#sorry for veering wildly off topic

[artilite]

I loveee love LOVE your design for siffrins friend and they look so amazing and cute and I think it’s an awesome design. However can I say. They look like a one piece character

THANK YOUUU AHHHHH🥺 she's been a clear vision in my head since the fish head scene,,, it was super fun getting to put it all down hehe :]

i know absolutely nothing about one piece apart from?? this??? being a thing????

[shakingparadigm]

Seeing all those analysis posts about how Till liked Mizi because she was gentle while not giving the same attention to Ivan because he wasn't... how Ivan might have made Till uncomfortable because he expressed his admiration for Till through violence because he liked how Till had the courage to fight back...

I was wandering if Ivan ever realized that the way he went about showing his feelings wasn't positive for Till and he fucking did. "I wish I had been kinder" he fucking regrets dude, fuck me man.

(This veered wildly off-topic I am so sorry.)

Coming back to this ask after the most recent R6 update is interesting.

I've always wondered why they chose the title Cure in particular. I was expecting a song title along the lines of Star or something abyssal. Then I thought about Till's affiliation with experiments and drugs and the various ways he was hurt. Cure... It also brings to mind how the content for Ivan highlights his "oddness", how he's framed as someone different, almost wrong in a sense. There's something that he lacks, something that he feels the need to fix, to cure.

In the recent ROUND 6 production post, the true meaning is revealed. You're right on a certain level, but as always, it's complicated.

Both Ivan and Till seek a certain type of "healing", maybe to compensate for their pain, their oddness and their loneliness. They wish to be cured of their suffering somehow and they seek the solution in other people.

QMENG states that Till desires a type of healing that Ivan cannot provide, and vice versa.

It goes without saying, pretty common knowledge at this point, but Till is a lot softer under his rebellious front. As someone who's been beat and abused his whole life, it makes sense that that type of love he'd want is something gentler, something stable. It's incredibly obvious in the way he acts towards Mizi. She's so genuine, so bright, untainted by the cruel reality of the world. Till softens around her, since she has only showed him kindness he in turn shows her the sweetest side of himself. He's had nothing stable to cling onto before, so he immediately becomes attached to this idealized version of Mizi. He believes she's the only person who can provide him with what he needs, the only one who can "heal" him.

It's outright stated that Ivan cannot provide that type of "healing" that Till is looking for. Ivan does try, of course. Unfortunately, he lacks something fundamental. Because of this he expresses himself in rather childish ways, which may involve a little cruelty and attention-seeking. A lot of Ivan's actions are muddled by his complicated feelings as well, as its stated that his true emotions and intentions are difficult to grasp. With Till, Ivan wants to save and be saved, hurt and heal him, keep him and set him free. Live for him and die for him. He criticizes Sua on the ethics of self-sacrifice and then goes on to do the same himself. With Ivan, everything contradicts.

He tries desperately to be the cure that Till needs, but due to his incredibly complex nature that "healing" will never be just healing. It may come with more pain and confusion despite his best efforts.

I don't think Till refused to give Ivan attention because he wasn't gentle enough, rather I think it's because everything was so complicated whenever Ivan was involved. Ivan is there for him in his times of need and causes a fair bit of trouble during the rest. He's strange and hard to grasp, but he's familiar. Calling each other "friends" seemed like such an inadequate label because they're simultaneously too close and not close enough. Ivan does wish he was kinder, though. Not only to Till, but to Sua and most likely a few other people as well. There's a lot of aspects in which Ivan wishes he were different, and it's tragic to hear how he deprecates himself in his final moments for it.

There's the second half of QMENG's statement as well, "vice versa". Till cannot provide what Ivan needs either, but Ivan desperately desires it anyway.

Ivan views Till as his cure. He wants to not only "heal" Till, but to be healed by him as well. This desire can be seen in the lyrics of Cure:

Notice my pain

And mend me right now

To quiet my fears

I'll drown in you

(The wish for "healing" is stated.)

In your gaze, where I’m seen

Consume me, yes, me, oh, oh

(Ivan urges Till to "consume" him like medicine, he wishes to be what Till needs.)

Ivan lacks something, and he believes that Till can make up for that lack which is why he's so fascinated by him. If Ivan is a black abyss, Till is a supernova, bringing life to an empty void. Unfortunately, Till is explosive and rather inept at handling his own extreme emotions, which causes him to either lash out violently or retreat further inward and push Ivan away. He's also a thoroughly destructive and hurt individual, seeking his own cure in another form. He cannot provide what Ivan needs.

Both Ivan and Till are incredibly volatile. That's not to say they don't have their gentler sides, but overall they've been doomed from the start. Ultimately it's no fault of theirs, they did what they could with their complicated feelings and fought through their own respective hells.

In the end, Ivan had to come to terms with the fact that he couldn't get the "healing" he needed and could never be what Till needed, either. That's why he finally acted on his impulses and let his complicated feelings win over, resulting in his death. Despite all the heartache, his final thoughts are a statement of gratitude. Truly a tragedy.

[diamantinasfrilledshark]

Roleplay Rules!

Status: Semi-Open as of November 2nd, 2023

Feel free to DM me or ask any questions in my inbox! I can't guarantee that RPs will start right away, but we can definitely start setting things up.

In order to RP with me, you NEED to send me the hidden phrase in here so I know you actually read the rules. If not, I will not RP.

Literacy Style:

Literate to semi-literate. I like to write in multiple paragraphs, both with detail and somewhat dialogue heavy. If you’ve seen my writing, it’s a lot like that! I expect potential RP partners to follow in suit/match.

It seems as of late that I prefer literate with multiple paragraphs and details.

I’ve been RPing since I was like, 10. If I see *she smiles* it might summon rage 💀 /hj

Where We Can Talk:

Just starting off? Tumblr DMs! I won’t RP in the comment section of a post.

You can now ask for my Discord. It’s where I’m most active.

Slots:

Don’t really have a cap off but it becomes too much at once I will be sure to let you know.

Genres and Plots:

Almost anything and everything! However, towards strangers and people I’m generally unfamiliar with, SFW are going to be the topics I steer towards. Adventure, drama, horror etc. are all fine the first go around.

I’m pretty flexible on genres so like, hey don’t be afraid to suggest it.

NSFW, I like writing smut, I just need to like you as well lol. Not a slight on your behalf, but I will let you know whether smut is a possibility or not.

NSFW will only be done with other 18+ adults who have verified they are in fact, adults. I absolutely refuse NSFW to “ageless” accounts and minors.

Honestly I don’t want to RP with minors so if you’re a minor, don’t message me. Don’t do it. Thanks.

Pairings:

Gets a little odd here, I don’t actually ship anything, if that makes any sense? Like, canon character X canon character just isn’t in my repertoire unless they’re already an established couple or the franchise is heavily leaning them that way.

That said, I’m totally cool with self shipping and OCs X Canon characters. (If self ship, it has to go both ways. Sorry I’m a simp too 😔)

Platonic, familial, those work best though especially if I am unfamiliar with you as a person.

Honestly I’m not as veered towards romance unless you’re a good friend of mine.

Do:

When first DMing, send me memes to help break the ice! I’m pretty good about speaking to people, but I understand how awkward it can be

If you’re using an OC, please tell me all about your OC! If you have any reference pics etc, send them so I can describe them during the RP.

If you’re playing a canon character and you’ve changed anything about them that’s notable, feel free to mention their quirks, and the lore building you’ve done for them.

Tell me if it gets to be too much or if you wish to change directions. I want you to feel safe and have a free voice during the chat. If something doesn’t click, tell me.

Please talk to me about the RP plot before we start! That gives me a good direction on what bases to hit and which lines to not cross. Your boundaries are just as important as mine and I want to respect them.

Use brackets or some other notation to let me know you’re speaking out of character! I’m very prone to using []

Understand that you can leave for a while and don’t need to apologize. Genuinely, I know you’ll get back to me. If you don’t think you will or it’ll take longer than expected then let me know. I know people get busy, so it’s honestly no problem.

Don’t:

Do NOT ask to RP if you are a minor. I do not wish to RP with minors.

Send me unsolicited NSFW or a starter without any conversation prior to. It’s just kind of ???? On my end.

Do not godmod HEAVILY. I’m okay with like, “and he helped her up and watched as she walked over to the desk.” But fully godmodding is a no.

Send one liners. Self explanatory.

Wildly deviate from the plot in bizarre ways. Like, making things NSFW all of a sudden or cause angst when there was none. I hate saying “Mary Sue the RP” but do not Mary Sue the RP.

Please don’t be upset when I take a hot minute or two to respond. I’m a person that has a life outside of her phone and is actually prone to migraine if I look at screens for too long. I will always get back to the RP unless I say otherwise.

Be pushy for a character or a pairing I said no to.

Go too OOC for canon characters.

Ask for things like rape, beastiality, common DNI criteria.

I understand RP can be therapeutic but remember, I am not a therapist and the RP we have is not substitute for actual mental health help.

Fandoms:

SCP

Call of Duty

Darkwood

Assassin’s Creed

Grimm

Uncharted

My Little Pony (yeah goin' back to my roots)

My OCs (need to ask about those, there’s,,,, many and they’re all intricate.)

Other Things:

Please use third person, past or present tense. Usually past tense.

I feel it goes hand in hand with literate RP but use “speaking” for a dialogue and ‘thinking’ for thoughts.

Try not to rush anything! Let it happen naturally and it’ll all play out.

Don’t be afraid to talk to me outside of the RP either. Like, it’s a personal thing we’re probably going to become friends.

Some Examples of My RP Style:

Mind you, not all of these are going to be extremely long. Things tend to taper out.

All of these examples were lifted directly from one of my RPs.

November 2nd, 2023: I swear not all of my replies are going to be like this. I'm immensely more busy now.

This is a starter:

A young princess sat on the balcony of her mother’s grand palace. The stars of the night were absolutely gorgeous as her dark eyes peered upwards, tracing constellation upon constellation. There, she could see the proud statue of Amun and feel the loving gaze of the beautiful mother goddess, Hathor. Strings upon strings of stars hung in the sky and bathed the desert in a warm white and blue gold, illuminating the darkness so she could observe the night life of her people. At barely eighteen years old, the young princess had been coming to a very startling conclusion as she stared out at the houses amongst the dunes and the boats and their ferriers on the Nile: that one day, all of this would be hers. The thought scared her, as ruling over such a people with the same authority as her mother and her mothers before her… The burden was crushing in its own right.

Sameera, the current pharaoh of Egypt and seated daughter of Isis and Ra, had been gearing her only daughter up for greatness since she had been brought into the world. The palace had served little as a home and more of a house of education, gearing up the little girl for a future in which all would bow down to her. Sameera has been, and will be considered a bountiful ruler. She ushered in an Egypt in which magick and divine favor rained down on the land, where suffering was lightened, and where pain had been naught but a bruise.

To give her daughter, Tavi, a taste of what it would mean to be the seated pharaoh and begin expanding her power besides running the palace, Sameera had placed her in charge of the Festival of Hathor. The festival in itself being amongst the most important task Tavi has been held in charge of to this date. In the morning, Tavi would be heading out by herself to Dendera, the main site of Hathor’s cult and preside over it, and of course, ensure it passes smoothly.

It sounds so simple: let people get drunk and feast, make merry, and enjoy singing and dancing in the company of others, but Tavi has never been a part of such importance in ritual ceremonies. She’s only ever observed, and even that in itself has been something hidden to her as her mother finds the merrymaking beneath her real education under the watchful eyes of Thoth.

Tavi sighs deeply and rests her arms on the balcony for just a moment more, already intending to head back inside and rest for the night before one of her lady maids interrupts her train of thought.

“My lady,” the finely dressed woman begins. “You have a visitor.”

Tavi’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise as she crosses the balcony through the cool night air to come to her lady maid’s side. “What? Who on earth would come to my quarters at this hour?” She inquires, more curious than angered at the thought she has a visitor.

The woman bows her head in the princess’s presence as if to silently ask her if she should address the visitor. “I believe it pertains to the Festival of Hathor, but it was not my place to pry,” the lady maid continues, her voice soft and sweet. “Shall I tell them to leave?”

Tavi blinks before shaking her head. “No, you may leave. I’ll handle this,” she replies warmly, her hand resting on the taller woman’s shoulder. “Go, get some rest,” she hums.

The lady maid nods, thanks her princess, then exits out the servant’s entrance, leaving Tavi to her own devices.

The young princess brushes back some of her black hair, wondering who would ask audience with her so informally and so late at night. She crosses her limestone floor quietly, akin to a ghost as if to tell her visitor no one is present before stopping just shy of the door. Mentally, Tavi remembers what her mother has said about acting regally in the presence of others, how to stand tall and like a future queen, and physically rolls that onto her stance.

With a deep breath, she opens the door.

And here is another response show casing what RPs tend to look like down the line WITHOUT me RPING multiple characters:

Tavi’s eyebrows shoot up In surprise as the listens to Arya’s words. “That is troubling,” she murmurs more to herself than anyone else as she once again brushes back some of her hair.

Her mind wanders, wondering what the right course of action would be. Of course, they would be moving during the earlier morning before the sun would come up, but with the flowers on the line… “perhaps we should leave earlier,” she hums.

But then that would require waking up the rest of the party—and they needed their rest. “We can discuss this inside, please,” Tavi moves aside in the doorway, gesturing for Arya to enter. “I would despise seeing your work go to waste because of the heat and the sun,” she says, already moving to her table to give Arya a cup of water.

[Howdy, here’s the phrase. “An ocean without unnamed monsters would be like sleep without dreams.” ]

And here is a response showcasing me RPING multiple characters:

Abasi mentally rolled his golden eyes at Arya’s childish gesture as he led Tavi through the halls. He enjoyed the feeling of the princess’s hands on his forearm—she felt delicate beneath his touch, and it made his heart beat just a little bit faster.

The area they had stepped into was absolutely beautiful, gorgeous in every which way. The air was sweet and warm, like a mother’s caress.

“Great mother Hathor,” Tavi murmured, her head bowing in reverence to the goddess. “What a beauty and blessing you are,” she murmured to herself, slowly letting go of Abasi’s forearm.

“Princess!” A priest’s voice cut through. “What a pleasure to see you here,” he said warmly. “I presume you’ve come to make an offering?”

Tavi smiled and nodded, gently telling Abasi that his guard could lower. “I have. What a magnificent job you and the priests and priestesses have done.”

The priest beamed and quickly nodded for one of the lower ranking priestesses to fetch a bowl full of offerings they’d prepared for the princess. “It means the world t hear it from you,” he said. “We’ve gone all out this time for her festival.”

“It shows,” Tavi hummed, silently thanking the lower ranking priestess who handed her a bowl full of spices, jewelry, flowers and sweet smelling oils. Gently, Tavi came to the edge of the pool, kneeling down and offering silent prayers to Hathor, a blessed mother, before placing the bowl gingerly on the water.

It rippled as it flowed on the surface, almost resting perfectly in the middle amongst the sparse lily pads and lotus flowers.

On her way back up, Abasi offered the princess his hand, and she took it.

The priest once again beamed. “The goddess is most pleased with your presence,” he noted, barely able to contain his joy. “Would your companions like to make offerings as well?”

[internalself]

i read your piece on transdisability and trace, and it explained things well for me- you are good at explaining things in depth. however, i have a question on the topic of trans race (as a black person who also uses a transid label). please don't take this in bad faith. i hold no hatred for those who id as trace. i'm just curious about things regarding it, and how to understand! sorry if anything is worded oddly.

how would a person trans race (whether poc2white, poc2poc, white2poc) go about expressing their incongruence in a way that Doesn't come off as/is.... racist? for example, as someone who partially identifies as an animal, sometimes i express this by wearing animal ears or talking about things that relate them back to how i am an animal, or how ive experienced these things that animals do. but how nonhuman animals and animals cultures exist are wildly different.

however, if a transrace person wanted to express their racial incongruence by wearing things closed off to members not apart of that culture (like certain native american items such as the headdress being closed off to non natives, or in the black community it being looked down upon for nonblacks/whites to wear braids in the way we do as them having ties to slavery & tribes across the sub saharan as well as nonblacks being able to face less repercussions wearing our hair vs us facing them) would that not be.... wildly inappropriate to do? or be racist if they were doing things related to the race they see themself as, such as emulating closed cultural things or speaking of the experiences of (bodily) x race folks as if it were their own, or even wishing they had experienced them?

im aware race is a social construct and its function is to oppress and separate, but it can come off as odd when people aren't that race try to take claim of those cultures and races, whenever (in the case of poc2poc/white2poc, or even otherace2 white ethnic groups such as the sami) these people tend to have already had so much of that culture taken away from them, typically by the dominant racial group. from what i see i feel like it'd veer less into possibly racist territory for trace folks to context with other cultures that aren't theirs without taking claim to them, or even making desires to have different features like a different skin type or hair type known without trying to take claim to an ethnic grouping or other race. but then again... i don't know trace people, only vaguely observed. I'm just wondering how in these circumstances would People who identify as trace not just be racist. I'm sorry that this got super wordy! I'm just curious and went off on a tangent on how i viewed it and all. have a nice day!

This ask has taken me a while. Because it's very long, at least on mobile. In the future, I'd really appreciate asks with multiple questions to be cut into smaller asks, or things that can be condensed to be condensed at least with a TLDR. this has been making my executive dysfunction... do what it does best.

(Not mad)

Further, when I mention race in here (and all my posts) I mean cisrace unless I specify trace people specifically. If you get triggered or dysphoric by talking very bluntly about race like I will be, this may not be the post to read.

I also want to note I'm always a little hesitant to touch on the topic of trace & similar race & ethnicity inconcruence. It's probably the most controversial and it's easy to troll and target, and it forces me to release more information about myself than I'm super comfortable with? If that makes sense.

Race is also a very... subjective and touchy topic generally that many people have different experiences with unlike age and species. So a LARGE part of this is just me bouncing ideas off the wall to hope they break some bricks. There's no right or wrong answer. My opinion on this subjective topic is not the one truth. Especially because not every trace person is the same, and will navigate their identity differently.

I want to start answering this with a correction real quick. You mention war bonnets, i assume when talking abt an ambiguous headress.

1. Clarify next time. "Headdress" is not a n8v only word, it generally is a word for any head-dress... in other words, ordimental hats.

2. There's no "Native American culture" we have MANY cultures. War bonnets are plains tribes pieces. Further, they're so closed that not just anyone can wear one. I wouldn't. It would be like saying any Christian can just walk up to the pope and steal and wear his hat. Like, most wouldn't do that because they understand that's a hat that is specific to someone's job connected to spirituality. (I only use this comparison because it's an easy thing to invision.)

3. Appropriation does not necessarily come from the action done, but benefits gained. Non native people can own spiders web charms! They're not closed to specific people who earn them, or a part of sensitive ceremonies. It's a baby's thing. The issue comes when non native companies start selling dreamcatchers and outcompeteting native sellers. The issue of appropriation happens here because native people are hated for having our cultures, and suffer for that- but what is seen as "consumable" and "marketable" from us can be sold while we continue to face an ongoing genocide. That's the issue.

4. I'm not black, so correct me here if I'm wrong. But the way appropriation fits in here is explained similar. White people wearing black styled braids or dreads often do so because it's "trendy" or to fill some other kind of social niche they will benefit from- while black people wearing the hairstyles will be still discriminated against for it. A white woman with cornrows has a better chance to be picked up for a job than a black woman with cornrows because of racism at play, but when like so commonly these days, random pieces of mostly black American culture is scraped for trends for mostly white people, the white woman may benefit online from the "trend"- and at the end of the day she can just go back to her natural hair styles, while the black woman wears it to protect her hair and keep it healthy, and can't just have "white hair" any day. The white person can safely benefit from the trend and kick it to the curb to be "outdated" whenever, which the black people who had it scraped from is now forced to deal with the fallout of- and usually face MORE lash back from people now that it's "outdated."

The differences here and a few things I want to point out are...

The trace person isn't doing this by trend we can assume. (While I can't encourage styling your hair in ways that aren't meant for your texture and may damage your hair and scalp) this person is also likely to face social knockback.

Not all trace people choose to take /any/ steps to transition. I'm not shaming those who do things to validate themselves, but many choose not to, this kind of interaction is not necessary and therefore shouldn't be held to trace people as a whole, but rather to the individual depending on your personal feelings on the topic. I am trans species and I don't personally clothe myself in any way that validates that... it does nothing for my dysphoria. Many trace people are similar. Ask yourself if you think transgender people are controversial to yourself if they choose to transition physically because the patriarchy exists.

Not all trace people are white, so we can't really approach these with this binary "white people vs everyone else" view.

Not all trace people are trace to an existing or any race. Many people consider themselves raceless in different ways or not having a human race, or a race from a fictional setting, etc. Hard to appropriate when your race is "wolf."

I really can't speak much on the idea of white 2 poc trace people- its not my experience and I don't know much about it.

I feel like a lot of this can be summed up with the help of asking yourself if you see them as valid or not. Because if you see a trace w2poc person as still white and don't validate them, you're gonna see a lot of these issues the same way people claim transgender people are "appropriating being a woman." Even if they claim to be understanding they'll still insist a trans woman as a man. Would it be tone deaf for a trans woman to say she wished she experienced more misogyny? Yeah it could probably feel that way. It's all ill say on that, because I have not ever been nor am I a woman, and I've never wished my experiences with race was worse. While I can understand how someone may find it validating (even negative attention is attention, and after being starved of attention towards a silent facet of yourself, you may crave anything), it can be upsetting to see though. It's less of a real wish from what I've seen, and more a cry of "anyone, anything, can anyone see me? Even if you hate me?"

I absolutely do believe that all trans identities should be treated softly and with an understanding about the violence of the walls we've put up in the past. But just like how being transgender has intersections with sexism... I feel like we need to talk about a controversial statement I'm about to make.

I believe there's an intersection of transness and race. (And disability but this is not the topic/time for that.)

Let's look at the way people react to well known trace people. Oftentimes, immediate disgust. The transphobia, same as ever exists in this intersection to say, "look at this crazy person! They think they can change the way they are! They're wrong and deviant!" But racism is also present. Almost always, especially from white crowds, there's a surge of racism flung at the individual- under the guise of "gross I hate transness!"

I've seen people describe the intersection of transphobia and misogyny as "transphobes treat trans people they way they wish they could treat cis women. Because they see them as women just enough to be misogynistic and violent, and trans enough to justify that." And I want to say I think similarly, many people treat trace people poorly the way they wish they could treat other races, or even their own. It's an excuse to be racist. A trans->black person will be seen as black enough to be hated for their blackness, and trans enough to be considered a joke.

I will also finish off here by saying I am not uncritical of the actions of much of the community. I've vented to people before about how it can be frustrating to see people waltz in and act in ways that put a bad taste in my mouth. But I've also interacted with lots of very good faith trace people who are very mindful and understanding of their identity. The loudest voices are trolls, and it concerns me moving into a time where transid is becoming slightly more visible that people are almost entirely unable to ignore bait or recognize trolling. I have seen genuine people who are... interesting in the way they choose to interact with race.. but I chalk them up to being uneducated and kids most of the time.

For the most part I see this with transjapanese people who's only exposure to the idea of being Japanese is anime, usually children's anime as well, which gives them a really skewed perspective on the racial experience. I've also met people who have a very in depth knowledge they've gathered from respectfully asking others, reading articles and stories by others, etc. It's usually just a victim of misinformation, lack of information and confusion of the topic.

I also want to point out how in different countries, different experiences can exist. Going back to the idea of transjapanese people, a lot of people begin to pull comparisons to the experiences of asian americans.. but we live in a world where Japanese people in Japan /are/ the majority, and /are/ the preferred race of many in the country when it comes to race based bigotry. A white person absolutely could suddenly find themselves treated poorly for their race in japan as soon as they're anything other than a tourist. It's worth noting the way race works outside of America. A lot of discussions tend to focus here, but the American experience with race is not a universal one. A Japanese person in Japan is not likely to be called an English slur for Asian people. In other countries, that may change.

The topic of nativeness and blackness are both very unique in their foundation in America and that American foundation being about suffering. But I also feel like they're special in their lack of very clear cut borders.

While it's a hot topic, nativeness is hard to define. Blood quantum is a twisted tool of white supremacy, there is no "percentage when you stop being native." Lacking identity with your nativeness, losing your care for your ancestor(s) is, to many, where it starts/ends. This is unique because of how many, still to this day, native kids are kidnapped and unable to connect to their cultures. They're placed in white religious families and essentally wiped of their "nativeness." These kids do not stop being native, until they choose to stop being native. A mixed child is not less native if their skin is lighter or darker than their native parent. They stop being native when they choose to stop being native. A mixed child's child, listening to oral stories from their native grandparent is not less native in this moment. They're not ever. They're not white until they decide to be. It's hard to describe to you. In a world that wants to genocide us, physically, culturally, you can't judge it based on physical build, you cannot judge it on cultural connection. If you uphold being native in spirit, you are native, to an extent. Many native nations have a long history of accepting members of other tribes, other counties, other races. If you fight alongside us, in a world against us, to the oppressor you become my sibling. To me, you become my sibling. Does that make sense? It's why so many have to reconnect. It's why reconnecting is so hard. No blood quantum is required to join the Cherokee nation, for lots of us, what makes someone native is a very... heavily debated topic. Some n8vs have a very hard line, saying as soon as you disconnect culturally you're gone forever, or if you didn't grow up on a reservation. Some are very loose, saying anyone can reconnect. I'm looser on it, and it makes me happy (though, anxious) to see transnative people. We're in a cultural(+) genocide. I don't think you can afford to be picky with who keeps that culture alive, so long as they're respectful.

Like I said earlier, I'm not black. But I want to, with my understanding, go further from here by saying "black" is a vague word that means different things in different places. A lot of the time here in America it means specifically black Americans with a history connected to American slavery and segregation, etc, hence 'black culture' but in different parts of the world it may mean anyone dark skinned. It could mean anyone of African decent, it could include people from south America, I know there was a discourse a few years ago about if native Australians could call themselves black. If someone in America fit the bill, many people would consider them black, not asking or caring if they're a first generation immigrant or if they're a tourist or even African at all. Many mixed people are considered black regardless of if they self identify as being black or mixed. Etc.

So similarly I think there's a sort of... I don't know, food for thought about these 2 ideas of race especially in an American context that are especially flexible and poorly defined with the socal contrast of race.

Sorry if I missed anything, I tried to comb through the text block multiple times to catch every point but I'm very, very dyslexic. I may have missed things, feel free to send them more condensed. Further, I'd like if you'd read this post on race as a social construct if you haven't already, reader. Seeya! And of course, thank you for the question I hope I answered it as well as you'd like.

All of our culture and idea of race is a construct- but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist. [Link]

[impishtubist]

Sirius speaks some language that the phone can’t translate because it’s been out of use for over a millennium, and everyone is like “why did your parents even teach you that and also, how?” and poor Sirius is all “buddy, not even a Black can understand another Black, so don’t ask me”

I'm sorry for making this veer WILDLY off-topic but this gives Crowley vibes (from Good Omens, not SPN) of him speaking dead or lost languages and his phone being like ??????????

[hologramcowboy]

Hello! I hope you’re having a good day!

I’m just writing in response to the ask you posted breaking down their observations of Jensen's behavior during JIB. I agree with so much of what they noted, although I haven’t watched the Jensen and Misha panel yet so I can’t comment on that.

I feel like Jensen did a lot of talking around answers, and agree that he came off as very defensive a few times. Some of his answers didn’t even really make sense, or veered wildly off topic. I’m not sure I got as much of a cocky vibe as the other ask, but definitely an off vibe. I also agree with the idea that he was annoyed that Jared wasn’t there and he probably felt like he was at an "extra" con, but I didn’t get the sense he was actually trying to crap on Jared with his "jokes" in a malicious way, if that makes sense. I do think he did seem genuinely tired, though.

This con gave me that feeling again of, "is Jensen okay?" And I didn’t mean in the wooby sense of, "the poor man deserves to be endlessly stroked for bravely doing his job and coming to this con on little sleep." But on a deeper, I’m not sure how well he’s coping with things in his life right now kind of way. This sort of surprised me (but also not since he was around Hellers and cockles shippers for a weekend) because in the last few cons, he’s seemed pretty good and him and Jared have felt almost like their old dynamic is back in full swing. And he seemed a bit better to me in the well-being sense. But, now I’m just a bit concerned about him again. I think he is almost lonely and unfulfilled…? Or he just relies on Jared that much to bounce off of at cons and it exhausts him to "carry" them a,one.

Sorry, I didn’t really add much new here, but just wanted to point out I agreed with the other ask's points. I’d be interested anything more you wanted to add about Jensen at the con, too. I like hearing about people’s opinions on him when they like him but aren’t AAs and who don’t hate him because if the prequel.

"I’m just a bit concerned about him again. I think he is almost lonely and unfulfilled"

In an nutshell, that's the same impression I get, I fear he hides deep pain and he is definitely unfulfilled in his life despite having all the trappings.

[whaleofatjme1920]

RP Rules

Status: Semi-Open as of July 26th, 2022

Feel free to DM me or ask any questions in my inbox! I can't guarantee that RPs will start right away, but we can definitely start setting things up.

In order to RP with me, you NEED to send me the hidden phrase in here so I know you actually read the rules. If not, I will not RP.

Literacy Style:

Literate to semi-literate. I like to write in multiple paragraphs, both with detail and somewhat dialogue heavy. If you’ve seen my writing, it’s a lot like that! I expect potential RP partners to follow in suit/match.

It seems as of late that I prefer literate with multiple paragraphs and details.

I’ve been RPing since I was like, 10. If I see *she smiles* it might summon rage 💀 /hj

Where We Can Talk:

Just starting off? Tumblr DMs! I won’t RP in the comment section of a post.

You can now ask for my Discord. It’s where I’m most active.

Slots:

Don’t really have a cap off but it becomes too much at once I will be sure to let you know.

Genres and Plots:

Almost anything and everything! However, towards strangers and people I’m generally unfamiliar with, SFW are going to be the topics I steer towards. Adventure, drama, horror etc. are all fine the first go around.

I’m pretty flexible on genres so like, hey don’t be afraid to suggest it.

NSFW, while I am not opposed to it at all, must be talked about extensively if you are not a close friend.

NSFW will only be done with other 18+ adults who have verified they are in fact, adults. I absolutely refuse NSFW to “ageless” accounts and minors.

Honestly I don’t want to RP with minors so if you’re a minor, don’t message me. Don’t do it. Thanks.

Pairings:

Gets a little odd here, I don’t actually ship anything, if that makes any sense? Like, canon character X canon character just isn’t in my repertoire unless they’re already an established couple or the franchise is heavily leaning them that way.

That said, I’m totally cool with self shipping and OCs X Canon characters. (If self ship, it has to go both ways. Sorry I’m a simp too 😔)

Platonic, familial, those work best though especially if I am unfamiliar with you as a person.

Honestly I’m not as veered towards romance unless you’re a good friend of mine.

Do:

When first DMing, send me memes to help break the ice! I’m pretty good about speaking to people, but I understand how awkward it can be

If you’re using an OC, please tell me all about your OC! If you have any reference pics etc, send them so I can describe them during the RP.

If you’re playing a canon character and you’ve changed anything about them that’s notable, feel free to mention their quirks, and the lore building you’ve done for them.

Tell me if it gets to be too much or if you wish to change directions. I want you to feel safe and have a free voice during the chat. If something doesn’t click, tell me.

Please talk to me about the RP plot before we start! That gives me a good direction on what bases to hit and which lines to not cross. Your boundaries are just as important as mine and I want to respect them.

Use brackets or some other notation to let me know you’re speaking out of character! I’m very prone to using []

Understand that you can leave for a while and don’t need to apologize. Genuinely, I know you’ll get back to me. If you don’t think you will or it’ll take longer than expected then let me know. I know people get busy, so it’s honestly no problem.

Don’t:

Do NOT ask to RP if you are a minor. I do not wish to RP with minors.

Send me unsolicited NSFW or a starter without any conversation prior to. It’s just kind of ???? On my end.

Do not godmod HEAVILY. I’m okay with like, “and he helped her up and watched as she walked over to the desk.” But fully godmodding is a no.

Send one liners. Self explanatory.

Wildly deviate from the plot in bizarre ways. Like, making things NSFW all of a sudden or cause angst when there was none. I hate saying “Mary Sue the RP” but do not Mary Sue the RP.

Please don’t be upset when I take a hot minute or two to respond. I’m a person that has a life outside of her phone and is actually prone to migraine if I look at screens for too long. I will always get back to the RP unless I say otherwise.

Be pushy for a character or a pairing I said no to.

Go too OOC for canon characters.

Ask for things like rape, beastiality, common DNI criteria.

I understand RP can be therapeutic but remember, I am not a therapist and the RP we have is not substitute for actual mental health help.

Fandoms:

SCP

Darkwood

Assassin’s Creed

Grimm

Uncharted

My OCs (need to ask about those, there’s,,,, many and they’re all intricate.)

If you mention it and I know it, there’s a chance I’ll go with it.

Other Things:

Please use third person, past or present tense. Usually past tense.

I feel it goes hand in hand with literate RP but use “speaking” for a dialogue and ‘thinking’ for thoughts.

Try not to rush anything! Let it happen naturally and it’ll all play out.

Don’t be afraid to talk to me outside of the RP either. Like, it’s a personal thing we’re probably going to become friends.

Some Examples of My RP Style:

Mind you, not all of these are going to be extremely long. Things tend to taper out.

All of these examples were lifted directly from one of my RPs.

This is a starter:

A young princess sat on the balcony of her mother’s grand palace. The stars of the night were absolutely gorgeous as her dark eyes peered upwards, tracing constellation upon constellation. There, she could see the proud statue of Amun and feel the loving gaze of the beautiful mother goddess, Hathor. Strings upon strings of stars hung in the sky and bathed the desert in a warm white and blue gold, illuminating the darkness so she could observe the night life of her people. At barely eighteen years old, the young princess had been coming to a very startling conclusion as she stared out at the houses amongst the dunes and the boats and their ferriers on the Nile: that one day, all of this would be hers. The thought scared her, as ruling over such a people with the same authority as her mother and her mothers before her… The burden was crushing in its own right.

Sameera, the current pharaoh of Egypt and seated daughter of Isis and Ra, had been gearing her only daughter up for greatness since she had been brought into the world. The palace had served little as a home and more of a house of education, gearing up the little girl for a future in which all would bow down to her. Sameera has been, and will be considered a bountiful ruler. She ushered in an Egypt in which magick and divine favor rained down on the land, where suffering was lightened, and where pain had been naught but a bruise.

To give her daughter, Tavi, a taste of what it would mean to be the seated pharaoh and begin expanding her power besides running the palace, Sameera had placed her in charge of the Festival of Hathor. The festival in itself being amongst the most important task Tavi has been held in charge of to this date. In the morning, Tavi would be heading out by herself to Dendera, the main site of Hathor’s cult and preside over it, and of course, ensure it passes smoothly.

It sounds so simple: let people get drunk and feast, make merry, and enjoy singing and dancing in the company of others, but Tavi has never been a part of such importance in ritual ceremonies. She’s only ever observed, and even that in itself has been something hidden to her as her mother finds the merrymaking beneath her real education under the watchful eyes of Thoth.

Tavi sighs deeply and rests her arms on the balcony for just a moment more, already intending to head back inside and rest for the night before one of her lady maids interrupts her train of thought.

“My lady,” the finely dressed woman begins. “You have a visitor.”

Tavi’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise as she crosses the balcony through the cool night air to come to her lady maid’s side. “What? Who on earth would come to my quarters at this hour?” She inquires, more curious than angered at the thought she has a visitor.

The woman bows her head in the princess’s presence as if to silently ask her if she should address the visitor. “I believe it pertains to the Festival of Hathor, but it was not my place to pry,” the lady maid continues, her voice soft and sweet. “Shall I tell them to leave?”

Tavi blinks before shaking her head. “No, you may leave. I’ll handle this,” she replies warmly, her hand resting on the taller woman’s shoulder. “Go, get some rest,” she hums.

The lady maid nods, thanks her princess, then exits out the servant’s entrance, leaving Tavi to her own devices.

The young princess brushes back some of her black hair, wondering who would ask audience with her so informally and so late at night. She crosses her limestone floor quietly, akin to a ghost as if to tell her visitor no one is present before stopping just shy of the door. Mentally, Tavi remembers what her mother has said about acting regally in the presence of others, how to stand tall and like a future queen, and physically rolls that onto her stance.

With a deep breath, she opens the door.

And here is another response show casing what RPs tend to look like down the line WITHOUT me RPING multiple characters:

Tavi’s eyebrows shoot up In surprise as the listens to Arya’s words. “That is troubling,” she murmurs more to herself than anyone else as she once again brushes back some of her hair.

Her mind wanders, wondering what the right course of action would be. Of course, they would be moving during the earlier morning before the sun would come up, but with the flowers on the line… “perhaps we should leave earlier,” she hums.

But then that would require waking up the rest of the party—and they needed their rest. “We can discuss this inside, please,” Tavi moves aside in the doorway, gesturing for Arya to enter. “I would despise seeing your work go to waste because of the heat and the sun,” she says, already moving to her table to give Arya a cup of water.

[Howdy, here’s the phrase. “An ocean without unnamed monsters would be like sleep without dreams.” ]

And here is a response showcasing me RPING multiple characters:

Abasi mentally rolled his golden eyes at Arya’s childish gesture as he led Tavi through the halls. He enjoyed the feeling of the princess’s hands on his forearm—she felt delicate beneath his touch, and it made his heart beat just a little bit faster.

The area they had stepped into was absolutely beautiful, gorgeous in every which way. The air was sweet and warm, like a mother’s caress.

“Great mother Hathor,” Tavi murmured, her head bowing in reverence to the goddess. “What a beauty and blessing you are,” she murmured to herself, slowly letting go of Abasi’s forearm.

“Princess!” A priest’s voice cut through. “What a pleasure to see you here,” he said warmly. “I presume you’ve come to make an offering?”

Tavi smiled and nodded, gently telling Abasi that his guard could lower. “I have. What a magnificent job you and the priests and priestesses have done.”

The priest beamed and quickly nodded for one of the lower ranking priestesses to fetch a bowl full of offerings they’d prepared for the princess. “It means the world t hear it from you,” he said. “We’ve gone all out this time for her festival.”

“It shows,” Tavi hummed, silently thanking the lower ranking priestess who handed her a bowl full of spices, jewelry, flowers and sweet smelling oils. Gently, Tavi came to the edge of the pool, kneeling down and offering silent prayers to Hathor, a blessed mother, before placing the bowl gingerly on the water.

It rippled as it flowed on the surface, almost resting perfectly in the middle amongst the sparse lily pads and lotus flowers.

On her way back up, Abasi offered the princess his hand, and she took it.

The priest once again beamed. “The goddess is most pleased with your presence,” he noted, barely able to contain his joy. “Would your companions like to make offerings as well?”

[avengerscompound]

Mixology - Midtown

Mixology - A Captain America Fanfic

Series Masterlist Previous //

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Steve Rogers x Reader

Word Count:  2204

Series Warnings:  Angst, Character death, Breaking up and making up, past trauma, pregnancy, talk of abortion, smut (vaginal sex, fingering, other things)

Synopsis:   Steve Rogers comes into your bar and after a night of flirting you take him home.  When he leaves the next day you never expect to see him again.

A/N:  This fic was written pre-Infinity War.  So while it follows canon for a while, it then veers off wildly at the end.

Midtown

It’s late.  Or maybe early was a better description.  Two in the morning and your shift at the hipster bar in Midtown has finally ended.  You’ve been flirting with a guy over the night.  Even though he’d suggested fucking you in the restroom because he didn’t want to wait for your shift to end, you’ve still decided to go home with him.  You hadn’t got laid in months now.  Months and months.  Not since Steve and that was back in DC.  It was time to end the dry spell.  

You follow the guy outside.  What was his name again?  Gary? Jareth … no, he’s not the Goblin King, shit.  Uh … Gerald.  Gerald went to flag down a cab while you stand, waiting on the sidewalk.

“Y/N?”  A deep familiar voice says.

You looked around to see who could possibly know you in New York that would be up at two in the morning and you see him.  Steve Rogers is standing in the middle of the sidewalk hands in the pockets of his tan, leather jacket and staring at you.

“Steve?”  You say, startled.  “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”  He says.  “Uh, there.”  He points at the eyesore that’s the Avengers Tower.  

You laugh.  “Shit, of course, you do.  Why are you out so late?”

“What are you doing?  Are you coming?”  Gerald calls.  He’s standing at a taxi, holding the door open.

“Sorry, Gerry, you’re out of luck tonight.  I’ve wasted your time.”  You shoot back.

He storms over to you.  “What did you fucking say, bitch?”  He yells raising his hand.  You close your eyes and hold your arms up over your head.  A broken wrist is better than a concussion.  You know that from experience.  

You hear the sound of a fist hitting flesh, but you don’t feel anything.  You wonder for a second if you’ve disconnected or something.  When you open your eyes Gerald is clambering to his feet and Steve is standing in front of you.

“Back off, you fucker.  She’s coming home with me.”  Gerald snarls.

Steve just calmly stands there blocking you from Gerald.  “Son, just don’t.”  He says.

Gerald looks for a moment like he might actually pick a fight with Captain America.  He quickly comes to his senses though and scrambles into the back of the cab leaving you alone with Steve.

“Thank you.  I am way worse at picking decent guys than I thought.”  You say.  “Sorry, you had to …”  

Steve waves his hands like it’s no big deal.  “Are you okay?  Did he hurt you?”  He asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine.  I just feel like an idiot.”  You shake your head and laugh feebly.  “This is why I don’t date.”

Steve looks at you sadly.  “Still?”

You shrug.  “Sorry.”

Steve offers you his elbow.  “Wanna walk with me?”  

You hook your arms through his and the two of you start walking through the city.

“Why are you walking around at two in the morning, Steve?”  You ask.

Steve shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it.  “I haven’t been sleeping.  Honestly, since they pulled me out of the ice, the only decent night’s sleep I’ve had was that one I spent with you.  Since what happened in Washington I’ve barely been sleeping at all.  Did you hear about Washington?”

“Those helicarriers and SHIELD falling apart?  Sure.  Who hasn’t?”  You answer.  “There were rumors that you’d died for a little while, and then it was all your fault.  Then you moved here.  Was it that bad?”  

Steve shrugs and doesn’t say anything.  You decide not to press it.  “Are you liking New York?”  He asks.

“Yes and no.  I like the city.  I hate my job and it doesn’t pay enough for me to actually save any money to move on. It’s mostly tourists and tourists tip like shit.” You answer.  “I should try and find something closer to where I live.  I guess the bright lights drew me in.”

“Where are you living?”  He asks.

“Way out in Queens.  Getting home is fun in the middle of the night, I can tell you.”  You laugh.  

He laughs with you and bumps you with his hip.  “You have a bigger death wish than I do.”

“Excuse me?  I never flew a plane into the ocean.”  You tease.

“I’d take kamikaze flight into the arctic circle over the F train at 2 in the morning.”  Steve shoots back.

You stop walking and he takes a few steps forward and turns to look at you confused.  

“Steve?”  You say and then shake your head. “No, never mind.  None of my business.”

“What is it?”  He presses.  

“Were you trying to kill yourself when you did that?”  You ask.

“Wow.  You don’t like small talk much.”  Steve says.  

“Yeah.  Don’t answer it. I’m an ass.”  You say.  You hook your arm back into his and you both begin walking again.  This time in silence

You pass a little hole in the wall style pizza place and Steve stops you. “You wanna get a slice?”  He asks.

You agree and the two of you head inside.  You sit at one of the plastic tables and wait for them to heat up the two slices of pizza.  You share a coke.  There was a meal deal and the cups were huge.

“How’s your friend?  The one that was still alive?”  You ask, searching for a topic of conversation.

“About the same.  They moved her to England to be closer to her family though, so I don’t get to see her as much.”  

You take his hand and squeeze it.  “I’m sorry, Steve. I know she meant a lot to you.”

Steve strokes his thumb down your palm.  “I went back to the bar you worked at in Washington.���  He says

“Really?  Why?” You ask.  He raises his eyebrow at you and you start laughing.  “Yeah, I moved on not long after we hooked up.  It was time.”

One of the guys working the counter brought the slices over and dropped them on the table on white paper plates.  You and Steve thank him and pick up your slices.  You’d ordered the Margherita and he ordered a pepperoni.  

You take a bite and moan.  “Why is pizza so good here?  It makes no fucking sense.”

“They say it’s the water,”  Steve says.

“Yeah, well that sounds fake.”  You reply.  Steve laughs.  

“How do you know it’s time to move?”  He asks.

You shrug.  “Depends.  Might be that I feel like I’ve seen what I want to see.  Might just be feeling like I don’t belong there anymore.  I didn’t feel like I belonged in DC anymore.”

“Do you remember me telling you about my friend when I was a kid?  Bucky? He died?”  Steve said. He stares at his hands avoiding eye contact with you.

“Yeah, you ditched school together.”  You say taking a sip of the coke.

“He’s still alive.”  

You almost choke on the drink.  That seems implausible at best.  But then you are sitting across from a man born in 1918 who was frozen for seventy years.  If it could happen once?  “That’s good though isn’t it?”

He shakes his head.  “He’s not him. They did something to him.”

“Who’s they?”  You ask.

“Doesn’t matter.  He tried to kill me, and then he saved me.  Why do you think he’d do that?”  Steve says.

You don’t know what to say, but then you’re not sure he wants an answer.  You’re just a sounding board to his hurt.  Someone who isn’t part of that world who he can talk to at this very moment in time.  “Maybe he is still him.  What are you going to do?”

“I’m trying to find him.”  He shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it again.  “You done?”

You nod your head and wipe your hand on a napkin.  You toss your trash in the can by the door and turn to Steve when you’re both on the sidewalk.  He offers you his elbow again and you link arms with him and begin walking.  

You walk a circuit that spirals in towards the Avengers’ tower.  

“I couldn’t get you out of my head,”  Steve says after a little while.  

You’d been daydreaming.  Daydreaming?  Is that the right word for it when it’s 3 AM?  You double take, not sure if you heard him right.  “Sorry, what?”

“That’s why I went back to the bar.  Not because I was hoping we could … well, you know?  Though I did hope that too.  I just wanted to see you again.”   He says.  

“Why?  I’m not anything special.”

Steve stops and turns you to face him.  He opens his mouth to say something and closes it again.  Instead, he leans in and kisses you.  He still tastes like pepperoni.  For a second you forget all about the fact you’ve sworn off relationships and you give yourself to it.  Your lips part and his tongue dips into your mouth.  You feel your breath catch and you pull away.

“Shit.”  You say, and start walking.  

Steve follows you.  “Y/N.  What are you doing?”

You don’t look back.  You don’t break your stride.  “I made a mistake.  I’m sorry.”

“Don’t tell me you never thought about that day,”  Steve said, easily keeping stride with you.

“Of course, I think about it.  Of course, I do.  Why do you think I moved?”  You cry.

“You said you saw me.”  He says stopping.  

You hesitate and turn back to face him.  “I do.  I do see you, Steve.  You aren’t the kind of person who ends up with me.  The people who end up with me are cruel and they treat me like shit and they hurt me.”  

He takes a step forward.  Not saying anything.  Like he’s trying to sneak up on a wild animal.  “I did.”

You try and make sense of the words.  They are completely out of context and you can’t make them match anything you just said.  “What?”

“I did try and kill myself when I crashed that plane.”  He says, his eyes are just full of pain.  “I told Peggy I had no choice.  Of course, I had a choice, but I wanted an out.  I’d done what I’d wanted to do and I was finished.  I couldn’t be Captain America anymore.  I knew there was no way I could stop though, so I crashed the plane.  Only I didn’t die.  I just lost everything.  Everyone who knew me. Everything I knew.  Everything.  Now I’m only Captain America.  I didn’t want to do this anymore.  Now it’s the only thing I have.”

“So I’m your answer?  Steve, I don’t even know who I am.”

He takes another step towards you.  “I just thought… I thought maybe we could see.  That’s all.  I could take you on a date.”

“You don’t even know me.”

He takes one more step.  He stands close to you, and you look up to him.  “I’d like to get to.”  

“Can I think about it?”  You ask.  

“Of course.”  He offers you his arm, and you link yours with it.

Your spiral has started to form tighter and tighter circles and the tower has begun to loom over you.  You have started to just talk about little things.  Where you each grew up.  What your favorite food is.  Where you first kissed another person.  It’s like neither of you wants to say the deep thing that might make you try and flee again.  

The sun starts to creep up.  The way it aligns itself with the grid made by the Manhattan streets makes the buildings look like they’re on fire.  

“If you don’t want to be with me anymore, you’ll just tell me?  Don’t cheat on me.”  You say.

“I couldn’t imagine ever cheating on anyone.   I don’t think I have it in me.”  Steve answers.  Of course, he could just be saying what you want to hear, but somehow you know that he’s not.

“Steve… Admitting this to myself is hard, so please don’t make fun of me.”  You say.

“Of course not.”  

You swallow hard, fighting with yourself to say the words.  “I’m fragile, okay.  The things that have happened to me.  I like to pretend they made me hard.  They didn’t they’ve made me easy to break and so I avoid letting people get close.  Please don’t hurt me.”

“I’ll do my best.  I think the same might be true for me.”  He says.  

Your hand slides down his forearm.  He’s nearly unbreakable in every way but the way that matters, you could tell that when you first met him.  “I know.”

His fingers link with yours.  

“Would you like to go out with me sometime?  Get dinner?  See a movie?”  Steve asks.

“I’d like that.”  You reply.

You reach the entrance to Avengers Tower and walk him to the large automatic doors.  He leans down and kisses you.  It’s soft and tender and far too brief.  “You look tired.” He says.  “Come inside.”

You nod.  He looks up at a security camera above the door and they slide open you follow him inside.  The doors close behind you.

// NEXT

[walnutking]

I'm not trying to sound rude, but how can you as a woman (I assume) watch korean dramas considering how sexist they are?

This message has been sitting in my inbox for a while and that’s because I’ve been thinking a lot about it. I’m sorry that this is long, but there’s a lot to unbox here. (EDIT: I’ve rethought my previous statement and I’m actually not sorry)

I want to get one thing out of the way first. How can I watch kdrama “as a woman”? Well, simply, because a lot of it is made for women. The genre of the Korean drama itself often caters to female-centric stories and vast majority of Korean screenwriters for dramas are women. In fact, I just checked all the screenwriters for my top 10 rated kdramas, and every single one of them is a woman. (I’m sure there is something to be said for the fact that most directors, not only in Korea, are men, but I’m afraid that would veer us into a different topic altogether). I’m not saying kdramas can only be enjoyed by women, or that all women like them, obviously. They just happen to play to a lot of my interests, and my interests just happen to be considered pretty stereotypically feminine (ex. female leading characters, relationship-centered plotlines, romance, etc). Not every kdrama fits into these categories and I could go on all day naming exceptions, but that’s not the point of this. For you to insinuate that is so ridiculous for me, “as a woman”, to enjoy kdramas is just really fucking wild to me.

Anyway, this isn’t to say that because these stories are written by women, they are absolved of sexism. I want it to be clear I’m not trying to say that. What I am saying is that I am particularly attracted to stories that are told by and written for women, aka that’s why I’m balls deep in a whole sideblog about them. I don’t think that this is a crime, unlike what the tone of your message seems to be insinuating.

In terms of actual sexism in kdramas, of course it exists. There are some common tropes in asian dramas as a whole that are very harmful to women, especially if you go back a few years, but they’re even prevalent in dramas that air today. But do you know where sexism is also pretty prevalent? All media. As an American, I can say with full certainty that American TV can also be sexist and perpetuate just as harmful tropes, maybe just of a slightly different variety. The same can be said for literally every country. To say sexist things only happen in kdrama is giving the rest of the world’s media far too much credit.  

Here’s the main thing: no piece of media will ever be perfect. If I were to consume only things that didn’t involve any type of innate prejudices of any sort, then I literally would just stare at a wall all day. Being critical of what you consume is great, and pointing out things that should be changed or done away with is also great. I can watch kdramas and enjoy them while also noting when they exhibit something harmful. It’s not just sexism either, anyone can see that the LGBT community is severely underrepresented in Korean media. There are plenty of things to be improved upon and nothing exists in a vacuum. Wildly enough, I don’t just sit there drooling every time I watch something. I actually think with my human meat brain. It’s okay to like things that aren’t perfect.

Lastly, and maybe most importantly, I think your view of every single Korean drama being wildly sexist is way too narrow minded. I’m not sure what you have been watching, but despite it’s flaws, I do think there are some things that kdramas actually do better than, say, American TV. There’s a reason so many people like/watch them! For one, there are so many great examples of female characters out there that you simply cannot write off. Off the top of my head, Because This is My First Life is a great example of three different female characters with different, very realistic, personalities and goals and who are all flawed and complex characters. Also of course I have to mention boys who cry! Once again, there are SO many great examples of men in kdrama who are allowed to be healthily emotional. I could write a whole separate post on these two things alone, but this response has already been long enough.

I know you said you don’t want to sound rude, but, you still kinda did. I think discussing sexism in Korean dramas and in any media is always an important conversation, but not when you’re coming at someone so judgmentally just for liking something. Maybe if you had reworded this message, my response might not have been so confrontational, but it is what it is.

TL;DR: Every form of media is sexist in some manner or another. And I watch kdramas because I like them… sue me. 

[mrevaunit42]

Marco’s Corpse Bride (Starcoween, Corpse Bride AU)

Hello everyone! Mr.E here with the first of my starcoween stories (Starcoween was a holiday event i made up to write slightly darker stories during Halloween but i missed it this year and i still wanted to write some so here we are). Today’s story is the winner of the poll and inspired by @disney-n-stuff corpse bride au drawings. if you have not check them out, you should they are awesome!

So it’s the corpse bride. I mean it’s not a one to one. I cut off some parts, rewrote dialogue, added my own stuff and fit as much of Disney-n-stuff’s version of the story in here as I could. Also this is not the full version. I purposely left out the ending so you all could fill in how you want to this story to end and I won’t be giving this a proper end either. I mean I kinda hinted at an ending where jarco and starco both win but like i said, i wanted you to fill in your own ending. 

So that’s it aside for a very special thank you to my good friend @hains-mae who really did something amazing for this story. She made one epic cover page that is featured below (she’s taking commissions people *cough cough* just saying) that I am really grateful for. Thanks mae!

That’s it for me, I need to go work on the next nova chapter and Monster Hunter au part 1 which was the second highest voted from the straw poll (thank you so much for voting btw I really appreciate the help) have an awesome week and I hope you enjoy the story!

Notification squad: @artgirllullaby @ladyxgilex @hipster-rapunzel @thefandombytes @minthia-ren @isolated-frequencies @nerdymetalhead

Marco sighed tiredly, the muffled yet thick twangs of an out of tune piano floated sadly from beyond the door frame yet sleep eluded the young man.

He rose to a sitting position and folded the moth eaten blanket that his hosts so graciously gave him to sleep with. It was faded and worn with the odd hole here and there but Marco was grateful for it all the same. Once upon a time it must've been so elegant, so revered among its owners. Marco's family would've had saved many months to purchase such a treasure but down here it was as unnecessary as it was old.

The dead had no need for such things....

Marco stood, the guilt weighing heavily on his shoulders as he began to pace the room anxiously.

If you had told Marco that in one day's time (Oh lord it had only been a day hasn't it?) he would've been betrothed to his childhood crush without warning, foolishly wandered into the forest as a queasy and rather humiliating mess and subsequently asked the hand of a corpse bride in marriage accidentally only to be whisked away to the land of the dead.....well he would've called you a rather loony lot.

Yet that is exactly how the still living young man's day began and has currently ended.

Marco awoke the same as he did every other day: Cranky, sleepy and cold.

The Diaz's were a simple, humble middle class family. They lived within their means and the trio were content if not comfortable. Marco's father Mr. Diaz worked as the owner of a modest shop in the heart of town and while the larger, more well off family held an iron grip on the market, Rafael still made reasonable profits. Marco's mother Angie was a seamstress and thanks to a vast network of friends and friends of friends, she often patched and sewed for those who were not afraid to part with their money.  Marco himself had just turned 18 a few months ago and while his parents hadn't spoken of it, he was expected to seek his fortune and secure his future...by the way of marriage.

Marco felt ill at the idea of marriage. It wasn't that he didn't want to get married. The problem, rather, was he pinning for a specific woman to marry. A woman he had never even spoken to in his entire life: Miss Jackie Lynn Thomas.

Miss Thomas was the daughter of a local fisherman and a baker. She was a few months younger than Marco (Her birthday had been yesterday if he recalled correctly) though her family was marginally better off than Marco's (only by slim margin).

He known of her since childhood and while the two would occasional cross paths within the city and attended the same events, Marco could not bring himself to speak to the lovely Jackie. The few times he attempted such a thing either ended in an awkward, tense silence or him droning and babbling about nonsensical topics that ranged from the differences between a major and minor key to the rather disgusting digestive systems of livestock.

Needless to say Marco's chances with Miss Thomas were looking rather grim and while there were several other wonderful women in town, none carried the spark that lit his cheeks ablaze like she did.

Marco groggily made his way downstairs, the dreary weather of his beloved hometown the same as it had been 95% of the time: Cloudy, cold and bleak.

Marco sensed something was off when he found his parents speaking in tense, hushed voices as he approached the kitchen. When he entered the room, the conversation died at once and their gaze shifted from each other to squarely on him, their smiles well meaning but tight. Bad news it seems and bad news that would directly affect Marco.

“Morning” Marco muttered carefully, eying their uneaten food warily “Is something the matter? You both seem rather.....serious.”

“Mijo” Rafael began quietly “We have some news to share...with you.”

Marco nodded like he understood (he really didn't) “I see. And what news is that?”

“As you know mijo my shop has been getting a lot of new customers.”

“Mhm”

“And I thought” Rafael went on sheepishly “It might be wise...to...merge my business....with someone else's....”

Marco blinked in confusion, unsure where this conversation was heading. Initially he was under the impression someone in the family had died but this wildly veering off into  a rather surprising turn of events.

“I...see?” he was unable to keep the confusion out of his response.

Rafael fidgeted guiltily though his son was still unsure why. His father was expanding his business, that was good news....right? Then why were his parents acting like they were planning for his funeral?

“What your father is trying to say” Angie spoke up “is that he has found someone who is willing to cooperate and share resources...under...a certain condition.”

“What condition?” Marco asked slowly.

Marco stood before the altar, still awestruck and dazed from the sudden revelation that he was to marry his father's future business partner's daughter.

The church was drafty as always with its muted unassuming gray brick walls and pale brown pews.

Marco was dressed in his Sunday best: an old, elegant black suit once owned by his abuelo and handed down from Diaz to Diaz for special occasions. Marco himself added a pale, faded white collared shirt with a dark red vest and the most valuable of his possessions, a jet black ascot tie tucked perfectly within his outfit.  

His parents were more informal in their choice of attire but that was only because today was the rehearsal rather than the actual wedding.

Marco tried to keep his breath steady but his stomach churned unhappily. The ground swayed uneasily under his feet. The walls seemed to close in on him, the air stale and stuffy despite the frigid weather that always blanketed the town as the realization that he was to be married to someone he's never even met! HE WAS GOING TO MARRY SOMONE HE HAS NEVER EVEN LAID EYES UPON!

The old church door creaked as an icy breeze filled the halls for brief moment before slamming closed with a dull thud.

Marco could hear his parents gleefully greet the bride's family, content tones and friendly banter filling the once silent halls.

The unexpected groom tried to will his body to follow his parents example but his nerves were frayed and despite his best attempts, he simply remained frozen in fear as soft, timid footsteps approached him.

He could feel the presence of someone behind where  he stood, waiting and watching for his greeting though if it was his future wife or his future in laws the young man couldn't hazard a guess.

Marco gulped down as much air as he could. He breathed slowly, rigidly turning in an attempt to make up for previously rude behavior.

“I am very sorry” Marco apologized, pivoting on his heels with all the effort he could muster “It's a bit drafty you see and I....I...I....I....”

His heart skidded to halt, his cheeks burned with an intensity that matched the glow of the sun as his eyes laid upon the last person he ever expected to see and the one whom he longed for.

Miss Jackie Lynn Thomas stood there, hair wrapped up in a neat yet enchanting bun (her blue streak visible) and a gentle smile danced on her lips. She wore one of the simple dresses she preferred when attending to errands in the city (Evidently it seems Marco was the only one who did not receive the notice that casual wear was allowed for the rehearsal) but to Marco she was as breathtaking up close as she had been from afar.

“Good morning Mr. Diaz” Jackie gave a polite curtsey.

Marco chuckled dumbly in reply “Oh it's just Marco. Mr. Diaz is my father.”

Marco mentally flinched upon realizing the words that escaped his lips but his ears only grew red when he heard Jackie giggle in response.

“As you wish...Marco.” She answered playfully.

Marco rubbed the back of his neck nervously, his anxiety growing each passing moment “Did you know that owls are often considered an ill omen in many cultures?”

“I did not”

Marco gave another timid laugh “yeah...it's silly really. I mean they're just birds! They go hoot, you know? Hoot hoot!”

Marco died the moment he began flapping his arms. He wish he could slap himself but he was afraid to appear more crazed to his future spouse than he already was.

But Jackie nodded as if it was the most interesting thing she had heard all morning “How fascinating Marco.”

“R-really?”

Jackie gave him a soft smile while she nodded in agreement.

“I see everyone is present?” The dull, gravelly voice of the priest snapped everyone out of their respective conversations

“Si” Rafael quickly made his way to the young couple's side “ everyone is present.”

“Then shall we proceed?” The priest looked thoughtfully towards Marco and Jackie.

“Of course Father” Jackie said respectfully.

“proceed?” Marco questioned “Proceed with what?”

“The rehearsal” The priest replied “You do know the vows, correct?”

“I...umm vows?”

“Yes” The priest continued “The traditional vows that every groom speaks to their brides. The vows that bind you to each other as husband and wife. The vows that are spoken at every wedding. Those vows.”

“Riiiiight” Marco chuckled “Of course you meant those vows! I confused myself for a moment, believed you were speaking about some other...umm vows! But yes I do remember the vows. The vows I must speak as to marry Jackie...the vows I shall speak after I...I....I receive the ring! Oh no!” Marco's face fell into mock worry “Darn, I must've left the ring at home! Clumsy me and my forgetfulness. Drat, I suppose we'll have to postpone the rehearsal. Can't practice my vows without a....”

Marco sighed as his father produced a ring from within his vest pocket

“Thanks dad” Marco said with the most deadpan voice he could muster.

“Anything for you mijo.”

“Now” the priest loomed over the young man menacingly “The vows.”

“R-right...” Marco coughed timidly “The...vows....I.....Marco Ubaldo Diaz.....”

The old rotten trees of the forest swayed back and forth as a chilly breeze howled through, the crunching of the dried dead leaves filled the air as Marco angrily and embarrassingly stomped his way deeper into the woods.

“I didn't know the vows” he scolded himself, pulling at his neat hair in frustration “of course I didn't know the vows! How could I know the vows when I barely found out I was getting married 10 minutes before! And dad had a ring?! DAD HAD A RING!? How long had they known about this little arrangement?! Why couldn't they tell me ahead of time?”

Marco let loose his emotions into a powerful yell but hardly a sound was heard as his voice was swallowed whole by dense forest.

“Okay Diaz” Marco told himself, taking a deep breath to relax himself “You're getting married to the girl of your dreams and you are utterly confused by this strange turn of events. That's okay! That's...normal? But you will make the best of it! You messed up the rehearsal but not the wedding! That's...something.”

Jackie's smile flashed into his mind.

“Vows...” Marco whispered as he pulled the ring from his coat pocket “Vows....everyone knows them. They are spoken at every wedding....”

Marco closed his eyes, clutching the tiny band tightly in his grasp.

His mind began to fill with thoughts of the wedding, of those who would be attending: His parents and Jackie's would be there because they had to. Ferguson and Al, two of Marco's best friends, would no doubt show though he was certain the promise of free food would lure them, not the actual event itself. Janna may catch wind of Jackie's attempt to marry her favorite target though he suspected she would behave herself for the sake of her best friend. And Jackie.....Jackie would be there, looking as lovely as the day Marco first laid eyes on her.....she would be waiting by the altar, patiently for him....

the young man took a breath, his nerves calm and steely as the words poured of his mouth.

“With this hand, I will cut off your...” Marco flinched “no no, that's...that's so wrong. Umm with this.....candle? Was there a candle? I'm remembering a candle but I do not remember why I am remembering a candle. Why is there a...am I suppose to light her candle with mine? I am almost certain the ceremony involves a....OH! Yes, there is a candle. Umm with this...candle? Candle. Candle! I shall....light...light.....light...your mother ablaze? That's more than likely....”

Marco opened his eyes as a sigh escaped his lips. The trees towered over him, swaying back and forth under the gentle yet cold breeze while their shade basked him in darkness.

“With this hand” Marco gestured high into the air “I will lift your sorrows. Your cup will never empty for I will be your wine.”

Marco strolled confidently over to the nearest tree trunk, bowing respectfully towards it “Mrs. Thomas, you look absolutely lovely this evening”

Marco nudged at another tree with a sly “What's that Mr. Thomas? Call you dad? Well I suppose if you are alright with it.”

“With this candle? Candle!” Marco repeated, tearing a branch off to use as a makeshift prop “I will light your way in darkness.”

“With this ring” Marco glanced at the simple, plain brand that lay in the palm of his hand “I ask you....to be mine.” and in one fluent movement, he slipped the token of his love onto a finger-like branch.

The wind moaned softly yet Marco made no motion to retrieve the accessory, uncertainty and fear swirling about his head: were the vows correct? They must've been because those were the only ones he could remember.

"Okay" he told himself with a nod " That was perfect and all I have to do is perform it the exact same way with Jackie.

Jackie....

Marco let out a terrified whimper

Marco groaned loudly, clutching at his hair tightly "What am I thinking?! I can't do this in front of Jackie!

Marco sighed disappointingly " She's...she's...and I'm....and I.....I talked about owls! OWLS! I hooted. Who does that?!”

Marco caught the dull gleam of the ring as it swayed teasingly in the breeze, the solitary  cawing of a crow echoed throughout the empty forest.  

“And give me back my ring tree branch!" Marco tugged at the ring but the branch refused to let go, its gripped tight and firm.

“I'm losing to a tree” Marco murmured sadly “I am losing to an inanimate object.....This can't get much worse....”

A chill ran down Marco's spine as, without warning, the branches curled around his wrist.

“Oh? The branches seem to be grabbing at me.” Marco laughed for a moment before the weight of his statement hit him full force “THE BRANCHES ARE GRABBING ME!?”

Marco pulled away but the branches held fast, its grip on the young man growing tighter and tighter with each moment.

“LET ME GO NATURE!” Marco shouted as he frantically tugged at his wrist “I DID NOT MARRY YOU! I WAS JUST PRACTICING annnnd I can't believe I am actually having this conversation....”

The trapped young man planted his feet firmly on the dusty forest floor and prepared to throw his weight backwards in an attempt to free himself when the branches snapped and freed their grip Marco who was thrown back full force.

Marco tumbled to the ground, his suit torn and ripped from the various roots and low branches that littered the forest floor.

“Well that was unexpected.” Marco muttered to himself, rubbing the tension out of his neck.

He rose to his feet, wiping the dirt and any leaves that managed to glue themselves onto his clothing. This was absolutely disastrous. There's no way he could....

Marco felt his blood chill as the earth before him cracked open and without warning, a thin, pale blue bruised arm reached upwards, its hand grasping wildly at the air.

“Oh dear....” Marco murmured, his stomach groaning unhappily as a skeleton arm reached out from the depths of the earth itself and planted itself firmly on the dirt covered ground “Yeah, I think it's time I call it a day.”

The terrified man broke into a fevered sprint, wincing in pain as he collided with the odd branch and tree trunk in his mad dash to freedom.

“the church” he comforted himself “the church is nearby! If I can make it, surely I'll be safe.”

Fear bit at his resolve as the trees seem to elongate before his eyes, towering over him in strange, unnatural angles.

North was West, East was West, South was North. Despite the countless times he had ventured safely into the forest alone, in this moment he had never been so lost and confused. the soft crunching of dry leaves could be barely heard over his heavy breathing as something closed the distance between itself and him.  

Marco flailed wildly in surprise as his foot caught a tree root and he suddenly tripped forward, tumbling and skidding across the ground. Everything ached but terror and adrenaline dulled the pain. He scampered to his feet, unsteadily swaying back and forth as he saw the old stone bridge stretched out before him and beyond the lonely church beckoning him in the distance.  

Marco hardly crossed the bridge when the soft patter of footsteps filled his ears and despite the fright that enthralled him, curiosity called to him. He paused and turned to gaze upon his purser.

He was unaware of the gasp that escaped his lips as he found himself staring at the figure of a woman no older than he....maybe.

Her long flowing blonde hair was done up in an elegant pun with blue butterfly clips and a wedding veil adorning her head. Her eyes were a pale sky blue that seemed to pierce past his mortal shell and into his very soul.  Her outfit of choice was a torn, ripped strapless sleeveless wedding dress with white roses that had seen far better days The skirt split open at the bottom and revealed she was wearing boot-like shoes with heels. At least that's what Marco thought they were. But what had made Marco stop, what made him gasp was not her choice of attire but rather her appearance.

She was deathly thin, her skin a pale blue as if air no longer flowed through her body. One arm was nothing more than bone and while the other still possessed what Marco assumed to be skin, her fingers were long and skeletal. The most curious aspect, however, were the pale pink hearts that covered either cheek upon her face. She was hauntingly beautiful and she was slowly approaching the trapped man.

Marco wish he could say he did something amazing. He wish he could tell some extraordinary tale of heroism and bravery in the face of danger, that he fended off the ghostly beauty, that he was safe in and sound in the church with nary a fearful thought in his mind.

He wish but he'd be lying....

The truth of the matter was as the unearthly specter cupped his face with her surprisingly soft, warm bony fingers, his ring glimmering in the darkness at him, he fainted. Just up and passed out.

The land of the dead was a rather strange place if Marco was going to be honest. For one, he was still alive in such a location and for something that people talked about with such anxiety and dread, it was a rather lovely location.

It was no different than the local pub within the city though it felt brighter, more joyful than any establishment Marco had been to (not that he would've gone to such places of ill repute of course.)

The varied dead from all walks of life and ages long passed laughed and sung. They drank (which was strange in itself) and they told stories of their former lives, not with a tone of regret and longing but with one of satisfaction and contentment.

Well they did before Marco ran a small Napoleonic character through with a sword and began waving the tiny impaled man as some sort of deterrent.

He was quickly caught up to speed by a rather charming, bowler hat wearing, one eyed, strange jawed skeleton named Bonejangles who sang a delightful yet slightly uneven tune in a style Marco had never heard of before. One that told the story of his undead bride.

Her name in life was Star Butterfly. She was peasant girl who did not have much but always gave what she could. She was set to marry Tom Lucitor, the adoptive son of a local merchant and while the two had not exactly gotten off to the warmest of starts, the two gradually fell in love and made plans for their wedding day. Until Tom's adoptive father Toffee had gotten wind of Star's less than noble background. Father and son argued and Tom had decided he was going to marry Star regardless of what his father wanted even if that meant leaving his fortune behind and running away with his bride.

Toffee did not take that well and his revenge was a cruel as it had been cold. He forged  a letter in Tom's name asking Star to meet him deep in the woods where they would elope and as Star waited, alone and unsuspecting, Toffee murdered her.

Her soul did not rest, however, and she waited for the day her greatest wish would come true: To become a bride.

She waited. She waited decades upon decades, through scorching sun and freezing night in her makeshift grave for someone to speak the vows she's always longed to hear.

Which was today it turns out when Marco foolishly recited them and placed his ring upon her finger.

How someone could mange to fit such a large and rather deep lore into a three minute song was pretty impressive and while he wasn't sure how one skeleton could use another as musical instrument, he had to admit that was a sight he would not soon forget.

So Marco's proposal was valid and he was now engaged to lovely corpse of a woman (a statement that really brought rather conflicting emotions to the young groom.) and while he wasn't completely sold, he had to admit Star had this energy that was intoxicating.

Despite her tragic back story, she was vibrant and cheerful. As she readjusted herself to the world of the living (or was it the living dead?) once more, she greeted old and new friends with an eager fever. She asked countless question about everyone was doing, what she had missed as she slept. Laughs, jokes, unnecessary battle cries and fighting stances. It was...nice. For someone so dead, Star breathed life.

And since things were going so well, naturally Marco had to mess it all up.  

It was a tiny lie. A tiny, harmless white lie that shouldn't have hurt anyone....except it had and the person he'd hurt was his new wife.

He hadn't actually expected Star to readily agree to his casual comment about visiting Jackie and letting her know about the new situation he found himself.  Of course she meant it as informing his friends and family about their future wedding while Marco saw it as a chance to find a way to escape the Land of the dead and figure out how to break his oath to the undead bride.

In retrospect, barging into Jackie's home, rambling in a panicked, stuttering mess was probably not the best idea especially given the current circumstances and once the weight of his choice began to dawning on him, his voice slowed, words ceased to flow out of his lips and the crippling shyness began to grip him tightly. What was once a fantastical story about how he married a tree branch and found himself being serenaded by a deep voice skeleton became a murmur about how it wasn't as bad as he thought it was going to be before finally drifting into an awkward silence once he realized he was currently alone with his fiance.

She was as beautiful as ever but the reality began to creep up on the awestruck groom as he realized she was dressed in a wedding gown. A wedding gown she was supposed to use for their wedding.

It was traditional as most outfits but Jackie was absolutely angelic in it: A modest yet well kept wedding veil tied to her bun. The fabric that covered her neck and shoulders held simple ruffles, the sleeves were long enough to cover her bare arms but Marco could see her exposed fingers reaching out for him in concern. The bottom of the attire was bell shaped with layers upon layers of cloth cascading downwards like waves upon the ocean and like Marco, Jackie had decided to wear her most prized possession for their union:  a small belt hugged her waist composed of fine string and beads that held her beloved sea shell in the center of the dress.

“Marco?” she asked softly, approaching the shell shocked groom slowly “Marco, I don't understand....what are you talking about? You speak of the dead and corpses singing and marrying trees? And you seem pale....paler than usual.”

“Oh!” Marco snapped out of his stupor “No no no. I didn't marry a tree, I married a corpse that was buried in the ground whose fingers resembled tree branches. I-it's...ah....very, very easy thing to mistake...or....not believe....”

“I....I'm not sure I follow.”

Marco and Jackie jumped as, without warning, the door flew open and in walked Star, her pleasant, polite smile melting into shock and anger.

Looking back, Marco could only fathom how bad it had seemed at the time: Here he was, a groom Star had been waiting for all of her dead life for and he was talking to another woman dressed in a wedding attire.

And instead of trying to clear up the situation when Star revealed that she was in fact Marco's bride, he had dug his grave (so to speak). It turns out the dead are not fond of people reminding them they are no longer among the living or that there were other women that he was supposed to marry.

And for someone who hadn't been alive in such a long time, Star was rather strong. She effortlessly dragged him away from the home and as Marco called to Jackie one last time, a swarm of crows blinded his sight.

The following scolding was no doubt the worst moment in his life: Star was nearly in hysterics, alternating between anger and sorrow as it all came forth: his lies, his broken promises, his real intentions and if he truly cared for his corpse bride.

He said nothing. Courage had left him and in its void, shame filled its place. Guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders as he realized Star had feelings and he hurt her in ways far worse than her death had.

Star finally stopped and sent him away, too distraught to continue the conversation further and thus we are where we began: A human consumed by his guilt and his bride, pained by his actions.

Marco sat up in his bed. He hadn't meant for all this to turn out this way and hadn't the slightest idea how to fix it all. Star was far more fun and wonderful than he'd expected and his moment of deceit cost something he was unaware he valued.

The once lively, cheery tune of the untuned piano was now somber and melancholy and while Marco knew it was simply a song composed in a minor key, he couldn't help but feel sadness at each note held.  

Marco took a deep, calming breath. He needed to fix this. He wasn't acting out of malice but fear wasn't an excuse either.

He made his way out of the bedroom and peeked fearfully into the next room.

The Ball and Socket pub was empty save two occupants: Bonejangles, leaning lazily on his stool and Star, head laid against the aged wood of the piano, her skeletal fingers dancing across the ivory keys.

“Star?”

She made no indication she heard him as she continued to play the same note over and over again while she refused to meet his gaze.

“Look....” Marco began slowly “I....I know you're mad at me....”

“No kidding” She muttered sarcastically “I let my fiancee go invite people to our wedding and I find you with another woman.”

“Well...I mean...”

“SHE WAS WEARING A WEDDING DRESS MARCO!” Star glared “Why was she wearing a wedding dress?”

“Umm...” Marco awkwardly paused “Well....”

“Were you planning on marrying her? After you proposed to me?”

“...that's not quite....”

Star let out a defeated sigh “Look Marco, that hurt. A lot.”

“...I know....”

“I mean...” Star uneasily said “I get it. She's alive, she's cute, you obviously have history with her..”

“I do?” Marco rose a confused eyebrow “I mean I-I do! If you count staring creepily at her from afar...”

“What was that?”

“Nothing!”

Star sat up though she still refused to look his way.

Marco inched his way closer under the watchful eye of Bonejangles and took a seat neat to Star.

The air was thick with an awkward silence that Star refused to break and Marco was unsure how to. This situation had wildly span out of his control and for once, the safe kid had no idea how to get out of it. Jackie still made his heart skip but...Star was slowly doing the same.....

Marco sighed, halfheartedly pressing a random key over and over when an idea formed in his mind.

Carefully keeping one eye one Star and the other on the keys, Marco slowly began to play an upbeat duet his parents would often perform at home. His fingers effortlessly ran up and down the upper register of the instrument, the upbeat song filling the air before Marco paused, glancing towards Star in hopes she continue the call and response aspect of the piece.

She did not.

Marco bit his lip nervously, deciding to go on with his next part of the musical piece. He'd never played this particular song before and was rather surprised how naturally it came to him: E to F, F to D with an E sharp chord coming up next measure. Each note rang with a longing twang as he poured his apologizes, his guilt, his heart into this song.

Star did not respond.

Marco felt dejected. His best effort was not enough and no matter how hard he tried, it seems he could never heal the pain he caused Star.

His masterfully playing devolved into playing the same lonesome note over and over as Star once had. He saw why she'd done it: It was oddly therapeutic in a way. An endless repetitive action that numbed the mind and the regret.

Marco blinked as his single note was joined by another and another. Note after note filled the air as Star's skeletal fingers played.

Marco smiled softly as their individual parts forming into a beautiful symphony. When she rose, he followed. When he played a chord, she filled it. And each note brought the two closer into their own world and before they knew it, what had been a few minutes had stretched into hours as Star's hand escaped her wrist and began running across the keys wildly.

“Whoops” she nervously chuckled while Marco caught the escaping appendage “Must've been a bit too enthusiastic.”

“That's okay” Marco muttered, his warm hand in hers as he reattached it to the wrist “I like your enthusiasm. It's fun”

The two shared a small grin

“It's late” Star stood up “I don't need to sleep but you are still alive so off to bed.”

“I don't know how to feel about getting curfews from my wife” Marco snickered as he made his way past.

Star could feel her cold dead heart thump loudly in her ears, a pale blue blush warming her cheeks as she realized what he had said but as she whirled around to speak, Marco had vanished beyond the door frame and a moment later, darkness plunged his room.

She stood, dumbfounded as shame began to pour into her undead body.

“So” croaked Bonejangles “getting cold feet?”

Star scoffed “All of me is cold Bones.”

“That's not what I mean princess.”

“I know...” she frowned thoughtfully “I...I've waited so long...and he's just so...” The pale blush worsen “But I'm stealing him from the living and he's already got fiancee waiting for him.....Can I really just....?”

Bonejangles leapt off the stool “You can't marry the living darling and he ain't dead. That's gotta change.”

Star remained silent.

“Besides” Bonejangles shrugged casually “Most marriage vows break when death does them part.”

Star was unsure what he was getting at “Bones, I don't understand....”

“Just saying” he waved her away “Who says he can't remarry when he gets down here?”

Star pursed her lips as the skeleton's song filled the air, her longing and guilt pulling at her resolve.

[boyswanna-be-her]

goretober: eyes

“For fuck’s sake, Jeff, put the glasses back on before somebody sees you.”

I hate the way my voice hisses but it gets the job done and Jeff fumbles to push the sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. I do a quick sweep around the restaurant and nobody seems to have seen what I just saw.

I mean. Shit. There’s no way that I even saw what I just saw. So for now I’m not going to try and deal with it. But I do have to be back at work in--oh, Christ--forty minutes.

“What do you want me to do with this information?” I ask.

I spot our server before Jeff has a chance to answer and I flag her down as politely and urgently as possible. In a voice that I struggle to keep businesslike, I order a whiskey double. Yes, neat.

“What do you mean what do I want you to do?” Jeff asks. So, he’s still as useless as he was the last time I saw him face to face. What a plot twist.

I picture what’s sitting behind those mirror-tint aviators and shiver, instinctively fighting it, trying not to show it because I don’t want Jeff to know that I’m creeped out.

That’s right. I’m worried about hurting this guy’s feelings. The person who texted me abruptly and begged for lunch in the middle of my work week, only to show up with his… freaky bug eyes. Whatever it is I just saw.

I’m going to be talking about this hallucination in therapy for months, and I’m the one worrying about making him uncomfortable.

“I mean, isn’t this something you ought to be talking to your family about?” I say, desperately trying to set boundaries weeks too late, as usual. “Or, I don’t know…”

“I don’t have anybody. I don’t know who to call.” He shakes his head as he says it.

I lose control of my mind and the image of his eyes flashes back into my imagination. Do you think those bug eyes can even cry now?

Fuck, fuck. Don’t think this shit.

Jeff is looking at me like I’m his last hope on earth.

Fuck. I know full well that Jeff has no goddamned friends in town. That’s half the reason I ended up hooking up with him in the first place and one hundred percent of the reason why I terminated things pretty quickly from there. I could tell I was going to be nothing but a security blanket to this half-grown kid. Maybe that sounds frosty--and maybe it is--but I like to tell myself I was doing the best thing for both of us.

Kid like this needs friends--not a fuck buddy from hell like me.

The waitress arrives with my bottom shelf whiskey. I let her get a few paces away and throw my stupid shifty eyes all around the room to make sure no one is watching before I throw back the enormous shot and gulp it in one go, conspicuous as fuck.

I don’t bother trying to look cool. I suck down sweet tea to wash away the paint thinner taste until I can no longer feel the burn in my throat.

Fuck you Jeff. Fuck this freaky bullshit.

How am I going to go back and write website copy in 36 minutes from now? My sites-per-hour rate is going to be in the absolute garbage today. As usual, another stupid boy costs me money.

“Francis? Will you please say something?”

“The fuck is it like?” I ask desperately.

Or rather, the big shot of whiskey that kicked in just in time asks. The voice doesn’t even sound like me.

Jeff snorts and shakes his head and for the first time since he met me in this grimy sushi hellhole, I remember why I slept with him in the first place. When he’s not so busy being insecure and getting in his own way, he can be kind of cute.

When I broke it off, I thought, Someday somebody’s gonna break his heart and give him some real angst. I wish he’d call me then.

Well, the human being across from me just lowered his sunglasses to reveal a pair of bug eyes--or alien eyes or… who the fuck knows? I’m not drunk enough for this.

But I do know that whatever it is, Jeff has a real reason to angst now.

There’s no way I’m gonna fall for this particular broken boy though. Christ. What a nightmare.

“Would you believe me if I said it was absolutely exquisite?” Jeff asks. I’ve already forgotten that I asked a question.

“No fucking way.”

“It’s lovely. It’s… I don’t know how to even begin to explain.”

His posture sags and one corner of his mouth crooks up. It sounds like he’s talking about the love of his life--not some inexplicable mutation or morph-ation or whatever it is that he says has been slowly transforming his human eyes into segmented, multifaceted insect eyes over the course of two weeks as he fretted about it, alone in his depressing apartment.

He hasn’t shaved in a few days and he looks exceptionally tired. He has no right to look this good right now. It’s so weird that this is suddenly doing it for me. What the fuck is my damage.

“Do you see a million of me right now?”

I wave my hand a few inches from his face and Jeff jolts backwards. “Please don’t do that.”

“My bad.”

“No. It’s not like movies. It’s more like seeing a pixelated screen.”

“Christ. I’m picturing Minecraft. Please tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re completely wrong,” he says, tilting his head back. “It’s like everything I see is a painting. Things don’t flow together the way they did before, and I find myself… pulling back. Does that make sense?”

I shake my head, no. “That’s okay, though.”

“I’m seeing the world differently--”

“Yeah, no shit--”

“I don’t mean the eyes. It forces my brain to work in another way--like it’s building a whole new structure in there. I feel like these entirely new parts of my mind are lighting up and growing to compensate for… whatever it is that’s happening. I feel better than I did before.”

Does he seriously kind of have a boner for this? Gross.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“What if someone finds out? What if they want to study me? What if--if there’s something wrong with me, Francis?”

Oh Jeff, baby, you’re a white boy at a landlocked sushi joint with a dating app hookup who ended it after three goes and occasionally sends you a pity LOL when you pester me with memes via text. There’s plenty wrong with you even before the bug eyes enter the equation.

Fuck. Whiskey makes me such an asshole.

“Does it hurt?” I ask, veering off topic wildly because I know my lunch hour is ticking down and this particular brand of hallucination is at least more entertaining than the weird half-buzzed dissociating I’m sure I’m going to be doing at my desk all afternoon.

He winces. “It didn’t at first.”

Shit. I didn’t expect him to say it hurt. Goddamn it, I’m starting to care about this.

“But they’re growing. I think. It’s hard to tell. I don’t know if I’m being a hypochondriac or if they’re really starting to bulge more than a normal human eye would. I feel… enormous pressure in my head. And sometimes it’s like theres--like there’s something--I don’t know--moving and I started taking decongestants a few days ago. It’s really hard for me to focus my eyes on an image of… my eyes. You know?”

I nod stupidly. Of course I have no clue. Did he say there is something moving in his fucking skull?

“Do you want me to… check if I think they’re bulging?” I gulp sweet tea as if steeling myself for this. I hate to admit to myself that I kind of want to see them again.

He shrugs and sighs and obviously wants to say yes but doesn’t want to admit that he wants it.

Fuck, this is exactly like our first hookup. I hate this fucking asshole.

“OK, let me look.”

“You seriously don’t have to.”

On that first night, I ended up telling him, “I’m not going to beg you to suck your cock.”

I contemplate saying the same thing today but I’m pretty sure he’s distracted enough not to remember.

“Whatever, I know I don’t have to. Just let me see.”

I lean over the table, careful not to dip my tie in the tiny bowl of soy sauce, and Jeff leans in too. He lowers the glasses to rest on the tip of his nose and tilts his head up just so.

He’s got skin like a fucking marble statue, I think for a split second before I remember the problem at hand.

Closer, here in the light, the eyes look less like a dark, terrifying void. Or maybe it’s just that I’m semi-prepared to see them this time, now that I know what I’m getting into. Or maybe it’s that I’m halfway into talking myself into blowing him again, just for the hell of it.

The eyes sit in his sockets just like a normal human eye would. But instead of the white sclera, the corneas, the pupils--all the normal jazz we know and love about the windows of the soul, staring out from his smooth, pale skin are two eyes the texture of a housefly’s.

Under the buzzing suspended light, their surface bursts and spirals out into fluorescent kaleidoscopic patterns, glittering in an oilslick rainbow. I’m torn between thinking of my sister’s most coveted nail polish named, aptly, “Demon Unicorn Shit,” and my own memory of the last time someone talked me into thinking that dropping acid would be a fun Thursday night activity.

They’re kind of lovely, I think. Christ, I could slap myself.

When Jeff blinks over them, it looks painful and clearly takes a lot of effort. His blink is slow and audible, like the sound of someone with drymouth parting their lips. I shiver again and he notices, sitting back and pushing the sunglasses quickly back up the bridge of his nose.

Oh god, he’s so damaged. I’m absolutely going to end up getting involved in this shit. I could hang myself.

“Sorry,” he says. “It’s disgusting.”

I snort and shake my head. “I was actually thinking they were kind of pretty.”

“Francis, don’t tease me,” he says, shaking his head and sounding miserable.

“I really was. Thinking they weren’t so scary, I mean. I wouldn’t pull your leg right now.”

He won’t look up at me.

“What am I going to do?”

Christ, he’s pitiful. The whiskey is sitting warm at the base of my skull. The whiskey says, Weren’t you just slumping in your beige cube, wishing that life would hand you an adventure--even if it was a terrible one?

Aren’t you dying for something different, even if it’s gruesome?

I let the whiskey do what it wants for a moment, slipping my nice leather shoe forward under the booth table, sliding our bare ankles together.

Cool relief floods my chest when my skin meets the warm skin of another human. I don’t know what I’d expected. Tarantula hair? Spiny barbs? An exoskeleton?

No, this is pathetic, sweet Jeff. Not some overgrown housefly. It’s Jeff who needs my help. Me. Specifically, Francis.

I sigh and put my hand face up on the table. Jeff doesn’t understand at first, and by the tilt of his head, I can tell he’s looking from my palm to my eyes and then back again. I wiggle my fingers in a completely un-suave way of enticing him.

After a moment, he understands and slips his palm over mine. I grasp his hand, warm and dry, and look at my own reflection in his sunglasses.

I realize that I’m not going back to work and wonder when, exactly, I made that decision.

Maybe I didn’t make the decision. Maybe I just know better than to fight it when I can feel my entire life changing because I decided not to ghost this guy today. Maybe it’s the manic thrill of finding a new and novel way to fuck everything up.

I should drop him at the ER and run in the opposite direction. I should call out sick and check myself into an ER.

And instead, I’m about to pick up the check for sushi and… Damn it, this isn’t even my adventure. I didn’t work this hard to be a fucking sidekick.

“Everything’s gonna be OK, Jeff.” My voice doesn’t belong to me. It’s strong and cool like an ancient river. “We’ll figure this thing out.”

I swallow hard and flag the server down for another double with my free hand.

[magnaflourious-nerdity]

200, 183, 162, 150, 137, 124, 110, 99, 73, 64, 62, 50, 48, 36, 22, 19, 18, 7, 2, 1, thank you!

200: My Crush’s name is?

Non existent. I mean there’s a girl I think is super cute but I don’t think she’s into me other than as a friend so I’m not super hardcore crushing or anything. For the most part, I don’t crush often lol.

—–

183: Piggy Banks Are:

Cute! As long as they have the plugs at the bottom. The thought of smashing ‘em makes me sad.

—–

162: Do I believe in God?

Personally, I don’t feel we can disprove the existence of a God, nor can we prove it substantially, there’s just not enough evidence to go one way or the other. And an absence of evidence is not proof of a thing either way. I do think that there are things we don’t understand still in the universe, and that there might be some kinda forces that exist in it, be they good, evil, neutral, chaotic, what have you. But they don’t possess any real sentience or anything like that If you know what I mean? It’s weird I’m sorry.

—–

150: Blondes or Brunettes?

Personally I prefer brunettes, but blonde ain’t a bad thing sugar. ; p

—–

137: Coke or Pepsi?

I prefer Pepsi by a long shot, bc it isn’t as sweet- which is also why I prefer to drink diet cola -but mostly I just drink whatevers available and I buy whatever is cheapest.

—–

124: Disney or Sixflags?

Well I’ve only been to Sixflags, but I think I prefer that to disney just bc it seems less crowded and less merch oriented? Also it exists outside of Florida/California, both of which are so fucking hot why would I go there. In general though I prefer water parks to the idea of both.

—–

110: What Do I Think About My Neighbors?

I live in an apartment complex with thin walls so, just in general, I wish they were all quieter. But I’m probably just as loud to them from their perspective, so fairs fair. Otherwise they seem nice enough but I don’t socialize with them a whole lot with like 1 exception .

—–

99: When was the Last Time I Went to a Movie Theater?

Last week I went to the movie tavern with a friend to see Guardians of the Galaxy 2! ( a fun movie, which, while not as amazing as the 1st, was still really enjoyable and worth watching!!)

—–

73: What am I Doing Tommorrow?

I’m gonna help a friend pack up her place, bc that kinda stuffs always better to do w someone!

—–

64: My friends are:

THE ABSOLUTE FUCKING BEST HOLY SHIT I LOVE THEM ALL, ONLINE AND OFF. Also in some way they are all generally ridiculous and I love ‘em for it♡♡♡♡

—–

63: My Computer Is:

Reliable, for the most part. It’s nothing fancy but it allows me to enjoy the things I wanna so I can’t complain! (It’s a lenovo)

—–

50: Where Would I Like to Be?

In a general sense, somewhere cold and rainy, but I’m at home right now, in my bed with my kitties, so that’s p. Cool too ^_^

—–

48: Ever been in love?

Nope. I love plenty of people but have not been in love. I don’t date often and I prefer platonic companionship. I do believe in love, and I like to think I’m a romantic a heart, but I think love needs to be built on trust and friendship and mutual respect, and you need to put a lot of work into it. I don’t really believe in things like soulmates, or The One, or love at first sight lol. My roomate says I’m too pragmatic about it. I seem to have veered off topic here. My bad

—–

36: What is My Favorite Vehicle?

I don’t own one. I also generally dont care much for cars, as long as theyre safe and reliable and economical, but media wise, my favorite car on TV is probably the Blueberry from Psych. I don’t know why but I love that thing.

—–

22: What s My Favorite Animal?

I really like cats ok? Big, small, domestic,wild. I just love them and their floofy lil faces and nerd ass behavior so much!

—–

19: What’s My Favorite Sport to Watch?

Out side of sports anime, which are actually interesting bc narrative and bonding, I don’t really care that much about sports. Hockey is tolerable, but if we’re being honest, that’s mostly bc I’m a 'Check, Please!’ fan and so I have grown to care for it.

—–

18: What is My Favorite Sport to Play?

Tennis is ok I guess, and I liked dodgeball in school. But mostly I’m meh on it all, sorry.

—–

7: What’s My Favorite Perfume?

I usually don’t wear it a whole lot, or I buy like bath n body works spray stuff. But if I could afford real perfume, I do quite like Light Blue by Dolce n Gabanna, and Happy by Clinique brings back good memories!

—–

2: What’s My Favorite Dog Breed?

I like mutts because they’re the best ones to own and the most friendly! Rotties are cuties too though, and Shelties are so fluffy! Corgis are also sweet little sausage fluff babies.

—–

1: Did I Answer All these Questions Truthfully?

Yep! If I hadn’t planned on it I probably wouldn’t have answered them at all, or I would have just made them wildly outrageous lol. But these were fun!!!! Thank you so much anon ♡ I hope you have a fantastic day!

[inktae]

liebesleid (m) · two

↳ ongoing miniseries | request: reincarnation au with yoongi. (—or a story of perpetual unrequited love.)

◇ pairing: yoongi | reader ◇ genre: a lot of angst and drama with a sprinkle of smut. ◇ word count: 7.669 ◇ warnings: alcohol mention.

⇢ chapters: one | two

Chapter two: espressivo.

Most of the lifetimes in your mind are blurry — but the one you can remember the most happened during the summer of 1840.

The images are sharp and vibrant as they flicker wildly inside your mind, like an opened pandora box that keeps bursting with stinging lights and thick shadows and too many memories. They do not stop, and suddenly you feel like too many people at once, merging under your skin and turning your gaze dark and your breaths heavy.

It takes you a few seconds to realize Yoongi is calling your name. The real Yoongi, the one who stands next to you as he finishes his second cigarette and glances at you with bright, curious eyes. He seems to notice your panicked expression right away, and you can only circle his wrist weakly with a trembling hand, noticing he’s too hot under your touch. Or maybe you are just too cold.

You ask him to call you a taxi, and he complies after he makes sure you are not about to faint.

“The food—” you offer quickly, trying to inhale enough air for your straining lungs. “Didn’t sit well on my stomach. It’s okay, I just need to go home—”

“Don’t worry,” he gives you a reassuring smile as he places the phone against his ear, and the blush of embarrassment inevitably rises to your cheeks. Going by the dizzying memories that are still dashing through your mind, you are entirely sure he doesn’t remember anything from the past. He never does — which means he probably thinks you are just a bit strange.

Doesn’t he always, though?

Yoongi calls a cab, and his hand lingers on your back as he continues to make sure you are fully conscious. There is cold sweat coating your hands and forehead, your lips are dry and cracked and your stance is so stiff you probably look like you’re trying not to vomit — and fuck, Yoongi is way too gentle for handling a stranger like this, so carefully and thoughtfully, as if his own body remembers yours even if his mind doesn’t.

His touch feels like fire even if it’s as tender as a feather grazing your skin. It doesn’t take you long to realize how much you truly missed it, and you didn't think the dread pulsing through your veins could get worse. A knot ties itself painfully in the pit of your stomach and you are suddenly trembling with the need to get away, to be alone and process everything — without the worried touch on your back and the silent but careful gaze on the side of your face.

Then the taxi arrives and the hasty goodbye you throw Yoongi can definitely be considered rude, especially after the man helped you in his own half inebriated, half heartbroken state. You only dare glance at him through the window when you’re fully seated, and your heart shrinks when you see him standing there, waving with those soft eyes and with that gaze that still brims with confusion and fascination.

The silence is more than welcome, though. The taxi finally leaves and you immediately get lost in your swamped thoughts, in the images and dialogues and stares that repeat themselves over and over. Showing you countless truths that feel scarily natural on the tip of your tongue.

It always starts the same way, you realize. You can’t recall how many lifetimes you’ve crossed paths with Min Yoongi — what you can recall, though, is that every time you find him with a broken heart. Every time, he finds a friend in you, a shoulder to lean on and genuine, caring support. You always heal his wounds even if your heart breaks in the process, and then destiny does its part and takes him away from you.

Leaning your forehead against the cold window, you can only snort humorlessly. Reincarnating with him would lead anyone to think you were soulmates, two humans meant to be together as they found each other and fell in love again and again.

Not getting your heart broken over and over.

Not helping him find the love of his life over and over, while you stood in the sideline. Always silent, always hiding everything behind a smile—

One that he never noticed was full of pain.

/

“Wild night?”

Leaning against the counter, you look up from the steaming cup of coffee that’s placed between your hands, dazed eyes connecting with wide awake ones. Your roommate is giving you a bright smile as she enters the kitchen, one that’s too lively for the rising dawn; and even if you’ve known her for more than seven years, the energy that brims out of her right after waking up is still thoroughly startling.

Irene has always been a morning person. The smile you give her is more somber than intended as those words unravel a new meaning, and you can’t help but stare at your best friend in a new light, one that’s not related with lighthearted memories anymore.

Irene has always been a morning person — and that trait never changed in all of your past lives. Just like Yoongi, she never realizes her own reincarnations, and the fact that you are the only one aware of the past you all share is bitterly ironic in your mind.

The hunches you get before remembering are unexpectedly different in each lifetime, and this time you never suspected one of most important people in your life right now — the girl that’s currently sighing loudly, muttering about her tight schedule as she starts rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. The striking realization that her destiny is also tangled with Yoongi’s is still making your mind swim, even if you should be used to it by now.

Noticing your strange stillness and the lack of chatter on your part, she turns to you with a box of cereal in her hand, her usually soft expression transforming into something more serious.

“Did something happen yesterday?”

“No,” you reply, too quickly, and it is ridiculous to think you could fool Irene, of all people. Even if she loathes any kind of confrontation, she never hesitates to push the truth out of you whenever you mood turns gloomy and quiet.

She purses her lips, eyes hesitant as she frets on the spot. “Don’t worry me,” she says, softer this time as she places the box on top of the marble countertop. “I know you didn’t want to attend that event. I wish I’d gone with you—”

“Hey, you had to study, it’s fine,” you wave your hand as you give her a reassuring smile, hoping it works this time. “It was okay. Just draining.”

She observes you for a few seconds before nodding, apparently convinced by your answer. You try to hide your relieved exhale as she continues to prepare her breakfast, and your eyes settle on your cup of coffee again, gaze turning numb as you lick your dried lips.

“Ren,” you call gently after a minute of comfortable silence. “Do you know Min Yoongi?”

The strident clunk of her spoon hitting the floor reverberates across the narrow space of the kitchen. She quickly picks it up and your eyes swiftly notice her stiff movements, as if she’s trying to contain her reaction with a hesitance that cannot be considered natural. Turning around, her eyes trace your face and struggle to connect with yours.

“What? huh?”

“I met him yesterday night, at the event. He’s Seokjin’s ex roommate,” you clear your throat, almost choking on the suddenly heavy atmosphere. It always feels painstakingly awkward, you realize — even in the past, the mention of Min Yoongi in front of Irene electrified the atmosphere, through gazes that expressed more than words and flushed cheeks and clammy hands. “Is he your piano teacher?”

With most of your memories back, it didn’t take you long to put two and two together. Just like yours, Irene’s destiny is also tightly laced with Yoongi’s, and she’s meant to meet him in one way or another. Before yesterday night, you never thought much of your best friend’s random decision to take piano lessons — never gave her a second glance whenever she came back home more flustered than usual, with dazed eyes and a silly smile across her face. You teased her lightly, asked through inevitable chuckles if she was crushing on her teacher, of all people. Then Irene would squeak a rapid no way and then she’d change the topic, so smoothly she barely allowed you to prod more.

“What— how—” she blinks, confused, then a nervous laugh slips past her lips. “How did you know? Did he… tell you about me?”

“No,” you bite your lip, already regretting the way his name rolled off your tongue so easily. You barely got your memories yesterday — you should have allowed yourself a few more days to keep processing everything. But the need to know where Irene and Yoongi stand together is too powerful, even if your chest is already in pain. “But I saw him playing the piano, and I just… had a hunch.”

“That’s weird, even for you, Y/N,” she tries to joke, smile tight and voice too high to be natural. Her face is gradually reddening, clearly jittery as her gaze continues to veer between your own passive expression and her unfinished breakfast.

“Sorry,” you try to laugh, but the sound is rough and strained. Irene seems too flustered to notice, pouring the milk onto her cereal with faintly trembling hands. Her expressions are more familiar than usual now, having seen them more times than a normal human should. Her eyes are clearly flooded with tension and something more — something that looks like sorrow, the kind of lost pain you are too familiar with. It is that of a broken heart.

You exhale, pursing your lips in frustration. You could recite hers and Yoongi’s story in your sleep, which never changes no matter how many centuries pass by. In every lifetime, they both ache for each other — small, flimsy misunderstandings that lead them both to believe their love is purely unrequited, that their hearts don’t actually belong together.

Irene has always been too soft spoken, after all. Her gaze is fragile and so is her heart, and when it comes to romance her mind turns blank and her insides quiver, with fear and hesitance and too much insecurity. Yoongi, always the passionate and daring man, never knows how to deal with her need to take things slow, securely — with a carefulness that would drive anyone up the wall. He never understands the feelings Irene tries to pour thinly through her shy facade, and takes it as a subtle rejection instead.

Here is where your role comes to play. As cruel as it is, destiny chose you as their mediator, the chain that secures every lifetime and the bridge forged between their paths.

Lifetimes of observing them has made you know them better than you know yourself, and every time it turns easier for you to bring them together, as it always should be. That does not mean it hurts less, though — and how can you stay numb through it all, when your heart not only belongs to Yoongi, but also brims with love for the sister you never had? Irene has stayed as your friend through thick and thin, a fundamental pillar in all of your lives and someone who also shows the utmost appreciation for you, whom she regards just as warmly.  

It never hurts less. Even if you are used to the pain, it feels new in every life, a different kind of sting that pulses at the back of your mind. But the new pain never dwindles your resolve, which has stayed tight and firm after so many years.

After all, you love them both, and they love each other. You cannot stop intervening, because that would mean snatching away the happy ending they always deserve. And even if you are not part of it, even if you’ve never felt that warm feeling cursing through your veins — seeing them smile has become your own particular ending, as bittersweet as it is.

And nothing tells you it will end differently this time.

/

“You got here way too early.”

“Good morning to you too,” you smile as you cross the threshold of Seokjin’s flat, ignoring his scoff while he closes the door. Turning to him, his eyes land on the book you’re holding against your chest, making his lips purse and showing clear distress.

You can’t contain a soft chuckle when you notice his tousled brown hair and the rumpled gym wear that covers his large body. His face is slightly flushed and his eyes are blinking slowly, as if he’s holding back the urge to take a quick nap on the couch.

“Morning jog?” you ask, remembering he likes to run on Saturday mornings. You start walking towards the living room and he follows, heaving a sigh behind you. It comes out long and tired, and a sudden strike of guilt creeps up your back before you can stop it.

“Yeah, got home fifteen minutes ago,” he grunts, stretching his arms above his head as you flop down on top of one of his black leather couches. He joins you quietly, caressing the back of his neck tiredly as you place your book above the nearest coffee table.

You bite your lip, not looking at his fatigued face. “I mean, if you really don’t want to��”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he assures you hurriedly, sighing again. “It’s the first time you ask for my help, I wouldn’t deny you that.”

“You just want to look good in front of my parents,” you say lightly, opening the book.

“Got me.”

You both share a quiet chuckle, lightening the atmosphere almost immediately. The guilt is still there, though, coiling in the pit of your stomach and turning your movements steely while Seokjin switches the conversation to the subject at hand. You’re sure Seokjin does not mind lending you a hand when it comes to school — but you are not sure if you crossed a line the moment you decided to use that help dishonestly.

It’s not easy to pretend you have zero clue about the subject, which is probably one of the easiest of the semester, but Seokjin seems too pleased to help to notice your awkward, trembly words. Too eager, you’d say — because forty minutes later your temples are pulsing and you’re sitting on the floor pitifully, messy paper sheets surrounding your limp figure as Seokjin makes you work on a chapter you haven’t even started yet.  

“Can we take a break?” you ask in a weak tone, looking up at him pleadingly. He’s still sitting on the couch, thoroughly unfazed as he glances down at your drained expression.

“Sure,” he replies cheerfully, starting to pick up the scribbled papers from the floor. “We can stop for five minutes. You’re much rustier than I thought, Y/N.”

You let your head drop down, whining as your forehead touches the cool surface of the table.

“Or we can stop altogether if you tell me what you’re really here for.”

You perk up at that, heart skipping a beat as you slowly lift your head. Your throat constricts at Seokjin’s sharp expression and — yeah. You were too much of a fool to think this could actually work.

“You tutored me for almost an hour even though you knew?”

He shrugs, smiling placidly. “You looked like your soul was slowly leaving you. It was worth it.”

“I should let your bosses know you’re torturing their daughter,” you counter freely, knowing Seokjin won’t take your words seriously. He laughs in a light tone before his expression softens into something less sharp and mocking, a hint of seriousness clouding his eyes.

“Come on, sit here and tell me what’s going on.”

Seokjin’s expectant eyes follow your movements as you sit on the couch again, nerves finally sinking in. You know you did not deal with this in the best way possible — it should not be so important for you to keep such secrecy, to use the pretext of needing a tutoring lesson to slip the words as casually as possible. Seokjin probably thinks it’s a serious matter now, and even if it is important for you, it will only increase a raging suspicion in him.

“It’s not a big deal, really,” you finally mumble, hands stiff on your lap. “It was dumb of me not to ask you straight away.”

“Spill.”

You huff at him, crossing your arms above your chest. “I just— I am… kind of curious about your ex roommate—”

“I knew it!” he shrieks, making you jump on the spot. “You were also hoping to find him here, weren’t you?”

Your face burns with a heated blush at that, lips pursed. “That’s not—”

“The way you two played the piano the other night…” his voice comes out gentle, too quiet, and it makes you stare at him with your heart lodged in your throat. “This might sound weird, but it looked like you already knew him. Is there... something going on?”

He’s giving you an unrecognizable stare — one that’s intense and serious as he observes your reaction closely, and you have to push down the need to bolt out of the room. Your skin burns and your mind reels at how obvious you are, something that has not changed after so many lifetimes. Even if you’ve put all of your efforts into hiding your own feelings, there is always something in the way you look and talk to Yoongi that makes people wonder, that shifts the air weakly but surely, baring the faintest hint of your unrelenting emotions to the rest of the world.

You can only be glad that Irene and Yoongi are always too lost in their own heartsickness to notice your own.

“No,” you retort, too smoothly. It is not exactly a lie — you’ve only met him once in this lifetime, after all. “I am interested in his music.”

“You want get to know him, don’t you?”

The answer is too obvious, and Seokjin probably wants to make sure you are not blatantly lying to his face anymore. You resign yourself and nod slowly, fingers digging into the cool surface of the couch.

He exhales, leaning back and staring at a faraway point with the faintest grimace on his lips.

“Y/N… he’s, very lost right now, and so in love, and just… not in the best place right now.”

You look away from his face, biting your lip. That you already knew, but Seokjin shouldn’t see how familiar you are with those words.

“Do you know who he’s in love with?”

Even if you already know the answer to that question, the curiosity gets the better of you, and you flinch the second the words are out. But the need to find out how much Seokjin knows is too strong to quench down — he was Yoongi’s roommate, after all. He knows the Yoongi of this lifetime much better than you do, even if you’ve met countless versions of him already.

He gives you a weird look at that, frowning. “No, I don’t. What kind of question is that?”

You shrug, not knowing how to answer to that.

“Don’t get in the middle of it, Y/N—”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” you choke out, heart racing. “I’m curious about him, that’s all. I’m curious about all pianists, didn’t you know?”

He snorts. He has always known about your deep interest in music and how drawn you are to those who express their art freely, even if it is a topic that’s not touched as much as you’d like. You can’t blame him, though — not when it is directly related to the tension that’s always stirring within your family, and you’re aware of how awkward he gets when a subject enters personal territory.

“Yeah, yeah. An artist soul needs to connect with other artists, and all that,” he says jokingly, but his words make you brighten up. “Promise me you’ll keep it about music.”

“Sure, dad.”

He shudders at that, making a giggle escape your lips. It immediately softens the atmosphere, though, and both of you share quiet smiles before he gets up from the couch and stretches lazily.

“A couple of coworkers are going to this small gig Yoongi has tonight. They can take you there,” he offers casually, ignoring the eager look on your face as you nod rapidly. “I’ll give him your number. Well… you should leave now, I’ve been dying to take a shower since I got home drenched in sweat.”

“Gross,” you laugh, getting up and picking up your things. He accompanies you to the door in silence, and the abrupt quietness makes you hold onto the book a little bit tighter, hoping the conversation about Yoongi won’t stay in his mind for too long. Even though it felt liberating, now you can’t help but trace back and make sure you didn’t say too much, that your eyes or your body language didn’t show more than necessary.

Seokjin squeezes your shoulder to make you snap back to reality. You give him an apologetic smile when you notice the door’s already open, and he’s waiting for you to say goodbye.

“Ah…” it is strange to find yourself at a loss for words in front of someone like Seokjin, whom you consider one of your closest friends within your small social circle. But here you are, stuttering and blushing again and you are not sure where is this reaction coming from — except you do have a faint idea, and it makes you recoil even more, eyes suddenly wide and watery.

He squeezes your shoulder again, gaze warm and thoughtful. It’s a stare you’ve seen a handful of times, present during pressing events and meetings, always there whenever your future inside the company shifts a little bit closer and you feel like you’re drowning under the deep sea.

“Be careful.”

You’re not sure what he means with those words, but you can only nod helplessly, lungs asking for fresh air as you force a strained smile and mutter a quick goodbye.

/

Seokjin’s friends are called Kim Taehyung and Park Jimin, and their presence is so bright you can feel your implacable nerves simmering down. You can’t help but wonder how you never met them before — even though you’ve been at the company three or four times, they exude waves of charisma that would never go unnoticed, all sparkling eyes and radiant smiles that make you feel at ease right away.

You meet them after sunset in front of an inconspicuous bar, small and subtle and located in a narrow street full of jazz clubs. Jimin’s eagerness seems subdued in front of Taehyung, who addresses himself as Min Yoongi’s number one fan as they enter the poorly lit place.

“He’s just so— I can’t describe it. You have to see it for yourself,” Taehyung gushes as they walk towards a rounded table, one that’s particularly close to the narrow stage. Jimin snorts at Taehyung’s words, even though a fond smile is stretching his lips.

“You sound like his proud girlfriend.”

“I wasn’t the one who cried during his last performance,” Taehyung retorts with a mocking smile, making Jimin blush profusely. The latter immediately turns to you, embarrassment clinging to his awkward smile.

“How do you know Yoongi, Y/N?”

“Oh — through Seokjin,” you try to say casually, even though your voice comes out slightly high pitched. “I heard him play once. He’s good.”

Your tone is way too disinterested, making you wince. You can’t let your feelings and memories get the better of you, though — not right now. Taehyung opens his mouth, a retort probably forming on the tip of his tongue, but then a waitress arrives and the topic changes to that of alcoholic drinks. They order without having to think twice about it, seemingly familiar with the place, and you allow Jimin to decide for you as he goes for a sweet, albeit slightly strong drink.

“You don’t have to study tomorrow, right?” Jimin asks worriedly the second the waitress leaves, making Taehyung chuckle.

“Are you planning on getting me drunk?” you laugh, trying not to get too nervous. You certainly do not want to be tipsy in front of Yoongi, not when your newly found feelings are still stirring and shifting. It has only been a couple of days since Seokjin’s event, after all.

“Of course not. You’re our future boss, after all!” Taehyung exclaims and you can only blink at him, trying not to show the sudden nausea that makes your stomach swirl. But then Jimin giggles and you can’t help but smile — he might be older than you, but the sound of his laughter is bright and innocent and immediately eases the sudden tension in your shoulders.

Chatter flows seamlessly after your drinks arrive, and the liquid does burn down your throat, dangerously sweet as it slowly unwinds your muscles. You welcome the distraction Jimin and Taehyung provide, and by the time they announce the concerts for the night you're relaxed enough for your heart rate to stay within the normal range.

There are three acts, and Yoongi is third in line. The first performance is a short jazz piece by a clearly skilled saxophone player, and Taehyung and Jimin sway excitedly on their chairs as the rhythmic melody fills the hazy room. The second involves a few more instruments, playing a sultry piece that smoothly mixes the sounds of the double bass, the trumpet and the trombone in a slow melody that keeps you tapping your feet against the floor. By the time they’re done, you’re already starting to feel the music inside your bones, head light and smile genuine as you join the rest of the audience in rounds of applause.

Time seems to slow down as Yoongi takes the stage a minute later, dressed in black from head to toe and dark hair neat and soft-looking. His eyes barely swipe over the audience, looking deeply concentrated already as he focuses on the large piano placed on the right side of the stage.

“Ready to cry, Jiminnie?” Taehyung’s whisper take you out of your daze. Jimin only shushes him in return, cheeks flaming. You can also feel your own face heating up, even if it’s for entirely different reasons.

Yoongi’s music is always an experience, and you are not expecting this time to be different. Even if his style varies in each lifetime, it is always raw and poignant, with each note clutching at your heart in a way that’s stinging but addicting all the same. Looking at Yoongi approaching the piano, you can feel your breathing speeding up with anticipation and your pulse growing stronger against your chest and ears.

He bows to the crowd, and takes a seat. The applause and the chatter dies down almost immediately as he places his hands above the keys, and the lights around you seem even darker, if possible. All you can see now is the stage, the glossy piano and his straight back and closed off expression. Inhaling deeply, he lets out a long, silent breath, and then his fingers finally press down.

You almost jolt in the spot. You were expecting a brush of tender notes, a soft wave carrying faint melancholy and gentle sorrow; not the fierce, rapid melody that stems from his deft fingers. It is powerful and overflowing, bursting with emotions that keep you on the edge of your seat, completely entranced as you stare at the blur of hands that follow a fast paced tempo.

Sometimes it’s angry, sometimes it’s heavily mournful and sometimes it slows down to a quiet tune, as if his own heart is resting temporarily from its passionate outbreak, before picking up again and stealing your breath away. It’s a song you haven’t heard before, and that turns it even more enthralling, making you wonder what his fingers will do next as the music whirls across the entire room.

The passion in his face widens as the song reaches its climax, thunderous and striking as his eyes close and his body sways gently. By the time he’s done, your chest feels tight and you can hear your own heartbeat pulsing behind your ears. Your skin burns as the crowd applauds fervently, and you join them in a dazed state of mind, faintly detecting Taehyung’s hooting and Jimin’s encouraging whistle.

“Fucking amazing!” Taehyung screeches, still clapping in earnest even though the applause is starting to fade away. You have to take a sip of your cold drink, still feeling hot all over.

“Y/N, I saw your face while you watched. That wasn’t just good, right?” Taehyung says, patting your back as he gives you a teasing smile. You shudder at his words (you don’t want to know what kind of faces you make while watching a performance from Yoongi), but still manage to smile awkwardly, a nervous laugh slipping past your lips.

“That was… yeah. Wow,” the boys just laugh at your lack of words, and you can’t help but join them, feeling slightly dizzy after that emotional rollercoaster.

“He should be here in a second, by the way,” Jimin adds casually, turning around to look in the direction of the bar counter. That makes you freeze — even though you were silently hoping to share a few words with him, the fact that it’s actually happening right now makes you wonder if you are actually ready. You almost threw up on his shoes the last time you saw him, after all.

Jimin waves then, and you’re sure he must’ve found Yoongi with his eyes, making your heart stutter. You stare at your own drink as you wonder how you should act in front of him — it’s a bizarre sensation, that of knowing him so well but not knowing anything at all. In some ways, Min Yoongi is still a stranger, a new and undiscovered version of him even if you’re familiar with all the layers he hides inside.

You squirm in your chair and take a long sip of your drink, for once welcoming the burn that slides down your throat. But then a throaty voice joins the table and you almost choke on the liquid, eyes filling with unshed tears at the tightness in your throat as you place your glass down.

“Yoongi,” Taehyung gets up, placing his hands on Yoongi’s shoulders. The latter’s holding a beer bottle, looking impassive albeit his eyes shine with faint amusement. “If I was drunk, I would probably bow down right now. That was— that was insane!”

“Thanks,” he chuckles sheepishly, peeling Taehyung’s hands off his black shirt.

“I agree, that was so good. Is it a new song?” Jimin asks, looking a little starstruck as he stares up with shiny eyes. Yoongi nods as he takes the empty seat next to yours, eyes finally finding your own and making you inhale sharply.

“Oh yeah, Y/N decided to join us tonight! you guys know each other, right?” Taehyung’s voice is cheery but faraway in your ears. Yoongi smiles widely as he nods again, eyes sparkling while he takes a sip of his beer. His eyes never leave yours.

“We met during one of Seokjin’s parties,” he says, finally tearing his gaze away and allowing you to breathe again.

“Huh? I thought you didn’t go to those,” Jimin wonders confusedly, grimacing. “God knows I won’t go as long as Seokjin himself doesn’t drag me.”

“I don’t. It was an accident,” Yoongi replies plainly. The other two men don’t even prod, Taehyung’s laugh joining in as he tries to speak through his chuckles.

“Of course you wouldn’t go again. You got so wasted last year, it was embarrassing—”

Jimin blushes hotly, and suddenly they start bickering in a way that keeps your eyes sliding left and right, helplessly trying to follow their rapid conversation. Yoongi chuckles softly, making you turn to him as you hold your drink tightly.

“Will they be fine?”

“Don’t worry about them,” Yoongi waves his hand in disinterest as a smirk lifts his mouth. “They do that everyday. Hey—” he leans closer to the table, fingers touching the brim of his beer bottle as he casts his eyes down. “You left quite spooked the other day. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah! It’s all good,” you muster a bright smile, one that probably doesn’t reach your eyes. “Sorry about that. Just got a bit sick.”

He nods, taking a sip from his bottle. “I think I know where I’ve seen you.”

Your heart jumps at that, mouth dry as he gives you an intent stare. “Really?”

“Yeah, I actually went to Jin’s workplace once. It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

He seems fully convinced by his own answer, seemingly satisfied that he figured it out. You can’t hold back the drop of your stomach, churning with disappointment. A small part of you forlornly hoped he remembered something — and as delusional as that might make you, it’s a flicker of hope you have never been able to blow out, still stirring with the prospect of not being the only one with these memories one day.

“I barely go there, but... ” you swallow, still noticing his steady gaze on you. You give him another smile, hoping it’s not as bitter. “Yeah, maybe that’s it.”

He smiles back, making him look brighter and younger, and for a flicker of a second you notice how different he is from your past lives, gaze tracing the bags under his eyes and the lack of a healthy blush across his skin. You notice his tired eyes and fatigued stance and you have to contain yourself from asking him if he’s been eating well, if his thoughts keep him awake at night or if he finds the loneliness more stifling than usual.

Suddenly overcome with concern and fondness, you thoroughly welcome Taehyung’s booming voice calling you into their conversation, making you avert your eyes from Yoongi’s particularly intense stare and snapping back into reality. It’s easy to distract yourself when it comes to Taehyung and Jimin’s enthusiastic voices, and Yoongi’s presence flies to the back of your mind in a way that allows you to breathe easier and not to squirm under his unyielding, always piercing stare.

Soon enough you’re finishing your drinks and moving onto another bar, and then another, and another. As the drinks seep through your veins you find it easier to stick to Yoongi’s side, arms brushing and laughs mixing together in a way that keeps you much warmer than the alcohol ever could. You instinctively keep Yoongi from drinking too much — wordlessly slowing down his drinks when his face turns flushed and words become slurred, even if your own cheeks are burning and your thoughts are drifting away more than usual.

Time loses its meaning as the hours slip like sand between your fingers, and you don’t realize how late it is until you find yourself under the luminous night sky as Jimin calls a taxi. Yoongi’s swaying slightly next to you, eyes unfocused as he basks in the cool air, and you don’t hesitate as you call another taxi for you both.

“I’ll make sure he gets home,” you assure a worried looking Jimin, who’s squirming under Taehyung’s heavy weight as he starts falling asleep on top of the shorter man. Both taxis arrive a few minutes later, and Taehyung gives you a boxy grin and a noisy kiss on your cheek, making you laugh as he moves on to pat Yoongi’s back.

“That was fun! Make sure he doesn’t die,” Taehyung reminds you, words loud and slurred. Jimin tugs him towards the taxi and you do the same with Yoongi, who waves lazily at the other two before entering the car.

He lets out a loud sigh after you both share your addresses with the driver, dropping back against the headrest as his head tilts in your direction. A sudden wave of intimacy warms up the cramped space, and you can’t help but shiver as his eyes trace your features. The daze of the alcohol is high enough to keep you from looking away, heart gradually speeding up as the seconds slow down.

He finally opens his mouth, gaze still unwavering. “Wanna come up?”

You stiffen at that, chest constricting. Enough lifetimes have gone by to know for certain that there are only platonic feelings on his side, that his intentions are never something more even if the alcohol turns his gaze and words bolder than usual. It still takes you aback, though, and you hate the warmth you feel at the prospect of spending more time with Yoongi.

It’s hard to control your feelings like this — with the daze of a fresh, quiet night as dawn approaches, tearing your walls down as his quiet company reminds you of how comfortable you feel next to him, how natural it is to exchange glances and smiles and meaningless conversations.

He’s drunk. You will only make sure he goes to bed safely.

It is not hard to convince yourself with your words. You nod and Yoongi smiles, so soft and radiant, and any doubt that was nudging at the back of your mind finally vanishes.

/

Deep breaths.

Your exhale is loud and long in the middle of the kitchen, shaky and weak as you try to control your trembling limbs. You excused yourself five minutes ago, and Yoongi is probably wondering why it’s taking you so long to grab a couple glasses of water — or maybe not, considering his currently helpless state. The faint drunkenness you were feeling is starting to fade and it only leaves an overwhelming feeling in its place, reminding you that you’re here, in Yoongi’s tiny apartment, that you left him sprawled out on the couch with that gentle gaze that reminds you of the endless smiles and stares that were left in the past.

You frown at the glasses of water, realizing it’s taking you particularly long to compose yourself in this lifetime. Inhaling sharply, you force yourself to leave the kitchen, trying to suppress your feelings as you remind yourself that this is bound to happen — you need to be Yoongi’s friend. It is set in stone. You can’t avoid it, even if it hurts.

The fake smile plastered on your lips immediately fades the moment you enter the living room.

Yoongi’s sitting on the jagged couch, head on his hands and chest rising and falling strenuously, as if he’s having a hard time getting air inside his lungs. You’re next to him in a second, placing the water on the nearest table as your hand reaches for his shoulder.

“Yoongi—”

“Wait. Give me a minute.”

You pull your hand away, wincing at the tight tone of his voice. You take a seat next to him, as quietly as possible, mind reeling as you wait for him to finally lift his head. He does so a minute later, with red rimmed eyes and crestfallen features.

He grabs the water and takes a long gulp, sighing as he puts it back. “Sorry. I’m…”

“It’s fine if you don’t want to talk.”

He finally looks at you, a mild smile tugging at his lips as he shakes his head. “It’s fine. It’s just — alcohol makes me think a lot. And that’s never good,” his voice is still a bit slurred, words mingling in a tired tone. He clears his throat as his hand brushes his chest, leaning back with a fatigued exhale. “It still hurts, you know. Right here.”

Your eyes find the hand that’s still clutching at his chest, right above his heart, and you have to hold back the urge to entangle your fingers with his own. He doesn’t elaborate, but you perfectly know what he’s talking about — and if he finds it strange that you remember, he never says.

“I’m sure it does,” you murmur, smiling bitterly. “I’m an expert at that.”

He frowns, and the gesture mixed with his sleepy expression makes him look even more endearing, and your smile turns genuine this time.

“Really? huh. You shouldn't get your heart broken. You’re so… nice,” he blinks up at you and slowly puts a strand of hair on the back of your ear. You immediately lean back, heart stuttering and senses reeling. He pulls away fast, lips pursed. “Sorry. Don’t wanna make you uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine,” your voice says otherwise, and you’re sure he notices. You grab your glass of water, and the fresh liquid sliding down your throat helps a little. “You’re very in love, aren’t you?”

The lack of filter and the quiet atmosphere makes it painfully easy to slip the question, in a softer tone that almost gets lost in the silence. It hurts, pronouncing those words — but your mouth is painfully used to them.

“Mhm. That stupid song... it’s unfinished, but I just couldn’t wait to show it to her. I should have waited. Or better yet — I should have never played it,” he runs a hand across his face. “It might be better this way, though. I’m not at the best moment in my life right now.”

You let him blabber, allowing the side of your face to rest against the soft surface of the backrest, fully facing Yoongi now. “That’s okay — you can talk to me. I’m here if you need a friend.”

He turns to you, lips forming a smile. “Thank you. What about you? Who was the asshole that broke your heart?”

You can’t help but laugh at that, and he doesn’t question your strange reaction.

“Someone who has done it too many times. And he doesn't even know it,” you know you’re playing with fire right now, allowing your lips to form the first words that come to your mind — but the fatigue is finally slipping under your skin, and you can feel yourself submerging into a lethargic tipsiness as your body relaxes against the couch.

“Wow. You should say something, though.”

“Nice joke,” you retort plainly. “Do you believe in soulmates?”

He shakes his head, snorting. He’s looking at you with heavy lidded eyes, and even if he’s not smiling you can’t help but feel serene under his sleepy gaze, features tender and languid and making him look softer than usual.

“Don’t tell me you do. Look, I can be a sap when I drink, but all that destiny crap is… pure nonsense,” he slurs, “if someone breaks your heart, move on. Even if I’m not at that stage yet,” he adds quietly, tone not as mocking as the last words leave his mouth.

“You’ll heal,” and I’ll be there to make sure it happens.

“I guess I will. Still hurts like a bitch, though,” he looks at you then, and the tiredness in his gaze is suddenly replaced by an intensity you were not expecting, making your heart skip. “It might be because I'm drunk, but I have this sudden urge to punch the guy who broke your heart. If you ever need to lend a fist… I’ll be there.”

The laugh that escapes your lips is startlingly loud, breaking the stillness of your shared quiet words.

“Then you should hit up the gym a bit more,” you squeeze his arm in a teasing manner, and he swaps it gently.

“Hey, the intention is what counts,” his words give way to a long yawn, one that makes you clear your throat as you sit upright.

“I, um. I think I should get going. I don’t even want to look at the time,” you start getting up, but warm fingers curling around your wrist stops you from walking away.

“You should stay, it’s too late. You can leave when the sun comes up.”

You swallow, hating the way your resolve dies down so easily. It is no surprise, though — you have always been utterly weak for that expressive stare and drowsy voice.

“Okay.”

He leads you to his bedroom and asks for you to take it, with a sudden firmness in his voice that does not allow any arguments. You want to remind him that he’s the drunk one here, and that you should be the one taking the couch — but he playfully pushes you towards the bed, making you stumble as you sit on the edge with a surprised expression.

“You took me home, then listened to my pity talk. It’s the least I can do.”

You smile, skin flushing as you look up at him. “It was nothing, really.”

You start feeling the soft, cool sheets under your hands, suddenly self-conscious as Yoongi continues to observe you in silence. Looking up again, he seems to realize what he’s doing, and a blush of his own rises to his pale cheeks.

“You sure are quick to trust a stranger.”

“I know you won’t take advantage of me,” the certainty laced in your words clearly takes him aback, and a soaring mortification makes you stiffen under his gaze. He smiles warmly, though — and suddenly touches the tip of your nose in a fond gesture that makes your heart race.

“What the hell, you’re too nice.”

You chuckle, ignoring the way your face is burning. “Go to sleep, Yoongi.”

He nods, slowly walking towards the door. He turns around right before stepping into the hallway, and his eyes seem dazed for a second, focusing on yours as he bites his lips thoughtfully.

“Thinking about it,” he says, voice so quiet you can barely hear him. “I don’t think I ever saw you at the company.”

“I don’t think so either,” you reply carelessly, heart clenching.

He looks pensive for a few more seconds, giving you that unnervingly intense stare that makes you want to look away. You almost sigh in relief when it finally softens, smiling quietly.

“I’ll figure it out. Goodnight, Y/N.”

No, you won’t.

You still smile, though. Even if your eyes are burning, even if the sudden need to be alone crashes down like a throbbing weight on top of your shoulders.

You smile, because hope and reassurance are the only things you’re able to give him, even if he can’t return them.

“I’m sure you will. Goodnight, Yoongi.”

[anglicancult]

Tori

“I’d cry, but I’m all out. I’m sorry.”

Tori’s one too prone to the melodramatic, over-the-top behaviour that I, coincidentally, engage in on occasion. No, I haven’t been sobered in a while, but that can’t affect my conception of whether one may be uttering sweet falsehoods into my ear. Now and then I can see these slips of lies from her tongue, but never get to questioning for the fear that she’ll run off and never speak to me. Again—happens on a weekly basis.

Saying something about being alright mentally, I challenge this by presenting exhibit A: empty capsule of unprescribed and readily abused pills—anti-anxiety: Xanax. I’ve never been too keen on those, but Tori guzzles them steadily, sometimes dry, sometimes soaked.

Sometimes crushing them into thin, white lines and licking them off with a snorting into the nostrils; this way, they head right up, bristling past the cilia to the brain, immediately attaching themselves to brain receptors, and the rush is an amazing feeling because it hits straight as opposed to waiting the thirty or more odd minutes when congested with water, booze, urine etc.

“God,” she goes, “stop fucking asking the same thing.” I, of course, haven’t the slightest desire to cease my non-stop inquiring. Yes, I’m wildly off these little pain-killers my uncle had left over from the surgery. I’d have had another drink but I’m all out and Tori doesn’t seem too keen on hopping down to the 7-11. I might as well find a way to penetrate the silence, even if it means asking these things like a damaged record. I’ll be going loose in a while and start crying on the cold floor in a few hours.

Happened like that yesterday afternoon: sat up in the dark, foetal-like position (knees wrapped to chest and head tucked in—womblike) and blubbering like some old, wounded pup. I’d come back here with the intention of ending myself, completely. Remembering I’ve wanted to die since about eleven. In Tori’s absence I’d been more than prepared to slit my wrists vertically so that way they’d never be stitched up and I’d bleed loosely. Thinking of dying almost makes me happy, I fear, it’s rather strange.

My main concern now, besides my impending suicide, is getting Tori to lay off the booze and whatever else she may be on.

Honestly, I don’t know this girl, but we share this similar suffering, of which I can’t get enough. It’s a pulling, like when I’d had nothing much to do but sit around and burn cigarette after cigarette between lecture periods. Something like a nicotine addiction. I’ve not many complaints, although I fear I may be placing too many expectations on this lovely little creature.

She looks disinterestedly through these black glasses, eyes so brown you can almost scoop them out to taste the flavour—tells me that nothing is alright, but everything is, too. I ask her, “How are you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she answers.

Stubborn, this old dog thinks. We’re both looking for a quick way to die, having not mustered enough courage to directly kill ourselves.

I’ve told her before that I’ll go out with a BANG. What she said was, “Whoa, will you?”

Didn’t I answer? I grab Tori by the shoulders and look up into that gorgeous face. Parting my lips, I tell her how much I hate her, and she strikes me across the face. But the movement is rather slow, and the impact feeble, because I think she’s on the Xanax and, if you’ve ever had a ride, you know how it settles onto the soul. Buzzing.

Somewhere inside I might tell Tori everything that’s wrong with me. I’m incredibly alone now, and she seems to be the only person that understands this. So, she keeps her distance and never speaks to me no matter how hard I cry and beg.

Might as well say that Tori is the most beautiful thing that’s happened to me as of late.

“Eh,” she goes. Madly, I say, madly.

I’m sitting in this room, and across she stares. At times, she appears incredibly malicious and angry and has nothing to say to me. I try to start a conversation but it pitters out and I’ve no idea what must be done to better the situation.

Then, quite madly, she inches closer and tells me these things which I’ve never heard before in anyone other than myself.

“Do you know about the nothingness?”

Of course, she does; we share a similar desire for annihilation that’s wild and untamed—the result of echelons of unchecked emotional trauma and substance abuse.

We think too much.

When I finally off myself, I’ll be sure to inform Tori beforehand . The last time I tried, she asked if I was alright, I said maybe, then she veered off-topic and nosedived into a strange conversation about sexual desire.

I tell her, “I want to die.”

“Me too,” she answers.

Can we do it together? This falls to deaf ears.

Tori said something about adoring my presence, but then distances herself from me.

After dark, I am helpless.

She has a hook that reels you in: something about the knowledge of art or philosophy. Oh, deadly poisons, those are.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“No,” I answer.

“Neither am I.”

This, right here, is beauty.