrupt, but Doc has interviewed him several times now and either Scar is innocent or Doc has vastly underestimated his skills as a smooth and plausible liar. Xisuma suggests maybe it could be someone who wants to earn Doc’s business… someone who has just built a courthouse and needs cases to be moving through it. Neither X nor Doc can really take Bdubs seriously as the Ore Snatcher. Doc points out that unlike some bored people (cough GRIAN cough), Bdubs is pretty much always grinding and building when he is online. But Grian is actually very busy right now and was on vacation, plus he is already involved in a whole snail-prank situation that neither he nor X are very familiar with. Doc says it sounds like money laundering to him.

40:00 X admits to Doc that he himself has been accused of some shady financial behavior in relation to his trophy scheme, where the Hermits sell things in their shop, earn diamonds, and then send their diamonds straight to Xisuma in exchange for a trophy saying how many diamonds they earned. Doc says that sounds like a Bitcoin scam to him. Chat is debating with itself about options like Grian, Gem and Etho for Ore Snatcher. X admits it may sound like NFTs, but the Hermits like it! Doc’s current suspicion list is Gem, Cub, and Joel, though Doc doesn’t really know him well enough for a real assessment yet. They had that interaction where Joel was clearly annoyed about having to shovel sand, and in Doc’s book that means motive. Honestly though, he has no real hints or clues to go on. He asks X to keep an ear out for the alarm in the shopping district and asks if there is a plug in they can add so Doc can get a cell phone ping if anyone comes near the shop. X reminds him that they try to do things the vanilla way on Hermitcraft. Doc walks off grumbling about “no sand duping, no phone monitoring, can’t do anything… this sucks.” Xisuma wishes him good luck.

42:00 Doc walks away and tells Chat that Xisuma is innocent and they all know it. Chat is batting around Jevin as a possible suspect. Doc insists he and Jevin are tight. He thanks subs and donos, then takes Chat over for a look at the new Poe Poe HQ that Scar just built. The new searchlight looks really cool at night. Doc still thinks it was almost certainly Cub. Chat suggests Impulse and Big Salmon, as well as Iskall, Joe Hills, Mumbo, Stress, Cleo, and the snails. Chat is not being super helpful at the moment, but they are full of enthusiasm and ideas. Doc says it’s not Beef and Chat will know why soon. ((This is one day before Beef makes the public announcement that he and his partner are expecting their first baby and he’s going to be very, very, very busy for the next little while!))

43:30 Doc forgets the inherent peril of every GoodTimesWithScar build and gets severely jumpscared by the creeper that sneaks up behind him. He’s not hurt but the front yard of Poe Poe HQ has lost some landscaping. Doc thinks that vandalizing Poe Poe HQ might not be the best move for a guy in his legal position, and it seems like the “SUE TODAY” banner on the courthouse might just be mocking him. He remembers that Scar’s building supplies chest monster hasn’t been picked up yet and goes to rummage through it for extra booshes. He finds some, but comes very, very, very close to blowing up Scar’s entire chest monster when another creeper pays a visit.

44:40 Doc uses freecam to show the now-underground broken rainbow beacon, buried under the road between the courthouse and the police station. The metaphor would be unbearably heavy-handed if it weren’t also obviously accidental. Doc replaces the destroyed bushes and takes a look at Poe Poe HQ by daylight, declaring it a really cool build. He laughs at the enormous POE sign and is confused by the sand countdown clock. Chat tells him it is counting down to the enforcement of the rule against popup shops in the shopping district. Doc wonders who made this, even as he finds a trapdoor with a sign reading “Ultra Redstoners Only.” Deciding he is definitely in that club, he enters without hesitation to check out the guts of the countdown machinery. He studies it for a moment and asks in complete befuddlement “Who _made_ this?” Hearing from Chat that it was Scar does explain a lot. Doc decides he had better leave before the redstone drives him insane.

46:40 Time to go back and work on interior design again. Doc does not want to do his interior design. He bemoans the fact that he got himself into a quarrel with Cleo, who would’ve been the perfect Hermit to tap for all the armor stand work he needs done but is now mad at him. He decides he should wander around and look for design ideas from other shops, because he is so uninspired. Chat suggests Joel has great interiors, so does Pearl. Doc admires Joel’s octopus but does not want one in his armor trim boutique. Chat thinks the octopus is amazing. Doc tells Chat they are useless. Chat doesn’t care; they want to go look at the Lizzie statue at Joel’s base. A chatter says they heard Doc was going to play Stardew Valley and is excited about it; Doc tells them he has played Stardew Valley through three times already. He’s exploited everything exploitable in that game and even made a tutorial for finding rare fish; Stardew Valley has nothing left for him.

49:00 Doc looks around in the honey shop for decoration ideas, but is disappointed to find no armor stand work to get inspired by. Chat wants to hear the song. Doc is unenthusiastic but plays the song. He goes on an entire facial journey as Chat grooves to the “Honey, Honey, Honey” song. “Jesus Christ,” Doc says. This puts Joel at the top of the suspect list as far as Doc is concerned. Anyone who could come up with that song is clearly capable of anything.

51:00 Further evidence of Joel’s potential villainy, putting his tree-trunk honey shop very close to the hourglass. Why would Joel put his wood thing next to Doc’s wood thing? Are they doing a wood comparison? Doc asserts that everyone knows Joel has small wood. Chat has a lot of feelings about this line of reasoning, most of which can only be expressed by emoji. Doc dismisses Joel’s wood shop as thicker, maybe, but stumpy, and then abandons all pretense and just mutters “smallishballs.” Chat is so upset.

52:10 Really though, at the end of the day Doc thinks it is Cub. And now it is time to hang up clothes in the armor trim shop. Chat reels momentarily from the quick change of topic, but gamely tries to help Doc decide what goes in a typical clothing shop. They suggest caps, a netherite chest plate, and a mapart of Karl Lagerfeld. Doc remembers he also wants to hang up his permit. He puts it up on his cash register and declares it good. Doc also has the dirt and rails permits he is not using just yet. One of the “single ladies” in chat demands shoes, Doc caters to the single ladies and adds a rack of shoes behind the counter.

57:00 Chat begins debating which types of shoes are best for the single ladies to wear. Doc places a pair of black boots, per chat request, and says he does not have a favorite type of shoe. Chat’s opinion on heels are divided, they don’t like how they feel but a short chatter points out that it is nice to be tall. Doc admits there are probably not any high heels available in his size, so he has never tried them. Chat could recommend him some places if he is interested. Chat says that for women, beauty is suffering. Doc agrees and says that is true for men as well! He recounts a time where he used waxing strips as part of a charity event; it has been four years and the hair has not fully regrown. He has to shave his legs now if he doesn’t want them to look patchy. Chat is sympathetic and also grateful that he specified legs. Doc says he was recently clocked as a waxer by another child’s mom at the swimming pool and could only defend himself with “It was for a good cause.”

1:00:00 Doc reads Chat and decides it is definitely time to stop talking about leg hair. He begins working on the armor stand boots again. He positions them on the rack and thanks subs again. Doc decides that the shoes will look better as high heels, but that requires quite a bit more manipulation. Chat provides advice and critique. They want red trim, so Doc pulls the boots off the armor stand and goes to the trim machine. Chat wants Dune trim in red, with red candles for heels. Doc wants to give Chat what they want, because it is important to make the ladies happy. Chat begins arguing amongst themselves over whether Hermitcraft-style Louboutins would have red candle heels or black candle heels. Doc wonders if there is a candle shop.

1:09:00 Chat finally starts trending in the black candle direction, so Doc heads for Papa Keralis’ shop. Doc likes that Keralis has the candle shop, he’d probably have one of those if he weren’t a YouTuber. He may look clueless but he is a very, very good businessman. Doc finds the disco at Keralis’ base and busts a few moves. He obliquely mentions some of the grooming controversies on YouTube lately and deflects any talk in that direction. A chatter says they would trust Doc with their drink. Doc and the rest of Chat agree that Doc would drink it. Doc cannot find the candle shop.

1:11:30 A chatter says they would pick Doc over the bear. This leads to a lengthy discussion with Chat over the man vs bear thought experiment. (“You are alone in the woods. Would you rather see a strange man or a bear?”) It is the sort of discussion that covers several controversial topics and is very difficult to recap accurately and with nuance by a recapper who is mostly interested in making funny jokes. For that reason (and because a detailed recap including Chat commentary might be triggering for some readers), it will not be covered here but can be viewed on the VOD.

1:19:00 Doc’s mod asks if Doc would still love them if they were a worm. Doc makes an unflattering “ehhhhhhhh” sound and then says he would still love their soul. He might also love them if they helped create good soil for the tomatoes. Doc remembers he was supposed to be finding the candle shop and making high heels for shoes. A chatter gives him directions to the candle shop. He is still distracted by his discussion, but purchases black candles and heads back to the armor trim shop.

1:25:00 Doc resumes work on the black and red high heels. He is not sure about the candle heel, it’s actually pretty big when he puts it on the armor stand, and not quite the same color. Chat reminds him that the stand can be made smaller, but the color is a tougher nut to crack. Doc wonders if a blackstone stair or a block of coal might do the job better. He might need to mine some blackstone.

1:30:00 A chatter asks if Doc is going to be collaborating with other streamers or Hermits to play other games on stream. Doc says Hermitcraft takes up all his time and energy, so probably not. He heads for the Nether and finds a patch of blackstone to mine. He comes back and makes some blackstone walls and tries on on the armor stand. It is not quite right either.

1:35:30 Doc tries a blackstone button instead, it seems better. Chat agrees that it seems good. A chatter comments on the ground that the conversation has covered today. Doc makes a joke about Brazilian Wax being the opposite of Big Bear. Chat misses the joke, but Doc knows he is funny. He has to get out his calculator to adjust the angles on the armor stand. Chat makes semi-helpful commentary on the angle of the shoe and the heel. The original chatter who requested the black high heels gifts two more subs and says they look great. Doc regrets his life choices in agreeing to make heels. They are not turning out the way he’d hoped. He swears a little and keeps manipulating the angle of the heel, then realizes he also doesn’t like the color. He blames the single moms.

1:43:10 A chatter asks if Doc would consider going to Twitchcon. Doc says the only good thing about cons like that is meeting the audience. He’s not interested in meeting other content creators except Hermits. He’s been to lots of events and mostly finds content creators loud and obnoxious. He tries an anvil, which is the wrong color. Chat suggests black glazed terracotta, end rods, coal blocks, and making the boots into Crocs instead of high heels. Doc tells them that if he tries the coal block and it works, then Chat is to blame for forty wasted minutes. He tries a piece of black dye and says it could be a beard, but not a heel. The question arises whether Chat would rather go to the woods with a spider or a bear. Doc is outraged when Chat continues to choose bear, though some savvy chatters are asking how big the spider is. It is an Australian spider, so probably pretty big.

1:46:50 Doc tries a blackstone block as a heel and continues regretting everything. He accidentally gives the armorstand his sword and destroys the thing in a fit of pique. He is about ready to give up on high heels. A chatter suggests it might be time to beg Cleo for forgiveness, but Doc will NEVER. A chatter suggests leaving the heels imaginary. A chatter suggests making the shoes roller skates.

1:49:20 Doc puts an Enderman head on the armor stand, then puts it in the stand’s hand. He can’t place it properly because of armor stand interference. He is doing a lot of under-the-breath muttering, but the only clear word is “stupid.” The heels are fine without actual heels on them. He remembers he has some mini diamond ore blocks and wants to put some around for decoration. Even this is much harder than anticipated because there are invisble armor stands everywhere. Doc has so many regrets. He does not seem to know the scroll-wheel trick for the armor stand mod. He successfully places the miniblock on a shelf.

1:53:40 Doc steps back and looks at the display. It looks all right. He decides to make some more leather armor and talks about how happy he’s going to be when he’s done with this interior. His next shop is going to be a hole in the ground. Chat suggests that maybe Cleo will feel bad for the heels and fix them. Doc doesn’t know if Cleo is a heel person or not. And he doesn’t know if he can trust Cleo in this shop, who knows what they might do! ((In Cleo’s stream a few hours later, they do notice and fix a number of armor stand problems, but not the heels in particular.)) Doc makes another hanging chestpiece to look like a shirt.

1:56:30 A chatter says the court case is going to be entertaining. Doc says it’s going to be crazy. He talks with a chatter about subs and donos. A chatter surprises Doc with voice-to-text. Doc talks about which chatters are “sugar daddy” or “sugar mama.” He does more hanging clothes along the back wall, using the copy-paste function on the armor stand mod. Several chatters make gifts of subs. Doc thanks them but reminds them that big donos are never required or expected, just appreciated. Doc notices one DCP chatter is not around anymore after the discussion earlier. A chatter tells him that the DCP are all busy drawing him waxing his legs.

2:02:00 A chatter asks what the DCP is, Doc explains it is the Doc Collaboration Project, the fanartists who originally came together to create the murals on the Perimeter but who also do a lot of Doc fanart and amplify and support one anothers’ art. He creates another hanging shirt.

2:05:30 Doc tells a story about Doccy learning to make rhymes in German. Doc told Doccy to take a bath, but Doccy would rather eat chocolate. Chat asks about the time when Doc used to have long hair. Doc says yes, it used to be over his shoulders in finger-thick dreadlocks. He has no pictures of this era, but his mother might. Back when Doc was young, people didn’t take pictures all the time like the kids these days. Doc has a picture of himself at a religious milestone ((He is not sure of the name in English, calls it communion but it sounds like it might be confirmation)) wearing tight leather pants and a blazer with enormous shoulder pads, plus steel-toed safety sole boots and dreadlocks. Eventually his beard started to grow in too, but only a soul patch. Chat is overwhelmed by this mental picture.

2:09:30 A chatter asks what the deal is in Germany with sparkling water. Doc doesn’t know, Europeans just love sparkling water. There’s lots of different kinds, and they prefer juice mixed with sparkling water to most soda. Doc likes apple juice and sparkling water. Chat is not sold on the merits of sparkling water and Doc can sympathize. A chatter mentions Twitter, Doc warns them not to mention anything about “Elmo” Musk, because that is worse than mentioning Disney to Scar. There will be ranting. A chatter talks about the Sodastream carbonation machine. Doc has one, he and Doccy both like it.

2:13:30 Doc starts organizing some of his strewn shulkers. He talks about his own drink, vitamin juice and sparkling water. Chat admires his glass. He puts diamond pants on the last armor stand, turns them into shorts and hangs them up. Doc and Chat talk about what kinds of fruit juices they like best. A chatter wants trims on the leather chestpieces, Doc doesn’t know about that. That wastes a lot of trims, but this is the trim shop.

2:17:00 Doc fancies up the hanging tunics. Chat provides suggestions for trims and materials. A chatter asks what will happen if the Ore Snatcher replaces the diamond ore miniblock with a deepslate miniblock. Doc tells Chat not to give the Ore Snatcher ideas. Chat and Doc both like the look of the trimmed outfits he is creating. Chainmail pants with redstone trim looks a lot like a neat skirt. A chatter suggests making the tops actually match the bottoms of the hanging outfits, but Doc is not very concerned about that.

2:24:00 Doc is getting into it now and begins trimming the outfits on the sculptures he created earlier. It’s something Louis Vuitton would do, he declares. He really likes the way trimmed chainmail looks. He makes a chainmail helmet and sets it on the shelf of the back wall.

2:29:20 The shop is good, but could use some paintings. Doc can’t remember how to make paintings. Chat reminds him of the recipe, but he has no wool. He has to go visit the Wolves of Wool Street. Chat awoos. Doc realizes that wool is sold by the four-stack and decides to go buy string instead. He only needs one wool block! Doc declares Bdubs’ 1 diamond per string stack a much superior deal to WoWS’s diamond block per four stacks of wool and hopes they don’t find out Bdubs is undercutting them.

2:32:00 A chatter asks if anyone is surprised that Doc hasn’t sworn yet. Doc asks what the fuck they are talking about, then covers his mouth. Chat is amused. A chatter does the math and points out that Bdubs is basically selling seven wool blocks worth of string for a diamond, making WoWS a consderably better deal. Doc manages to get the walking man painting in his shop and says it looks like it belongs in a clothes shop. He says Bdubs is still a better deal if you only want one block of wool. He hangs several more posters.

2:35:30 Doc declares that this is enough detail and the shop is finished. Chat agrees, this is enough. He notices two armor stands that still need clothes, but after that he is calling it done. But the shop should have some music, so it’s time to pick some! He starts testing songs. They are VERY LOUD. Doc and Chat bop along with the music. A chatter demands CBAT. A chatter suggests Soulside Eclipse. Doc finds a song called Top Ten (or Chop Ten?) and Chat agrees it is the best shopping vibe music yet. He goes out and comes into the store to see what it would be like to shop to this music, and immediately starts yelling at the imaginary shopkeeper to turn down the music, it’s way too loud and he just wants to buy some pants!

2:41:00 A chatter has a birthday. Doc sings an unintelligible version of Happy Birthday and tells them now they can feel like Pearl. He says he might hit Jono up for shop beats, or says anyone who wants to can hit him up on Twitter with some beats. Music is always a problem because there are lots of talented musicians and he’d like to feature more of them, but DMCA makes things really hard. Doc puts the music back on. It is still quite loud. The headphone chatters have feelings about it. Doc comes across a song that sounds like the guitar beginning to an early 2000s pop ballad and begins improvising words to it, seconds before a vocalist actually starts up with a not dissimilar theme. Doc is pleased to have been proven right; Chat thinks it’s hilarious.

2:45:00 Doc goes through more varieties of music, none of which are quite right. He tries “A Sitar Story” and likes it. Chat likes it too. Doc improvises an armor trim song to go with the music. It’s nice but very much in conflict with the visual theme of the shop. He tries a few more. A song with a strong beat comes on, he and chat all jam along. A lounge jazz song comes on, it is too sophisticated. Doc finds a song called Emotional Mess and calls it relatable, but not what they are looking for. “Classic 1985 Music Soundtrack” is aptly named, but also not quite the thing. Chat suggests using the permit office music. Doc insists that when they hear the song, they will all know.

2:50:00 More music browsing. The lead mod asks Chat to watch their boss, because they have to pee. Chat will not make any promises. Doc is currently telling an epic tale of a Goat in a swamp who crushed everyone to the tune of an epic prologue. He switches channels again and asks why everything is so lame or too pushy. Chat is starting to wonder if CBAT is actually the best option. Doc finds a song called Snowfall Butterflies and wonders if someone was trying to find the cutest words they knew for a name. He jams to another song, then keeps scrolling. Chat has given up and are just grooving along. Doc finds music that is perfect for a shop he would hate, where no one will tell you whether your pants fit.

2:54:30 Doc finds some music he likes and improvises armor trim-related lyrics for it. The mod comes back and asks if Doc was good. Chat doesn’t know. More music, more grooving. Doc finds a song he would enjoy if it were the early 80s and he liked cocaine. Especially if his name was Falco. The music becomes increasingly baffling to Doc’s sensibilities. He decides there is nothing good in the YouTube Audio Library and wonders if YouTube asked musicians especially for their shittiest songs. Chat suggests it’s copyright-free for a reason.

2:59:00 Doc has been streaming for hours and has just heard Doccy and Karin come home, which means it is time for him to return to the real world. He asks for an up-down vote on whether the shop is done. Chat says yes, it’s done. That means next week will be the grand opening! After that the dirt shop, then the rails shop. Also, Doc has found a loophole regarding concrete farms, but does not elaborate. A chatter reminds him to activate the alarm before he goes. Doc pops into studio view so chat can’t see the secret switch. He looks for someone to raid. Martyn IntheLittleWood is on, but Doc raided him last week and Martyn got very jealous over the whole Ren marriage thing. Doc saw it on Twitter! He decides to raid Martyn anyway, thanks subs and donos, reminds Chat to ask Martyn why he has little wood, and ends his stream.

[ominous-feychild]

all of your wips sound so cool! i'm really interested in 'soren magic puppet guardian' and 'lynsmouth's 'families',' if you mind sharing some stuff about either of those :)

Sorry for taking so long to get to this! I wanted to be able to give you a good quality answer and have either been busy with other stuff or haven't had the energy to address this yet! (To anyone wondering, this is an ask from this tag!)

Fair warning: this is going to be LOOOOOONG!

"Soren Magic Puppet Guardian"

So! This (as were all of my threads, haha) was a very on-the-nose name. Soren Ula--the dad of Freya, the MC of Sun and Shadow--is a well-renowned merchant. He owns a massive shipping company that spans most of the world, but what few know about him is that he's both an avatar (an agent of a god) and a faerie!

I've yet to explain what exactly faeries are in my writing, so I'll give a quick explanation! Faeries are almost sub-gods--powerful creatures that technically aren't even "creatures" so much as they are sentient clouds of magic. Most create physical bodies for themselves, but few leave the Faewildes and even fewer attempt to live "normal" lives.

Soren is a faerie of the ocean. Meaning, he is lowkey an actual god of oceans. In-story he's mentioned to have powerful ocean magic--that's because he is the ocean in many ways. He's just long-since taken on a human form to the point that he doesn't even feel dysmorphic in the form he lives in today (which is unheard of in faeries! They always have some aspect of "themselves" on their physical body, or they'll feel detached from and/or uncomfortable in it)!

The reason I explain this faerie business? If you haven't been able to tell, faeries are incredibly powerful creatures with both their own magic and minor reality-warping abilities within The Real World. (The Faewildes is also Real, but... not "the Real World". Just accept that for now, haha.)

(Skipping Spoilers!? 👀)

When Soren found Freya, his long-lost daughter, in Drønhals, he immediately set to getting her a home in the area. He had a vast amount of wealth from his work and he was long-since known to be an avatar of Levebol, so he had little to no problems doing so.

Except... he'd built a life in the time since he'd lost his family. He had his company, he had his work with Kieran Caron, and how many questions would be raised if he suddenly stepped down from it all?

No. As much as he wanted to stay with his daughter, it would be dangerous for him to. And as much as he'd tried hiding his involvement with Caron, it was entirely possible that people could find it out, track him down, and then find her. And she was just a little girl! Not even five!

(Yes, you are reading that correctly. Long-lost daughter. Implications of at LEAST decades passing. And yet she's not even five years old yet? 🤔🤔🤔)

No, he couldn't stay with her. He'd do anything to protect her... including practically abandon her.

Except, Soren didn't have to abandon her, even if he left to pretend everything was exactly as it was before. He still had power, even if it was nowhere as much as he used to. So he created a magic charm with a little bit of his soul in it.

Literally.

This "charm", containing both some of Soren's soul and a good bit of his magic, is capable of creating a "puppet" of sorts that's more of a semi-tangible hologram. Thanks to it having a bit of his soul (something literally only possible thanks to him being a faerie), he's able to "consciousness-switch" with it, letting him, well... be an actual guardian for his daughter.

Or, well, y'know. The closest thing to a guardian you can be when you're essentially puppeteering a robot from thousands of miles away to take care of her.

Long story short! Freya grew up with a "magic puppet guardian" of Soren that he could use to simultaneously always be by her side and, yknow... literally never be there for her. It's caused a LOT of complexes in Freya, and is also the main source of the tension in her relationship with him.

When she was younger, she liked it--it was like having her father with her at all times! And she lovesd her dad! But by her teenaged years it turned into resentment for being a sort of half-measure of his in order to "be there for her". She's actually not aware that he did it to basically minimize the likelihood of Bad People™ noticing her and going after her to hurt Soren, but... tbh it wouldn't change her feelings much on the matter if she did know.

In fairness... it's not like he was never actually there. He'd spend time with her in the form of the puppet whenever he didn't have anything else to do in His Real Body on the Slumbering Serpent (his ship). "He"/the puppet would take care of her in small ways, driven on by the small bits of his consciousness within it to carry out tasks he wished he could do. And, hey! He'd sometimes be able to stop by and spend a few days to a week in his real body whenever the trade routes allowed for it! But, yknow... didn't much make up for the fact that, besides what was essentially a zombie a majority of the time, Freya grew up completely alone (and oh boy there's more to that).

The "puppet" wasn't always active by the way--the charm could be manually disabled/enabled, and the puppet and its magic would withdraw into it as commanded. Whiiiiich is what turned into the case in Freya's mid teens, as she started getting angry with Soren and her whole situation. 😅😭

In case you were wondering! Yes, Soren could see/hear/feel/and everything else through the puppet and charm! When he wasn't "possessing" them, though, it was very faint sensations, like the tiniest of breezes across the cowlicks on your head. Freya personally wondered on more than one occasion if he ever used it to eavesdrop on her (as she ALWAYS kept it with/on her), but he never actually did.

What? He's already basically neglecting her, he didn't need to make her resent him for also invading in her personal business and giving her trust issues!

(Don't worry, though, she got those anyways. 😙👌)

Don't get me wrong--he didn't avoid eavesdropping just because he didn't want to give her trust issues. (Just.)

He also did it as a sign of respect for his daughter! Y'know, because he loves her!

Note: Freya lost the charm at sea during the shipwreck that destroyed the Slumbering Serpent in the first chapter of Sun and Shadow. Who knows where it is now, what will come of it, or if it'll ever appear elsewhere again?

I mean, probably not, right? After all, it got lost at sea! It would be ridiculous for it to end up on land!

... like Freya did. 🤔

Aaaaaand... I think that about does it for "Soren Magic Puppet Guardian"! 😄

This was a LOT, so I think I'm actually going to leave this post here, haha. If you'd also like to hear about Lynsmouth's "Families", please send me another ask! Hope you enjoyed reading and/or that this was as satisfying as you hoped it would be! 😊

Divider from @cafekitsune

[dalliansss]

Findekano surveys his reflection on the mirror. A very familiar face looks back at him – not thoroughly recognizable because of the fracturing scar that traverses the said face diagonally, akin to a river with silver water, crossing the landscape of his face, beginning from the right temple, cutting across his right eye, then across his nose, his left cheek, then all the way toward his left jaw. The exact place where this scar cuts his eyebrow is a barren piece of skin; no hair has regrown there, and nothing will, ever. The eye itself, which had been gray-blue, is milky-white, not completely blind, but not restored with perfect vision either. It can still see, but for shadows – and when he had first come out of the Halls of the Awaiting, Anaire his Amil had been rightly distressed, and even petitioned to the Valar sitting at Mahanaxar to ‘put him back to rights, as someone healed should not look damaged’. But Namo never took Findekano back into the halls for a ‘repair’, considering he is no tool, nor broken ornament. 

And anyway, Findek– Fingon would not have chosen an undamaged hroa other than this one. Why his Amil would like him back untouched and smooth he does not understand. 

He finishes dressing. These days he does not braid his hair into its age-old familiar plaits twined with gold; instead he lets loose all the gorgeous and thick curls of his black hair, to hang until his bottom, unbound. It lets him disappear into a crowd easier, this new way of presenting himself to the public. If his scarred face does not otherwise deter the rudely curious, then by looking like a generic Noldo or Sinda, he can make a quick escape to avoid unwanted questions and prying. 

Fingon sets out from his house (his house, his old one, he had returned to as soon as his hroa stabilized; as soon as he could feed and bathe himself and not rely on his mother and the scores of attendants she hired for him), smoothing down his tunic. These days he has forsaken the blue and silver he had been known for before the Exile, at Beleriand. Colors of his father’s house. These days he wears soft browns, dark grays, whites. Something different. 

He turns now to the path toward the royal palace in Tirion, and for a moment he pauses on the street to admire the beacon of Mindon Eldalieva. He wonders if the builders are anywhere near finishing the house he has commissioned for himself, away from Tirion – because like countless others Re-embodied like him, Fingon felt it wrong to be returning to Tirion, and be expected to pick up the threads of an old life. He cannot do that. Who can do that, in the first place? Not him. 

Ingoldo, who had Re-embodied first among all the exiled Noldor, could not do it. Fingon resumes walking and he pauses again just before the palace, where the ruins of a statue are left, and nothing remains of it except the legs. It is the only eyesore in Tirion – the only destroyed sculpture there. It had been Ingoldo’s statue, standing proud and unmarred, extending his hand in victory, his blank face looking ahead. Fingon had only heard the stories, but what he knew was this: Ingoldo had hated that statue, and took a sledgehammer to it, bashing it down, destroying it, and the citizens of Tirion could only look on in horror and pity, thinking their crown prince had gone mad.

After that, Ingoldo left Tirion, and nobody knew where he went.

Fingon walks onward, thinking vaguely: but who can blame Ingoldo?

==

Council is not the same. The people who sit by the king’s table these days are lords and ladies of the Noldor who are Arafinwe’s people; many of them never left Aman. Fingon is unsure why he is invited to sit in these sessions; he was only king in Beleriand, and upon Re-embodiment, his title was forfeit. Yet he still comes, because Arafinwe looks to him to help in matters of accommodation: how to welcome the returning Noldor, Re-embodied or Returned or, in the very rare cases, Reborn. Fingon could only offer so much help; and even then mostly pertaining to his host, which remained with him to the end. He cannot answer for the Nargothrondrim, or the Gondolindrim – and Eru forbid, the Feanorian people. 

He sits at the far end of the table, Fingon. He is silent during these sessions, only taking down personal notes, content to listen. The lords and ladies have adjusted to his presence, though many still shoot him looks – looks which they think he cannot sense, nor perceive. There is always a varying degree of pity in their glances; if not pity, then shock, then horror. 

He knows what they think of him: not healed enough; a terrible death; not healed enough, why was he let out? Are we going to expect more like him?

They had their answer a few years prior, where more Eldar were released from Mandos: many were allowed to Re-embody with scars and injuries intact. But there were the very few who were returned flawless, as was in Maedhros’s case – he stumbled out of Mandos unscarred, with both hands, and his skin was smooth and untouched. Aikanar, Aegnor– Egg – had returned in pretty much the same way. No scars. Smooth. Unmarred and perfect. Angrod has returned like that as well. On the contrary, Curufin, Celegorm and Caranthir – they all retained their scars. Curufin had a dark necklace of scar tissue around his neck: a decapitation. Celegorm had many starburst scars of arrows, and two gruesome explosions of scar tissue on his back and across his gut. Caranthir had a big, diagonal scar down his back, and a bald, scarred patch near his nape, which could be concealed by his long hair, but it was there, and on that patch of scar tissue, no hair will ever regrow again.

No questions were posed onto Fingon today. Council ends, and the lords and ladies pile out, and he remains seated, completing his notes. He supposes Ingoldo– Finrod, was supposed to be the one to do this, to answer for the needs of the returning exiles, but Finrod had long absconded, escaped Tirion. Fingon knew for a fact that Arafinwe tried and tried, but whatever royal summon Tirion sent never reached its intended recipient, or else Finrod threw them straight into the fire, never bothering to read the contents.

==

Entulesse is the unofficial name that town by the foot of the Pelori has been given, both by its inhabitants and the elves that never left Aman. At first a hamlet that sprung up like a mushroom in the wild, it blossomed into a village, then a hamlet, then a town as more were Re-embodied and sailed back. The inhabitants were mostly Noldor, as the greater population of the Sindar chose to reside in Eressea, though a handful dared to sail into Valinor completely and then eventually found their way to Entulesse. 

Fingon finds Finrod by the market, his pretty nose crumpled as he inspects some bushels of apples. He stands beside his cousin and picks up an apple with a gloved hand, making Finrod exclaim a surprised Ai! Which was followed by a laugh, and a hug. Fingon returns that hug, squeezing the golden-radiant elf. His extremities are not scarred, Finrod. But Fingon knew he was lucky; his scars could be hidden by clothing.

After Finrod’s business in town is tended to, they return to his homestead together. Maedhros is already there, feeding some ducks and chickens. He straightens up, and under the daylight, his red hair glints like a thousand rubies. 

“Look what I found at Entelusse!” Finrod beams as they get down from his wagon. “A lost Finno!”

“Where is the usual companion? Where is Egg?” Maedhros asks with a smile as he sets aside his emptied bucket of feed.

“Egg went to Eressea,” Fingon replies as he approaches his cousin and hugs him briefly. “He will not be back until next season I think.”

“And he let you leave him? Impossible.”

“Contrary to common belief, we do things in separate ways now and then.”

==

Supper was lovely. Mulled wine was served, and the fire at Finrod’s hearth was warm and welcoming. At some point, peering into it, Fingon confirms that the royal summons from Tirion are tossed straight into it– there were still there the remnants of the tie used by the King – the same small, thin rope Finwe used, long ago – smoldering by the log. He says nothing of it. 

After supper, and amid cups of wine, they play a card game learned in Beleriand. Finrod floors him and Maedhros each time, such that there comes a point where Fingon exclaims, “What are you, a Balrog?!” to which Finrod only laughs and laughs.

==

The three of them eventually join a few of the ornery goats at Finrod’s rooftop. They are all tipsy, and Fingon feels warm in the cheeks as they pass the bottle of wine between themselves, taking a sip each. The great billy goat is resting by the biggest chimney and Maedhros is using it as a pillow. For once, the menace of an animal is cooperative and tolerating Maedhros. 

As the hours pass and as they watch, sunrise slowly unfurls from the east, bathing the world first in purple, then lavender, then pink, then rose – then everywhere, gold, gold, gold.

Fingon closes his eyes against the gentle light, and he both wants to smile and weep at the same time. 

“I think we should sail,” comes Finrod’s voice. “Who’s with me?”

“Sail where?” Fingon asks, opening his eyes.

“Sail back east, of course,” Finrod says, and he sits there, all golden-radiant, hugging his knees, and his gaze shifts from Maedhros to Fingon. “Oh come now, do not tell me you will both remain here until Dagor Dagorath? Let us sail -- and be the first Eldar to return to Cuivienen, or make it all the way to the Gates of Morning!”

“And how do you suppose we will find the Straight Road back to the east?” Maedhros laughs, but he is sitting back up now, unaware the billy goat is sniffing at the ends of his red hair. 

“Come now, Nelyo. It’s us three. Nothing is impossible,” Finrod grins.

“I should tell Egg,” says Fingon. “He’ll go with us.”

“Put him to use,” says Maedhros. “Tell him to look for a nice coastal place where we can build and provision a boat undisturbed and undiscovered.”

The three of them exchange mischievous looks. Fingon feels his blood slowly start to warm, then run hot, and excitement courses through him again, spurred on by the promise of a proper return.

[yomogi-mogi-mochi]

Spolia (VI)

Parings: Malleus/(Light Fae) MC // Slight Rook/Vil // Trein/MC (Parental)

Summary: You wondered why you ever got accepted into NRC but never bothered to look back when the infamous black carriage whisked you away from a place you could never call home. Having been handed an opportunity of freedom, of solitude, of hope- how come you're paralyzed with fear rather than excitement? Your sunny plein air sessions and nightly walks contemplating this has attracted a certain dragon fae with an affinity for your nimble gargoyle sketches and magnificent paintings.

Notes: I hope you hurt the way I did :) sharing is caring

CW: Verbal/Physical Abuse and Neglect, dissociation, depressive state

AO3 Link Here.

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6 (Here) // Part 7

Masterlist

——————————————————

Malleus desperately swam against the motion of the crowd to reach a hand out to you. But when he looked through your eyes, he could feel the phantom thread that he used to trace back your ghostly presence splinter when you gazed back with wild eyes, and ran from him. Ah, right. A realization he had buried deep within himself arose to the surface.

They all run eventually, he thought.

“Ooh. Malleus, look, (Name)’s painting is spreading like wildfire over Magicam.” Lilia tilted his device so Malleus could see the page filled with pictures of your paintings, along with some photos of your own face. He silently gazed back to where you had ran off to in slight concern, mingling with the utter emptiness he felt without you. Though no matter how many times he looked back at the painting and felt like he was going to be swallowed into it, he couldn’t help but to physically clutch his heart in order to prevent that. While the ringing ache he felt in his chest from your quick departure locked his feet into the ground in deep longing, he also resisted movement from the gravitational pull of your creation. For one of the first times in his life, Malleus felt like there was an unforgiving force even he could not subdue, planting his feet into the ground in still paralysis. He felt a chill in his arms and legs, despite a few moments before being ignited by your painting. When he flickered his gaze down to his clenched hands, he found frost forming at the bottom of his legs, snaking their frigid branches up and up towards his heart. He quickly returned his gaze upwards.

“Malleus.” He did not move his head, fearing that if he did not trail your ghostly presence, you would completely disappear from this world. Lilia gave a small pat on his back. “Give them time. We can check on them tomorrow before we leave, alright?”

“Malleus. Malleus. It’s time to go.” Lilia shook his shoulders a bit, his warm touch against the frost raveling itself around his body calling him back to the present. With little effort, he broke apart the ice around his legs, silently stepping towards the door.

Time. Malleus had always had plenty of it, and it was all he had in the end. But with you, it was never enough. Time, something that had always left him empty when those who filled it left, was not nearly enough to contain how tremendously you filled his heart and life. He remained frozen in that empty time, feeling the turbulent waves of time wash over him. People, age, and life seemed too fast, too unkind without you. He felt himself being weathered by it, becoming so brittle he would break apart and fall to pieces. The fragments of his heart would just fall to the spiraling void of time. But oh how he wished you were there to pick them up and embrace them all at once to make him feel whole again.

“Lilia?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think…” The question felt like a curse on his lips. “Do you think we will be able to see them before they go?”

Lilia nodded. “Of course. I’ll even have Sebek wake us all up early in the morning to ensure that.” Malleus was silent, knowing he would not need the early wake up call. He didn’t feel that he could sleep tonight. The moon was too bright, too beautiful, too far, gone too soon. It reminded him too much of you.

——————————————————

“Be here by 5 o’clock in the morning. Do not be late, otherwise I will come and get you.”

Your mother’s voice rattled in your skull, which held an ache that spread through your entire body. Maybe it was because you had crawled into your closet last night and slept in it. You had hoped you wouldn’t even be awake in this moment to know that. You wished for sleep, you wished for rest‒ you wished for peace but it never came, it never does.

Sitting your body in front of the mirror, you groomed your own hair and face until it was an acceptable form for your mother. When you were done, you stilled yourself in front of the mirror, looking far into your eyes for anything. Any scathing anger, deep remorse, heart shattering despair that was left inside of you to crystallize into tears, sweat, blood‒ anything that could pour out of you to cleanse your poisonous body. But empty hues stared back, no matter how much you pulled your eyelids open to catch a glimpse of humanity left. But again, nothing, nothing, nothing.

You did not feel your body walk through the cool school grounds, to the mirror chamber where you would be transported back to that home. The chill from the snow outside seeped into the chamber, and you felt your body grow even colder, and numbed from it.

Whose performance were you watching? How many people were you? Your eyes felt like they were far above your body, a voyeur to your own body and its movements. This space between you and yourself came in waves as you lived life with your family, but today, it felt like that sea of distance washed over you, sinking you to the depths of its stomach.

“(Name)!”

You turned your body to face the voice, and you felt yourself being slammed into your body once more, the scathing pain returning to your chest, thrashing like a rabid animal. Malleus stood at the door frame, hair disheveled and quickened breath. You felt that prayer, that curse bellow in your body once more.

Find me, find me, find me

There was too much you wanted to say. How sorry you were, how much anger possessed your soul, how nothingness was threatening to swallow your entirety, how desperate you wanted him to devour you whole before the poison within you did. How much you wanted him to find you‒ the real you‒ buried deep below tattered flesh. But you could not find your voice, find your anger, find your pain, find your hope under the numbed silence that imprisoned you. You let out a few pathetic raspy breaths, as if to heave out any sort of sound from inside your body.

Malleus stepped towards you as if to approach a wild beast‒ surrendering his open hands into yours, cradling gently against his warmth despite the sharpness held in your icy fingers. Though in his eyes, pain and betrayal were ripe, the golden green within them still held onto the softness that gently opened its mouth to envelop you whole. Your hands began to tremble.

"Malleus I‒"

“(Name).”

Your lungs pricked at the iciness of that voice. The words that had just been threatening to boil over in your chest died in your throat, as a howling numbness rushed through your body like wildfire. You attempted to grasp the fleeting fragments of anything, anything resembling yourself to thaw your frozen tongue and pour out your heart to Malleus, but before you could even move, you felt your mother’s fury radiating onto your back, entangling itself in your lungs and throat like smog. You felt your body turn to cold, cold poison.

“(Name). Now. You’ve kept me waiting long enough.”

You didn’t register your body moving with surgical precision, the dullness in your eyes muting your vision into a senseless blur. Though you felt Malleus’ eyes on your back, you feared that if you turned to look once more, you would long for it so much it would shatter you. The thin thread that Malleus could follow to your ghostly presence snapped‒ leaving in his outreached hand, the last remaining piece of you that remained “here”. Like a sputtering vein, the warmth from the thread left as quickly as it came. Malleus watched in terror as your body was slowly swallowed into the darkness of the mirror, before it disappeared completely.

The sky wailed a somber song, bellowing thunder with a heat so ferocious it could boil the roaring sea. Malleus clenched that fire, devouring it through the gaping cavity your absence left in him, painfully deciding to nurse it until he found you once more.

——————————————————

“What in savior’s name were you doing with that wretched creature?! You better repent for poisoning yourself with such filthy animals‒ otherwise you’re going to return with them to your disgusting origins.”

You “felt” your body being thrown into the prayer room, the darkness pouring into every crevice as usual. The scalp on your head was being stretched, pulled from the tuffs of hair clutched in your mother’s grasp. However, you did not truly feel any of it, you were a mere spectator to the abuse being taken out onto your body, far away from the moment of pain.

“You wretched child. You brought this onto yourself. Now pray. Repent. Atone for your disguising body and spirit. Cleanse yourself in this darkness.” She forced your hands into an empty prayer, shoving your face onto the ground in front of your knees. When you complied, your body soft as a rag doll against her talons, she seemed satisfied, throwing your head out of her grasp and slamming the door shut to envelop you in complete darkness. You held your hands together, feeling the heat writhing under your skin slowly gushing from your body, replaced with chilled poison that ran like an icy river through your veins.

Once the warmth left your body, you felt the darkness melting into your body, devouring it. You could not imagine what body parts were attached to what, or how your body was oriented. Like the people in your lives, it ruptured pieces of you off, before consuming every fiber, every nerve, every cell of your body, taking it into its own. The darkness held no smells, no feeling, no color, no sound‒ nothing to tether your body onto, so you thawed, liquid smooth, vanishing into nothingness. You begged for anything to hold you, touch you, love you, color you‒ even if it was through the sharp jaws of eternal, unyielding darkness. To be held, to be touched, to be loved, to be colored, to be devoured‒ you would willingly cleave your body into a million pieces to make it easier to swallow, and digest the toxins within. But before you could fully break yourself apart‒ a weight in your pocket made your body snap back into one. Unfolding your hands, you felt around the cloth on your body to see what it was.

Cold metal, delicate grooves, plastic. You held your nose up to it, pressing it into your cheek to huddle against its warmth. It reminds you of smoldering fire, honeyed sunlight, the smell of spring rain. The little heat left transferring into the cold metal, melting into your hands. It reminds you of him, his warmth, his kindness, the softness beating underneath his flesh, his open hands‒ hands that do not hurt you, hands that clasp your shattering body to press it together again, letting you mold against his touch. You miss that. You miss him. The longing was more pointed this time, and instead of an ache that blistered your entire body, you felt a thorn thrust itself into the center of your heart, knocking the wind out of your lungs. Yearning no longer for something you could not recognize, and instead hungry for what you have touched but could not hold. If you could carve your chest open like livestock, reaching inside the meat to grasp that infants wail, you would. If you could roar freely, sinking this entire earth into the ground, and melting it within your raging core‒ you would. But all that could escape from your lips was a trembling, simmering cry, as quiet as the darkness that devoured.

——————————————————

“Malleus, you need to eat. Your eyes are starting to sink into your skull.” Lilia scrapped a cold plate of food with a flick of his wrist, before bringing in a new steaming tray.

“I’m fine.”

“Malleus.”

Malleus did not lift his head from his lap, rubbing hisfinger continuously over the detailed metal hanging from the plastic device. Though the smell of rumbling thunder and earthy rain permeated the walls of the castle from the weeks it had remained, he could still smell the metallic twinge from the charm, and the ghostly whiff of turpentine and old books he always smelled on you. The door creaked open again, and he felt the vibration of Lilia’s heels clacking away from him, out the door. He let out a sigh a relief, enveloping himself in the darkness created in his embrace, holding the warmed metal close to his face.

“Malleus, my dear.”

He looked up at the sound of his grandmother’s voice. She stood at the foot of his bed, smiling.

“I can’t say I'm pleased with you abandoning your duties, even if it is your winter break. What has gotten you so low?” She conjured a cup of warm spiced cider, cupping Mallus’ palms around it with her hands.

Above the shame he felt from disregarding his responsibilities as heir, he felt the beating ache in his heart grow once more. He struggled to find the words, to explain his tremendous loss, swelling anger, the bitter yearning. He swore you had taken part of his heart, because the throbbing he felt was too extensive, too cosmic for his heart that seemed to grow smaller and smaller the more he caught the scent of sunlight and old words.

“Someone precious was taken from me.” He finally said.

His grandmother rubbed his shoulder. “They are still precious to you?”

“Of course, I could not forget that even in the face of eternity.”

She flashed a knowing smile. “Then, are you willing to find them again? Even if it may consume you?”

He paused. Find you, again? Could he, after how far, how distant you felt from him? He looked at the moon. Though it had been shrouded in a seething storm, it stretched its brilliant glow through the window, onto his ski, warming it. What ecstasy it would be to be utterly devoured in it. He pressed the fluttering pulse of his thumb against the metal, melting it the warmth that twitched under his tender flesh.

“I will find them again, and again. Even if it may consume me, they’ll find me too.”

“Then you do what it takes to do that, my dear. Love is finding eachother over and over again, expanding eachother in yourselves. You will feel this pain again, no matter your power and what you control. So keep it precious near your heart. It guides you towards love, always."

"Thank you, grandmother, thank you." He sipped the spiced cider, feeling its warmth that spread through his body like the moonlight.

"Of course my dear. Now, rest. Love is no easy journey."

——————————————————

Notes:

Heyo sorry again for the short chapter. I will be making it up in the next chapter I think, which might be the last? Or I’ll divide it into two. EIther way I apologize in advance for the time it will take because I am bad at happy endings/don’t consume happy media but if I don’t make this a happy ending I will literally fucking explode and I will take you all down with me

Also have a sneak peak for the next work I will be coming out soon :)

Also not sure if Malleus was OOC in this‒ but I do feel like if and when he experiences his first heartbreak he would sort of act like an angsty teenage girl lol. Mostly because he puts distance between those who are able to leave him too quickly since his concept of time is a lot different than humans as well as his status as this sort of “untouchable monster”. His relationships with people follow an all or nothing nature, in that if he isn’t able to see them to their death, he isn’t really satisfied‒ perhaps because that is the one thing that he thinks is more powerful than he is. But when people willingly, or because of extraneous circumstances, leave his life‒ he’s a bit baffled, because that’s usually not how things end. I think partially it is because he always has the upper hand (control) due to the powers he has, but he’s also been protected and protects himself from endings like these by maintaining distance from people through his constructed image of control and power, because he knows deep inside it is unavoidable. But when he’s actually contented with it, he kinda stops functioning (which is why I think a lot of people are theorizing of his overblot in this new chapter where Lilia is getting ready to leave NRC) and throws a tantrum lol.

Also kinda funny to imagine Lilia going up to the queen like "please take care of this. He's so emo."

I know the "love is no easy journey" thing is sooooo cheesy but idk I feel like it fits Malleus' arc

[josouhenshin]

Day 2

Last post Index Next post

Welcome back, girls. Last time, Shinobu moved in with his long-time friend Mizuki, and found out that he had taken up crossdressing. With suspiciously little prodding, Shinobu also agreed to give it a shot, and they went clothes shopping. However, Shinobu got spooked before they could finish and they had to go home.

This time, we’re going to get Shinobu some girl underwear. As Mizuho said, the josou lifestyle starts with the underwear!

...That does bring me to a bit of a conundrum though, with a story like this there’s necessarily going to be a lot of fuzziness around things like names and genders and identities, so hopefully I can narrate things in a way that doesn’t get too convoluted. Although depending on how things go in the story there’s pretty good odds that I’ll end up prioritizing girl mode eventually. Anyway. 

“Okay, today for sure we’re gonna go shopping for underwear!” Mizuho begins excitedly. Notably, the text box here is still identifying her as Mizuki, but...

I mean she went through all the trouble of picking out a girl name, it’d be a shame not to use it yknow? And we wouldn’t want anyone around to overhear, right?

Mizuho asks Shinobu whether she wants to go in girl mode or boy mode. The game gives us a quick tutorial about the map screen- basically we have this option at the start of each day, and different activities and scenes will be available depending on which gender we’re going with.

If we want to visit a point of interest in girl mode, which I certainly do, we have to hit the “get changed” button. This brings us to...

...The dress-up mode screen. It’s telling us to press the crossdressing button. 

In the top left we have our base stats, which I don’t fully understand the uses of yet, our cash on hand, and our heart rate. It looks like there’s some inventory slots or something there too, but Shinobu is not currently making use of their convenient and deep men’s pants pockets. There’s also the heart rate meter, which will start gradually ticking up once we hit the crossdressing button. Per the original twitter thread, it sounds like in the first game the amount of things you can do in a day is limited by how stressed out the protagonist is, so I assume that holds true here too. 

Below that, we have our current loadout. There’s space for a couple layers of tops and bottoms, and other types of equippables if you scroll down. Currently we’re wearing the men’s sweatshirt, men’s pants, men’s sneakers, and “your own hair” in the wig spot. I’ve already expressed my thoughts about this outfit. 

Along the bottom we have inventory tabs for (left to right) care items, makeup, underwear and camisoles, crossdressing goods, stockings, shoes, western clothes, accessories, and wigs. 

We don’t have any new stuff to equip from here, so let’s just hit the button and head out. 

Shina lacks confidence in her outfit, and locks up on the way out the door. Mizuho can tell that she’s nervous, and tries to encourage her to go out. However, Shina is still frozen, and she starts getting impatient. 

Shina reflects that just a bit ago, she had no connection at all to the world of crossdressing, but, well, here she is about to go outside in girl clothes. “Is this really okay?” she wonders. She worries, with a flat chest, slapdash makeup, and an unnatural bulge in her lower quarters what people around her will think when they see her. She starts trying to explain herself, but:

“Don’t say ‘boku,’ it’s ‘atashi,’ remember?”

Shina starts apologizing. “Just like I thought, it’s impossible,” she says, “I’m so stressed out my legs won’t move.”

Mizuho grumbles in disappointment, and Shina says she’ll swap back to boy mode. She does so, and they head out. 

At the store, Shinobu marvels at how many kinds of women’s underwear there are. Mizuho recommends going with something basic to start with, but the main thing is that Shinobu like it. 

There’s another path to this point we could’ve taken, one which I’m not going to consider canonical to the playthrough, where Shinobu decides to go shopping in boy mode from the beginning. Instead of having a panic attack at the door, he asks Mizuho to pretend to be a couple again, and they head out. Mizuho seems very happy about this, but when they get there she does tease him about it. From there everything seems to proceed the same way. 

They’re back home again. Shinobu reports that in the end he couldn’t decide what to get, so Mizuho picked something out for her again. Thanks Mizuho. 

“Okay, how about trying them on and showing me?”

Shinobu is astonished at this request. He asks Mizuho not to look while he’s changing. Again, this is another case where it’s unclear the extent to which Shinobu understands that he’s being flirted with. I do also think that it’s really funny that Mizuho establishes an ironclad rule of no peeking and then immediately wants to see Shinobu change.

In any case, Shina tries on the new underwear. It’s very soft. She sticks her legs through.

“I- it feels good...”

She muses that women are always wearing stuff like this. She thinks it could be habit-forming. 

Mizuho wants to see, and catches Shina by surprise. 

“Wow! Cute, isn’t it!” she remarks, “and that reaction was totally girly, huh?”

Mizuho reminds us again that underwear is foundational to crossdressing. So always wear it. 

“Shinobu, you kinda got a bulge in an odd place, don’t you!” She teases. 

“Huh? Oh, that’s uh,” Shina stammers.

“Did you start feeling weird?” she asks, pointedly, “That’s a feeling I understand, though.”

Shina asks her not to look again. 

“Girls definitely don't have anything like that there, you know~!”

Shina complains that she’s being bullied. She turns around and tries to distract herself and settle things down. 

She does this by reciting a song about multiplication tables. “Let’s see, 2 and 2 is 4, 2 and 3 is 6, how did ‘let’s make a good country’ go again..?” I believe it’s the title of a heian era poem, but the intertextuality of this gag is already going way over my head. Shina also worries that since the underwear is kinda small if she’s not careful it’ll end up sliding out. 

Is now a good time to point out that Mizuho has also been letting it rock this whole time anyway? 

From here things seem to open up a bit more, and we’ll have a few points of interest to choose from on the map screen each day. I’m not sure exactly what the flow of things is going to be, but for now things seem pretty low stakes, so I’m open to suggestions. 

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[ghastlybin]

Im deprived of sweet jiu, any fic youd wanna write?🫠 maybeeeee hmmm… ive always though a fic about a soldier and a nurse would be cute!

Hiya, first off, I'd like to apologize for being so slow with this and ily also OKAY let's gooooooo

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▾ Soldier! GN Reader ▾ Nurse! Minji ▾ World War 2 setting ▾ gunfire, explosions, yk… War stuff. ▾ Gunshot related injury ▾ Reader and Minji are already a couple btw ▾ stitches mentions ▾ Fluff ▾ some angst but that’s cause it’s the war ▾ Reader has plot armor. ▾ So does Minji. This is not that kind of fic lolol ▾ I tried to make it cute, considering ▾

▾

W.C▾ 1.8k

“War has not been kind to you.”

What a strange phrase, how it seemed to personify the war.

Speaking on technicalities, the war was a person. One mass of people, dead or alive.

Whether they were fighting back or running to cover.

The innocent and the guilty.

Even the planes over head, the guns blazing through at every hour of the day, and the explosions that cost many lives— All made up war.

If war was a person, it for sure isn’t kind. It takes what it wants, no matter the cost, and leaves the stench of death and decay in its wake.

War was a monster and taming it claimed billions of lives.

You have always been a fighter. A great one, at that. You were well respected among the other soldiers. But there was only one person you cared to impress.

Minji.

She helped out as a field nurse, who had volunteered to help the wounded soldiers during the war. You had met her before you left for the front lines, and both of you had quickly fallen in love.

“I will return to you. Please do the same.”

“I promise.”

Her words echoed in your mind every time you were out in active duty, hoping to make it through alive and uninjured so that you could keep your promise. But the bullets and explosions made your chances of getting out alive very slim.

You worried Minji would be out on the field at the wrong time and end up getting hurt before you could see each other again.

The days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months, you began to wonder if the last time you last saw Minji, was really the last time.

Another day out in action, only this time it was worse — Somehow. It happened while moving through a village when your unit was ambushed.

Everyone fought back fiercely, not accepting defeat. You dodged bullets running from cover to cover and hoping that this would end.

Many of your fellow soldiers had fallen in battle, and it was only a matter of time before you were struck by a bullet too. It happened when you went to help your fallen ally.

The force knocked you down and within seconds of being on the ground, you could feel the stinging, burning sensation growing more intense while the chaos ensued around you.

You could feel yourself being dragged behind cover, grateful to whoever it was, but there was only one person on your mind.

Minji. You hoped you hadn’t completely broken your promise to her. There was one way to keep your promise though; Don’t die.

You closed your eyes despite your allies telling you not to. But it was the only way for you to focus and drown everything out. Eventually, the gunfire ceased, and it didn’t take long for you to realize that your unit had successfully pushed back the enemy.

“Medic! We need a medic over here!”

You were bleeding too much to still be conscious, but you had to hold on just a little longer. When you opened your eyes again, you could see the familiar figure of a woman running towards you.

"Y/N, stay with me. You can’t give up now," Minji said, her voice trembling. "We need to get you to a field hospital."

Minji began to bandage your wound and applied pressure to stop the bleeding for the time being. You watched her work through blurry vision, amazed by how gentle she handled you while still being quick, knowing you were hanging on by a thread.

“Minji…” You weakly mumbled, feeling your eyes heavy with exhaustion as the pain spiked throughout your body in pulsating rhythms.

“Yes? What is it?” You could hear the panic in her voice, and you wanted to tell her that you trust her with your life. That you felt calmer now that she was there to help you.

You looked into her eyes and whispered, "I love you."

"I love you too, Y/N," she said. It was only seconds after she tightened the bandage that she noticed you were now unconscious.

―

“You’re healing pretty quickly.” Minji entered the room with a tray of food. You sat up, still sore where you had been shot.

“I don’t feel like I am.” You smiled to her as she set the tray down on your lap.

Minji took the liberty of sitting at the foot of your bed while you ate. She pondered to herself about the past few weeks you’ve been in the hospital.

“I thought I lost you.” Minji spoke up. She looked over at you and you could see tears brimming her eyes. You’ve known her since before the war and you’ve loved her ever since. There was no way you’d let the war tear you two away from each other.

“I thought I was lost too.”

Minji wiped away a tear that rolled down her cheek. “Ah. I told myself I wasn’t going to cry… Not in front of you. Not now.”

You set your tray aside and inched closer to her without ripping out the stitches holding your skin together.

"It's okay to cry. Sometimes we just need to let it all out." You assured her, slinging an arm around her shoulders. Minji burst into tears upon your initiation. You wrapped both of your arms around her as she turned into a sobbing mess on the end of your hospital bed.

It lasted about a few minutes, but you held her for the entire duration.

She sniffled, leaning into your hold. “I’m sorry, I’m acting like I was the one that got shot.”

“Oh yeah, our bullet wound is healing quickly.”

Minji cracked a smile, pulling away from you grasp and nudging you. “Shut up.”

You laughed, hovering your hand over your sutured, feeling a stinging pain when you laughed. Minji noticed and lifted your shirt just enough to check the sutures on your abdomen.

After a quick examination of your sutures, she stood up to gather her supplies.

“Your stitches must’ve pulled when you laughed. But we can actually remove them now— Luckily, you aren’t bleeding.” Minji disclosed as she set up a tray in preparation of removing you’re stitches.

You looked down at your stomach, seeing your wound that would surely leave a scar. A permanent reminder that you almost died.

Or a permanent reminder that you survived what most don’t.

You watched Minji sterilize the surgical scissors and tweezers in one of the containers of boiling water that had been prepared and preserved to be at the ready for easy access for the nurses throughout the day.

“Am I really getting these out?”

Minji took the scissors and tweezers out, drying them with a clean paper towel. She glanced at you while simultaneously opening the pack of cotton swabs.

“Disappointed?”

“Nope. Just seems early.”

“It’s been five weeks.” Minji chuckled, pouring a bit of rubbing alcohol onto a cotton swab to wipe down the tips of the scissors and tweezers.

“Time sure did fly, huh…”

Minji used a ladle to scoop a small amount of the boiling water into a cup, where she placed a few ice cubes inside to cool down the water. While the water cooled to a warm temperature, she set a bottle of antibacterial soap beside it as she used a spoon to scoop out the ice cubes.

“Are you ready? I’m about to clean it.” She warned, mixing a bit of the soap into the water, waiting for your ‘okay’.

“By all means.”

Minji smiled, pouring the soapy water onto a rag, careful not to spill everywhere. She pressed the warmed, soapy rag against your stitches, cleaning the area. You admired her concentrated expression as she grabbed a dry rag, drying the area.

“Again, are you ready?”

“Is it going to hurt?” You asked, to which Minji shook her head.

“It’s not supposed to. But please tell me if it does.” Minji met your eyes, sternly.

“Yes ma’am.”

She smirked, stifling back a laugh as she poured rubbing alcohol onto a new cotton swab, wiping down the area next.

Minji began to snip and pull up the sutures with the tweezers, followed by snipping each loop with the scissors. Minji carefully pulled each stitch out and surprisingly enough, it didn’t hurt as much as you thought. A slight stinging, but nothing painful.

After each stitch was removed, Minji used yet another rubbing alcohol-soaked cotton swab to clean the area again before dabbing antibiotic ointment over the wound area.

“And these,” she began to apply adhesive strips over where the stitches once were, “are just in case.”

“Thank you… That relieved some of the stinging.”

Minji smiled in relief, “good. Just try to be careful when you move. Getting them is more painful than taking them out.”

“Oh yeah. I will remember this next time I’m about to get shot.” You joked. Luckily, Minji knew you and your joke was able to land.

"You're safe now. I won't let anything hurt you, I promise."

“You’re my hero.” You smiled at her.

Minji let out at small laugh, nudging you. Judging by her reaction, she must’ve thought you were joking. Maybe you sounded sarcastic in your speech.

But you meant it.

If she hadn’t gotten to you as fast as she did after you were shot, you wouldn’t be alive to witness her taking your stitches out or even talk to her after so long of active duty during the war.

No. You were sure you wouldn’t be alive without her.

“I was serious,” you watched her clean up her supplies. “You saved me.”

Minji looked over at you, her eyes glistening in the sunlight that peeked through into the room.

She let out a soft sigh, walking back over to you, pressing her lips against your forehead.

“It wasn’t just me.”

“But it was just you who stopped the bleeding back at the ambush site. That saved my life just in time for me to undergo surgery.” You wanted her to give herself some credit. Even if she wasn’t the surgeon that removed the bullet fragments from your abdomen, she was the nurse that got you to the hospital and helped you recover after surgery.

“You were there for me when I couldn’t move around.” You added. She sat beside you, listening to you praise her.

“I love you, Y/N. Of course I was going to stay by your side.”

You smiled, feeling a sense of peace wash over you as you leaned forward, pressing your lips against hers. As you melted against her lips, you were grateful you survived.

Grateful that she never left your side.

"I love you, Minji," you said, your voice barely above a whisper when you pulled away, ending the kiss.

"I love you too, Y/N," Minji replied, smiling at you sweetly. "Always have."

[khaleesiofthegreatdairystate]

you seem pretty cool, and I got hate for saying these things, but you don't seem hateful. You seem nice, so I just wanted to share my non hateful opinions/stuff I'm confused on and get your feedback

1. I am all for Daenerys taking back the iron throne, but I'm also a little confused cause Daenerys can't get have kids cause of the blood curse so Daenerys cant birth her heir/heirs so if she decides to have a heir/heirs who is she going to choose to be her heir/heirs but I kinda like the idea that if Daenerys gets the iron throne and after she dies, Drogon burns the throne (it took a dragons fire to make it and it'll take a dragons fire to melt it) and then westreos goes back to how it was before Aegon the Conqueror or the kingdoms vote who they want as a king/queen since they've been under one ruler for so long

2. I get why people don't talk bad about rhaeger but I also don't understand why no one talks bad about Rhaegar to Daenerys and tells her what Rhaegar did, cause him kidnapping lyanna is the reason why Robert decided to rebel in the first place with the help of some of the other kingdoms (who were tired of the targaryens which I honestly understand)

Well, I'm a highly pragmatic person who isn't quick to anger, especially from strangers online. You can ask me anything and I'll answer the best of my ability without being an ass about it.

Many fans have guessed that Daenerys is not actually barren or will not be barren for the whole series. You can do some googling to find people's opinions on all of that. Here's a reddit thread of people talking about it: https://www.reddit.com/r/asoiaf/comments/15dy6b5/is_daenerys_barren_spoilers_extended/?rdt=38014. There's also a lot of essays here on tumblr.

The fact that a monarchy is a really flawed system of government isn't a new idea. Just because someone was born into the job doesn't mean that they'll be any good at it. English history is full of horrible kings. Richard II was deposed for a reason, for example. No one studies Henry VIII because he was a good person who did wonderful things for his people. Especially because he had his armies slaughter a bunch of them. King John is the archetypal "bad" king. So yeah, monarchies suck.

I'm not sure each kingdom governing itself would be all that much better. I can understand why people would think it would but you still have a monarchy, leaving the smallfolk and lesser lords, for that matter, to be at the whims of a person who is stupid, cruel, or both. I think it would be great if Daenerys developed some version of parliament where people can be represented and also voice their concerns to the ruler and the Small Council in an official way.

Will that happen? Stay tuned.

A lot of people hate Rhaegar, actually. I mean, I do. How he treated Elia and their children is pretty unforgivable. I mean he just didn't fucking care or at least he acted that way. People who are fans of Daenerys are not Ride or Die to all the Targaryens. While Rhaegar's actions might be explainable, as in he did it for prophecy, that doesn't make them forgivable. Also Lyanna was not even 16 when he knocked her up and left her to be looked after no one but guards in Dorne. Stabler and Benson would have been all over that situation :).

You can ask any questions you want.

[godkilller]

sometimes I look at your aigin verse and think how different this relationship looked for each of them. It's more like for Aizen, Gin was something like a ray of light in his world, someone who was finally able to see the real him and gradually relieved him of his isolation. but for the gin everything was the opposite

out of character. Thank you for the ask! I appreciate hearing feedback on the way I navigate dynamics with Gin, and this one is certainly a tangled up mess. Your observation is right; the way Gin views Aizen in most scenarios, especially post-Winter War, involves likening him to a black hole. I've also had Gin, I believe when younger, describe the intensity of Aizen's focus on him as the same sensation one would get when wading in dark ocean waters and seeing a shark's black eye looking back at them whilst being circled. Gin has acknowledged Aizen's brighter forms of intensity (he still will mention the heat and forcefulness like the power of the sun/etc.) but ultimately his most used descriptor of Aizen is that he's like a black hole.

A black hole is nothingness, it consumes everything, even light, and in some ways a black hole is daunting and inevitable the same way it's sad and a terrible thing. A sun's collapse inward. Aizen is a black hole in the way that he can appear empty, yet be all-encompassing. Aizen has 'weight' yet is untouchable, Aizen is enormous and imposing yet equally so he is incredibly far away. He has a pull to him, an inescapable one that Gin feels trapped in. Gin feels isolated, yet Aizen feels like he's no longer alone. While others may liken Aizen to the sun, and while he may still share many of those symbolic points, Gin knows that the sun Aizen could've been has long since soured, tainted by the Hogyoku and his power-seeking manipulations and experiments -- everyone thinks Aizen is the sun, still, while not knowing the truth; people are basking in a dead, flat light. It's no wonder Aizen effortlessly created that fake sun in Las Noches, he's good with that sort of falsehood.

In many ways Gin's opinion of Aizen is always shifting based on the context of the thread, but he's overall always influenced by his hatred. Simultaneously, Gin respects Aizen, so it's a strange duality to have bundled up in there -- and the harder part comes with Aizen's view of Gin sometimes bordering on obsessive and idolizing, but don't tell Lu I said that. Aizen's view of Gin as someone who can do no wrong because he harbors such biased and strong feelings for him makes it so even in his most dedicated moments, Aizen is not genuinely ever going to understand Gin properly. Not until some serious corrective work is done. He'll see him as the moon, as his light in the dark, and maybe that has some truth to it in terms of Gin being used as Aizen's sounding board and giving Aizen bold feedback he couldn't get from Tousen due to Tousen being too loyal and quick to not question what Aizen does.

But in a deceptive way, Aizen's own view of Gin in that light makes it so he himself can't see past that self-written poetry and symbolic view of Gin, and he is left neglecting the clues and hints of hurt and hate Gin holds within. If Aizen does happen to notice those things, he's more inclined to look the other way or push it under the rug due to those feelings and almost downright clinginess to Gin. He cannot claim to love Gin while not able to see the whole of him, and in that way there's an imbalance between them that spans beyond mere reiatsu; Aizen at last found someone who can see him, and yet Gin will never let Aizen see him in the same way because he won't ever forgive him for what was done to Rangiku in the Rukongai. It's not healthy on either end.

But that's why I do enjoy writing the dynamic and exploring the whys and hows of it all. So thank you again for sending this!