#sorry if this is a controversial take on childe

[dangoulains-devotion]

grips you by the shoulders

give FFXIII a chance

as much as I adore the game I will accept the gameplay isn't for everyone

but the story is so worth it

[delicatepointeofview]

my mom asked me about the new season of the last of us so of course I gave her a full presentation about the new stills released, a full synopsis of part two of the game, and why I love Abby and feel protective af for Kaitlyn Dever because I don’t want to see a single hate comment go her way. oh and a funny dream I had because I can’t stop yapping sometimes.

[gaysindistress]

The two times Simon almost killed Price and the one time Price almost killed Simon

First off yall blew up this post and I’m actually speechless 🥺 I’ve also hit 1,000 followers (SKDJJWDJJEJW) and will be working on the surprise fic shortly. I was working on some birthday posts and wasn’t expecting it to happen so quickly so might be a bit before it comes out.

Simon’s masterlist

1. When Simon was injured

Price called you to let you know that Simon was injured during an op and he would be fine but you should come get him from the base. Simon never lets you go to base and you knew if he was conscious, he would have an absolute fit and get a cab home. He’s a very private person and after what happened to his family, he’s not about to let you get anywhere close to work if he can help it.

You obviously know this but it’s Price who called you, not Simon. Price ends the call with ‘see ya soon, Mrs. Riley’ which simultaneously breaks your heart because you’re not his wife but also warms it. It also doesn’t give you a choice; you’ll be there whether you drive yourself or Price brings you.

The captain doesn’t tell anyone that you’re coming or who you are when you get there. He meets you at the entrance and escorts you in. Like a father might, he keeps you close to him as the two of you make your way across the base and to the clinic where Simon is resting. He wouldn’t let them send him off base to a hospital so they did what they could and he’s, of course, being difficult still.

The moment the others see you, their eyes widen because who is this? Why are you with Price? Why have they never seen you before? Are you his daughter? His niece? His controversially younger girlfriend? Who are you and why are you here of all places? You definitely scare the shit out of them let’s be real. You pull up looking like this and you’re with their captain.

You have an aura of unwavering confidence and a resting bitch face that rivals Ghost’s. They don’t get the chance to pester you because Price is quickly shoving you into the room where Ghost is at and giving them all the death stare.

Simon does a double take when he sees you with wide eyes but doesn’t make any other indication that he knows you. The poor nurse who’s filling out his release paperwork is petrified and he looks like he’s about to pass out. You narrow your eyes at Simon because clearly he’s been his usual asshole self and that’s why this nurse is about to pass out.

You give the nurse a small smile as you tell him your name and that you’re who’s going to be taking care of Simon. The man’s knees almost give out from relief and he word vomits all of the information you’ll need while handing you the paperwork in a shaking hand. You thank him and wait for him to leave before you finally look at Simon.

He’s got his mask on like you expected but you can still read his eyes. He’s pissed.

All you say is “You were shot.”

He nods once.

“I’m your emergency contact.”

He nods once again.

“You don’t get to be mad that I’m here. If anyone gets to be upset and act like a child, it’s me. I’m the one who had to find out from your captain that you got hurt so badly that you’re being put on temporary medical leave for 6 weeks.“

He doesn’t nod this time. He just stares. Eventually he sighs and looks at the ground.

“‘M sorry.”

You sigh as well and give him the hug he’s craving but won’t ask for. You press a kiss to the top of his masked head and rub his back.

“It’s alright, my love.” You murmur into his sweaty mask. “Let’s go home, yeah? The dogs have been driving me mental.”

Although it’s covered, you feel him smile. You feel it in the way his body relaxes under your touch and his arms tighten around your waist.

“Let’s go home.” He agrees.

The others are absolutely gobsmacked when they see you walk out with Ghost. He’s the same as he always is; guarded and on defense but there’s a softness in his eyes when he glances at you talking to Price. They have half a mind to ask about you but one sharp glance from Ghost keeps their mouth shut. Whoever you are, you’re the single most important person in the world to him and they’d be complete fools to even breath in your direction.

2. When Simon was home

Let’s just say that Simon was in a compromising position when Price called him to meet at the base in an hour.

Usually you’re the one in the restraints that are always on your bed butttttt you managed to convince him to switch places. Tonight he’s bound by the leather cuffs on his wrists and ankles. His eyes are squeezed shut and his head is buried into the pillow behind him. You’ve been teasing and edging this poor man for close to an hour. Kitten licks and light squeezes are all you’ve given him as you worship his strong body. Each scar on his body has been caressed, licked, and kissed by you. Every inch of him has been loved and adored by you…

expect for his cock.

You’ve been purposely ignoring it until you finally take him into your mouth. His release is fast approaching as you bob your head up and down. He’s moaning and whimpering. Then his work phone rings. The stupid phone he only uses when he’s working goes off and he’s never been so angry in his entire life. You pull off of him and he lets out the loudest groan known to man. You giggle at him as you fish it from the night stand and press it to his ear as you place yourself in his lap.

“Price the fucking king could be dead and that still wouldn’t be a good enough reason to call me right now.”

3. And the one time that Price almost killed Simon.

Ever since Price called you to base, he’s been keeping in touch with you. He’ll text you and call you every now and then to make sure you’re okay. Obviously you are; Simon is your…partner and you can handle yourself but he still likes to check in on you. He feels responsible for Simon as he’s his captain but also for you since you’re his whole world.

Moving on… the first deployment that Simon went on was rough. You were anxious as you usually were but this time was worse. He was hurt. He had been shot and even though he’d healed just fine, you couldn’t help but worry about him. On the other hand, Simon’s nightmares had made a comeback and he’d been waking up in cold sweats. One time you swore you saw Ghost rather than your adoring man. You’d told Price about it and made he swear to not say a damn word to Simon. He agreed but kept a watchful eye on his Lieutenant.

On the second night of their deployment, Price had gotten a rather short and strange text from you that read “keep him safe please.” It felt like a given that he did but something about this felt wrong. He called you and it took until the last ring for you to pick up. You were sobbing, hyperventilating, and wheezing into the phone when you answered. He couldn’t get a single coherent word out of you for the first 10 minutes but when he did, he saw red.

Apparently Simon had lost his mind and decided that it would be better if you weren’t together. You’d told Price that he told you some bullshit lie about how he wasn’t feeling it anymore and you should go find someone better. The captain was more pissed off that his Lieutenant had lied and immediately found him the moment you’d stopped crying.

“Riley!” Price shouts across from the landing strip. That sends alarm bells off in Simon’s head. It was Ghost or Lieutenant, never his name.

Price stalks over to him and grabs him by the front of his vest, not caring that everyone can see what’s going on. “You call and apologize to her right now, ya hear me? It’s unacceptable for you to lie to her like that and I should have your balls for it. You fix it before she does go off and find herself a better man.”

Simon can’t argue with him. He knows that what he did was wrong and Price is well within his right to act on his threat. Hell Simon was about to do it himself if it meant he could rewind time and take back what he said.

However he is still Lieutenant Ghost in this moment. He narrows his dark eyes at Price and slowly takes his hand off of his vest. Nothing but lethal silence fills the space between the two men. Bystanders are growing increasingly desperate for action, practically yipping like starving hyenas for a scrap.

“You have 30 seconds to get out of my sight.”

Price steps away and Simon disappears into the darkness. The hyenas howl in hunger around them, chattering about the unfairness of it all.

Simon calls you the moment he’s locked away in his room. He spends the next hour apologizing profusely to you and damn near begging you to wait for him. It’ll be a few weeks until he’s back but please…just wait for him.

[delulustateofmind]

TW: Older Professor Yandere x College Student Reader, Abuse of Power, Spanking, Fingering, Manipulation, Infidelity. MDNI

A/n: This could be awful, but the brain worms in my hungover little noggin were munching away at this idea. Also, I thought dead dove was a universal term last night, and I had to (mortifyingly) explain what it meant to my friends 👍 and I feel like I definitely overexplained it. Enjoy!

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Thinking about controversial older yanderes... Like a professor in his 40s, married, with a couple of kids. You know the type. The kind who’s got everything—tenure, three published books, a whole career built on being the guy everyone respects. The guy who should really know better.

But then there’s you. Poor little nineteen-year-old you, sitting in the front row of his lecture hall, looking up at him with those big, wide, puppy-dog eyes. It’s barely the first day, and you’re already turning to the person next to you, asking if he’s going to go over the syllabus. He’s not. That’s something you should figure out on your own. But the way you looked so lost and helpless—God, it just did something to him.

He knows it’s wrong. He’s married. He has kids. A reputation to uphold. So why can’t he stop thinking about how you’d look with those pretty lips of yours wrapped around his cock? Why is he willing to risk everything he’s worked for just to have you?

It starts small. He tells himself it’s harmless. He watches you, admires the way you fumble through class. But it’s not enough. He’s always been a man who takes what he wants. So, when you turn in your first big paper, he decides to take matters into his own hands.

“AI-generated,” he says, shaking his head like it pains him. “I’m sorry, but I can’t accept this.”

You’re a mess, practically in tears, insisting you worked so hard on it. You did. Hours, maybe days of effort, all for him to dismiss it in one breath. But he just sits there, palms pressed together like he’s some kind of saint, telling you his hands are tied. “It’s academic integrity,” he says, like he’s not already imagining you on your knees.

You’re begging him for another chance. And, well, he’s a reasonable guy. Of course, he’ll help. “Why don’t you assist me with my research?” he offers. “It’s a great experience. We’ll get that grade sorted out.”

So, there you are. Alone with him in his lab most days, where his hands are always just a little too familiar. Brushing your hip as you reach for a chemical or guiding your hand over the keyboard when you “mess up” the data entry. And when he loosens the cap on a reagent just enough for it to spill, you’re flustered, stripping out of your stained clothes while he promises he’s not looking.

Except, of course, he is. His phone is propped up on the desk, recording every second. For “security reasons,” he says, but the truth is obvious.

You just keep messing up, though. The numbers are wrong, the experiments fail, the code has errors. Every mistake adds up until he finally sighs, exasperated. “I really hate to do this,” he says, sitting you down like a child about to be scolded. “But I think we need to address this another way.”

Next thing you know, you’re over his lap, his rough hand spanking your ass while his fingers slide into your dripping cunt. “You don’t want an academic violation on your record, do you?” he murmurs, voice low, while you sob out apologies. “I’m so sorry! It won’t happen again!”

The slick sounds of your body betray you, loud and lewd as he works you to your first orgasm. His hand is soaked, his palm stinging from the impact of spanking you. And he can’t help but notice how tight you are, tighter than anything he’s felt since his wife’s virginity all those years ago.

By the time he lets you up, your legs are shaky, your thighs sticky with slick. He’s already thinking about what he’ll do next time—because there will be a next time. You’ll be in his office tomorrow, lips wrapped around his cock like he imagined on that very first day.

Maybe, if you’re good, he’ll bump your grade up to an A. Or maybe he’ll fail you, just to make sure you stick around next semester. After all, who are they going to believe? A beloved tenured professor—or a naive little college freshman who can’t stop crying?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Inspired by: Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Aizawa, Erwin

[sluttyten]

limited time only

Kinktober Day 2 | Jaemin Masterlist | Member Masterlist

tags: supernatural creature, semi-public sex, beach sex, nudist jaemin, wax play, grinding, riding, a little play on the myth of Eros and Psyche,

length: 4707

The first day you saw the man come from the sea, you thought your eyes were deceiving you. He came from the water, all golden skin and dripping with glistening saltwater, entirely nude save for the gray folded fabric he carried in one hand.

Typically, in your time living in this coastal town, seeing a naked man walking along the beach is cause for concern. However, when the naked man walking towards you has just emerged from the sea looking like a sea god, it’s a little more difficult to take issue with.

It’s difficult to look away from him — his windswept, damp hair is the color of midnight; his handsome face reminds you of Renaissance artwork; his broad shoulders are just a prelude to the rest of the masterful composition of his body; his waist tapers in, accentuating his toned abdomen, drawing your gaze downward along a fine dark trail of hair….

You tear your gaze away from him, looking back down at the fluttering pages of the book you had been reading up until his magnificent emergence.

God. He’s beautiful.

When you glance up again, he’s no longer in front of you, and you’re a little scared to look at the rest of the beach behind you. If you risk another look at him, you’re worried that you might not be able to tear your gaze away. So instead you do your damnedest to focus on the book you’d been thoroughly enjoying prior to his appearance.

But your mind keeps wandering back to the shape of the man, which stirs heat low in your belly. And then there’s just your simple curiosity — you’ve not seen that man before; is he just a tourist that’s mistaken this beach as a nude beach? Is he just an exhibitionist? What’s his story?

After a while, you give up on making any further progress in your book, and you begin to pack up your things to leave.

A shadow falls over your blanket, and you tilt your head, lifting your hand to shield your eyes from the bright sunlight. And you look up and up and up, until finally your eyes settle on the face of the sea man. He’s dressed now, regardless of the state that you’d previously seen him in, and he’s smiling now — a dazzling, charismatic grin that sets your heart racing.

“Hello,” he greets you. His voice is surprisingly deep, yet soft-toned. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just saw what book you were reading, and I’ve been meaning to pick it up, but I was just wondering if it’s any good? I’ve heard some controversial opinions about it.”

Oh. The ocean god reads and he looks like that? The news is devastating to your quickly developing crush on this man.

It turns out you have more in common with him than just that singular book. For the next few hours, you sit together on your little blanket on the beach and talk, laugh, and you pray that it’s not your imagination that he seems equally as interested in you as you are in him. You learn that he’s not from around here, he’s just visiting for the first time in seven years. He’s an only child. He likes to read, to people-watch, to sing and dance, to take photographs to truly capture the human experience. He laughs when you tell him that sounds like something a really passionate artist would say.

As the sun begins to lower towards the horizon, you realize just how late it’s become. You’ve actually got plans with your friends for dinner that you’ll be late to if you don’t hurry.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, “I didn’t mean to keep you.” He stands up, freeing up your blanket as you’re shoving your things into your bag.

“You’re alright! I just lost track of time. I’ve enjoyed talking with you. Um.” You pause, your blanket wadded up in your hands, and you look up at him. “Actually, I’m sorry. We’ve been talking for hours, and I just realized, I’ve not asked your name.”

He smiles, the warmth of it matching the setting sun behind you. “My name is Jaemin.”

Jaemin, the sea god.

And, because you really like him a lot, you put yourself forward, and you ask him for his number.

“If I had a phone, I definitely would give you my number.” Jaemin looks genuinely apologetic. “But, seeing as I don’t have a phone, we could meet back here tomorrow, same time?”

And that’s good enough for you.

You run off, have dinner with your friends during which you tell them about your mysterious beach man, giggle like you’re all young girls with a crush, and that night you dream of Jaemin.

You wake with his name on your lips, heat racing beneath your skin.

Hours later, you’re again sitting on the beach on your blanket. Again, you’re holding a book, though today you’re so utterly distracted by the prospect of seeing Jaemin again that you can’t focus on a single word on the page. And then you hear a gasp from a woman sitting a short distance away.

There he is.

Jaemin, rising again from the water, again nude.

Luckily, you’d brought a towel along today, and as Jaemin strides up the beach towards you, you toss the towel at him.

“Is this a common thing for you?” You ask as he wraps the towel around his waist. He drops something dark and damp down in the sand beside your blanket before he sinks down to sit with you. This close to him, you find it a little difficult to fully focus. “The… skinny-dipping at a public beach?”

Jaemin smiles, pushes his fingers through his damp hair. “Does it bother you?”

“Not really.” It gives you the opportunity to admire him.

“Alright, then.” Jaemin reaches over, his fingers brushing the backs of your hands. “What are we reading today?”

So again you sit there with Jaemin for hours and hours, talking and occasionally taking a brief trip down into the water to cool off.

Jaemin, despite his manner of arrival earlier, never goes into the water above mid-calf, just content to stand and watch as you wade out into the water. His gaze rushes hungrily over your skin when you walk out of the water towards him — seawater runs in sun-silvered rivulets down your chest and your stomach and your thighs. He never strays far from your beach blanket, keeping it always within sight, which you appreciate him keeping an eye on your things while you’re out in the water.

You stay on the beach all day and into the twilight hour before you make a brief excursion into town to pick up some dinner, some drinks, and then you return back to your blanket where Jaemin is still waiting. 

Some time later, in between the drinks, you grow bold enough to lean closer and kiss him. Jaemin, to your absolute delight, eagerly kisses you back. It doesn’t stop there of course. Once you’ve had one taste of kissing this godly man that washed up on your beach, you can’t wait to have more.

You don’t care that you’re in public, out in the open on the beach where anyone can walk by. You pull Jaemin over you – drinks, dinner, books forgotten – and you encourage his hands to wander under the edges of your bikini; your fingers push loose the towel he still wears bound around his hips. The town lies silent behind you while you moan into each other's mouths, touching each other, grinding on the blanket in the sand.

“Jaemin,” you gasp his name as he finally lets his body settle between your hips; his heavy cock rubs forward against your heat. “Jaemin, please, just put it inside me.”

He drops his mouth to your shoulder, teeth nipping lightly as he grinds forward once again, slow and teasing before he just – 

“Fuck, right there, Jaemin!” You twist one hand into his hair, the other drags your nails down his back. 

His cock is magnificent, feels so perfect inside you.

You hold him close, muffling your moans by biting his shoulder, and he buries his sounds in your hair or against your lips. 

You forget that you’re on the beach, fucking out in the open, but even when the crashing of the waves or the sound of a car passing by on the road reaches through your sex-fueled haze, you can’t bring yourself to care that someone might see, might hear.

Jaemin pulls out just before he cums with a low moan of your name. His forehead rests against your chest as he rapidly strokes his cock, striping the blanket between your thighs with his cum. And then he’s lowering himself down, burying his head between your thighs – two fingers pumping inside you, his tongue at your clit – and the vibration of his moans against your clit quickly has your thighs quaking around his ears, your orgasm cresting and crashing over you like the waves battering the shore behind him.

You collapse, a molten puddle of satisfaction in the sand. Your heart races, pulse thundering in your ears.

“I think you need to come home with me,” you pant, trying to recover your breath. You’re halfway joking, but at the same time, you dearly want Jaemin to come back to your place, to tumble you once more in your bed, to wake up beside you in the morning and do this again. “I make a great breakfast, if you’d like to come over, stay the night, and try it in the morning?”

Jaemin lifts himself up, sliding up alongside your body, and he drags one of your thighs up over his hip. “I’d like that,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. 

So, you pull your bikini back into place. You pack your things back into your bag. Jaemin wraps the towel around his waist again, and it’s only as you start to walk away from the beach into town – you live only a ten minute walk away – that you realize Jaemin is carrying with him that dark fabric that you’d noticed him carrying out of the water with him yesterday and earlier today. You wonder what it is, and if it’s clothing then why is he still wearing only your towel.

You let him rinse off in your shower while you tidy your room – putting away clean laundry you’d left piled on the foot of your bed, kicking dirty clothes out of sight, hiding the embarrassing seal plushie that you’ve slept with since you were seven. 

After Jaemin emerges, clean and smelling like your lavender body wash, you take a quick shower – washing sand out of places it certainly doesn’t belong. You can hear Jaemin walking around, the creaking of the floor in your house as he probably looks at your bookshelves, the photographs of your family and friends hung on the walls, your collection of knickknacks.

He’s occupied, so you linger in the bathroom a moment longer to text your friends from the evening before about the details of your day – meeting up again with him, spending all day with him, how he’s a tourist but he’s been here before seven years ago, how he weirdly carries like a wad of gray fabric with him, how you had sex on the beach, and he’s now waiting for you in your bedroom.

You expect them to be excited for you. A few of them respond just as enthusiastically as you’d hoped, but one friend is a spoilsport about the whole thing.

“That’s sorta weird right?” she sends in the groupchat. “Him coming out of the ocean like that, all mysterious and from out of town?”

Is she accusing you or lying, making up a handsome man that sounds like a fantasy?

“What is he a selkie lol” another friend says.

“My grammy used to scare my sisters and I with stories of selkies,” the first one says, “Warning us that selkie men would appear on the beach and steal us away into the sea to drown us and steal our souls.”

“Your grammy was a hippie, babe, I think she tripped a little too hard in the old days and never quite recovered,” one of your friends says in response to that.

You’re still stuck on what she’s talking about. A selkie. What’s a selkie?

You ignore the notifications from the group chat and instead search up ‘selkie,’ uncertain what you’re going to find. 

You certainly don’t expect to find your friend accusing Jaemin of being a shapeshifter, but it turns out that���s exactly what a selkie is – a supernatural being that resembles a seal in one form, and upon shedding its skin becomes human. She’s ridiculous for planting such a notion in your head, and when you check back into the groupchat, you find it’s grown even more ridiculous.

Some of them are joking that your sudden silence is because your new selkie boyfriend has taken you out to sea. One of them is jokingly asking if he’s got webbed fingers and toes. And the one who started all of this is actually sending messages like she genuinely believes Jaemin could be a part seal-part human creature.

“If he’s a selkie, he’s got to have his seal skin somewhere nearby. It’s how they transform back. My grammy used to say that they can only come to land every seven years, but if someone hides their seal skin they’ll be forced to stay on land. She said they’re really seductive creatures, which is how they lure poor innocents out into the sea, but it backfires on them because sometimes the one they seduce will be the one to hide their seal skin, and they’re stuck here. She once read a legend that selkies have a mark on their hip like this:” and then she sent a badly scribbled drawing that looks like spirals swirling together. 

“You’re so ridiculous. All of you,” you send, “Goodnight.”

You shut your phone off, leave the bathroom, and find Jaemin sitting on the edge of your bed, looking at the seal plushie that you clearly hadn’t hidden well enough.

“This is cute,” he says. “Friend of yours?”

You pluck it quickly from his grasp, tossing it over towards a reading chair you have shoved into the corner of your room by the window. You offer the excuse of, “A childhood memory, that’s all,” before you place yourself in Jaemin’s lap, curl your fingers against the back of his neck, and you press your mouth to his.

Jaemin welcomes the kiss, opening up to let you take control while he tips backwards until he’s lying with his head among your pillows. You make out with him, rolling around in your bed, touching each other again like you’d done on the beach until your sheets are rumpled and the hour is late.

Jaemin falls asleep before you do, his soft snores filling the quiet space between you. 

You want to fall asleep, to slip into dreams, but your mind won’t settle. Your thoughts keep turning back to your group chat, your silly friend with her even sillier accusations. And the more you think about it, the more things about Jaemin line up with the things she was saying about selkies.

But the main odd and unexplainable thing that sticks out to you is the thing she said about selkies and their seal skins. Jaemin has that dark gray fabric or whatever that he’s carried with him almost every time you’ve seen him. He had it when he rose out of the sea both times, carrying it with him all the way here.

What if you find it? It’s somewhere in your house. You could just go take a look, see what it is, put aside any silly thoughts you’re beginning to have.

Jaemin shifts a little when you roll away from him, but he doesn’t wake. His eyes are closed, snores still pouring from him. You tiptoe from your bedroom to the front door where he’d dropped the towel as soon as he stepped inside.

You can’t see anything in the dark, and you left your phone back on your bedside table. The next best thing is a candle sitting on your kitchen table. You light it, and by the warm glow, you search the floor. There’s the towel and your abandoned flipflops. It’s only now that you realize Jaemin didn’t even have shoes. He truly came out of the water with nothing but the mysterious dark gray thing. 

And you can’t find it. You climb the stairs back towards your bedroom quietly, scanning the shadows of each step to see if maybe it somehow got carried up here. You check the landing and the hall. Finally, you peek into your bathroom. 

The mirror above the sink magnifies the light of the flame, making it easier as you check the floor here. There’s your abandoned clothes from before your shower. There’s your towel from after your shower. In the corner behind the door, tucked almost completely out of sight, is the towel you’d handed Jaemin before his shower. It sits crumpled on the floor, covering most of something dark and gray. 

You crouch down, pulling the towel away, revealing Jaemin’s only possession.

You touch it.

Whatever it is, it feels like velvet. 

You lift it up into the light reflected by the mirror. It’s not any particular shape – not identifiable as a piece of clothing, nor as a blanket or towel. You don’t know what the shape is, and the velvety texture of it combined with the darkness seems to swallow the candlelight, making it even more difficult to make out anything identifiable about it.

Seeing this thing – the potential seal skin of a potential selkie currently sleeping in your bed – hasn’t cleared up anything at all. If anything, you’re even more confused and on-the-fence about your friend’s accusation. 

But there’d been that last thing she said.

The mark of a selkie, found on the hip. 

You’ve been too swept up in enjoying Jaemin to even notice any marking on his body, but according to your friend and her grammy, that mark would let you identify him.

So, fully aware of how ridiculous you’re being and of how awkward this will be to explain, you pick up the candle and head back to your bedroom.

Jaemin is still asleep on his back, one arm thrown above his head, the sheets pool around his abdomen. You hold your breath while you look at him.

He’s beautiful.

Just looking at him right now you want to jump his bones, pull away the sheet to touch him, get him hard, and ride him. 

You think again of what your friend sent in the groupchat earlier, how she said that selkies apparently have great powers of seduction. Is Jaemin exuding some supernatural selkie power of seduction, or are you just really horny for the hot naked guy in your bed?

You come to stand on his side of the bed, and you lean over him, reaching out to nudge away the sheet, searching his bare skin for any sign of any weird marks. All you can see as you slowly drag the sheet down are the marks you’ve unintentionally left on him – hickeys, marks from your fingernails – and more normal things like freckles, hairs, moles arranged like constellations.

Oh.

A spiral-shaped constellation of moles low on his pelvis.

You gasp, tilting the candle to get a better look.

Hot wax spills, pouring over the edge of the candle, landing on Jaemin’s stomach.

His eyes flash open, and in an instant he’s sitting upright. One of his hands has a vice grip on your wrist holding up the candle. His other hand has shot right to your throat, dragging you over him so you’re perched in his lap.

“Jaemin–”

“What are you doing?” He asks, his voice devoid of the sweet charisma. “What have you done?”

You can’t speak. All the signs are pointing to one truth: Jaemin is a selkie.

“Are you–” You squirm, struggling beneath his powerful hands. “Jaemin, this mark… Are you a….”

Jaemin’s hand loosens on your throat, but he keeps a tight grip on your wrist supporting the candle. “Am I what?”

How can you ask him this? If you’re wrong, he’s going to think you’re crazy. But what if you’re right? What then?

Sitting on his lap like this, you can feel his cock beneath you. A bit of candle wax dribbles over the lip of the candle again as your hand wobbles, and from the corner of your eye you watch it trickle down Jaemin’s knuckles. His eyes flare in the dark, his jaw tenses.

“You have to say it,” Jaemin challenges you, “Use your words.”

“Jaemin,” you pause, mustering up the courage or stupidity to speak the next words aloud: “Are you a selkie?”

The fact that you actually asked seems to catch him off-guard. Jaemin’s hold on you falters, just for a moment, but it’s enough to give you the freedom that you manage to break your wrist free, and with your other hand you shove his chest so he’s lying flat beneath you again. 

Again, the candle wobbles in your grip. 

Another couple drops splatter against Jaemin’s chest. He hisses, but the way his eyes flash and the way his cock twitches beneath you tells you that the sound doesn’t necessarily come from pain. 

Jaemin lies still, his eyes fixed on the dancing flame in your hand. 

“What are you going to do to me if I tell you that you’re right?” Jaemin asks. “Who are you going to tell?”

“Why would I tell anyone?” You reply. “And if I did, who would believe me?” 

You barely even understand what it means to be a selkie. You’re not likely to go blabbering about it to anyone. The only person who would possibly believe you or know what you’re really talking about would be your one friend. 

Again, a couple drops of wax escape the candle and meet Jaemin’s bare chest, dangerously close to a nipple.

This time his hips rock off the bed, bucking up between your legs. “Shit, are you going to keep doing that?”

“It depends, do you like it?” You sit down on him, rolling your hips slowly. “Because it seems to me like you do.”

“Can’t we focus on one thing at a time here?” Jaemin groans, his hands flying to your hips as you keep moving. “I thought you were trying to confront me about being a selkie? Or do you want to have sex again, incorporating a little wax play?”

Both? Maybe one should take priority over the other at the moment. 

Jaemin’s hips rock up again, and your mind is made up.

There’s only a thin sheet between your pussy and his cock, and it takes only a simple twitch of your hand to move it out of the way. As you move, shifting around to be in the proper position above him, you tilt the candle, watching as wax spills over and paints itself on Jaemin’s skin.

He moans. His nipples are hard, and he watches you with dark lust-filled eyes, full of want. “You’re going to play with me, tease me? After I treated you so well earlier?”

You lower your hips, dragging your pussy along his hard length as you pour a thin line of wax from his sternum down towards his belly button. “Relax, Jaemin. Just enjoy the pain a little.”

His eyelashes flutter, caught between the pleasure as you circle your clit against the head of his cock, and the pain as you dribble a little more wax on his skin. But he clearly loves it: cock twitching, bottom lip pinched between his teeth, his fingers curling against your hips without any urgency to the touch.

You could just keep teasing like this, grinding on him, pouring wax on his sensitive skin. But you don’t want to leave yourself hanging. You want some of the pleasure too.

Jaemin moans in tandem with you as you lean forward, roll your hips down against him, and then push back onto his hard length. As the warmth of your pussy envelops Jaemin’s cock, you brush away some of the dried candle wax on his chest and you lower your mouth to his nipple, flicking your tongue over the hard bud. 

Jaemin moves to seek his own pleasure, hips rocking off the bed to bury his cock inside of you while you mouth at his chest, while you let a few more drops of wax speckle his chest, drawing shapes now. He keeps forcing whines and moans, gasps of his name from your lips with each deep press of his cock inside you. And you’re drawing quite the sound collection from him as well, including one sound that you swear sounds like the grunt of a seal, reminding you startlingly in that moment of Jaemin’s identity.

You sit up on him, pressing your hand down against his abdomen, forcing Jaemin to still his movements. 

He looks up at you, burning with arousal. But he waits.

“About you being a selkie” you tell him, “I don’t care what you are as long as you’re mine.”

“I belong to the sea,” he tells you. “I can only come to land a few months every seven years. I don’t know that I can be yours, and I don’t think it would be fair to ask you to wait for me.”

You slide your hand up his chest, knocking aside chips of cooled wax. “For now, let’s just make the most of what time we’ve got.” You’ll figure the rest out later. 

The candle in your other hand is flickering, the flame going out. Jaemin watches as you lean over him, as you slide the candle onto the bedside table, and as you lean over his face, he lifts his head and captures one of your nipples with his lips. He licks, sucks, and nips at the sensitive peak until your pussy is throbbing with need and you can no longer just sit here on his cock. 

You push at his chest until Jaemin falls away, his head once more against your pillows, and he smiles up at you, dazzling and charming again while you sit above him.

You let go of everything, choosing in that moment to focus only on what feels good. 

You fuck yourself on Jaemin’s cock, leaning back with your hands braced on his thighs as you bounce. He snakes a hand up between your thighs, fingers on your clit. Your thighs twitch, moans spilling from your lips, and you feel powerful as you take what you want, as Jaemin gives it all to you. His hips rise from the bed, lifting to meet your thrusts, your bodies move in tandem, each of you seeking the height of pleasure.

You thrust down, and the angle of Jaemin’s cock inside you presses against your G-spot right as he pinches your clit between his fingers.

Your orgasm sets you adrift, untethered as your body moves on autopilot, chasing the high higher and higher. 

Jaemin sits up, sealing his mouth over yours, rolling your beneath him, and he fucks into you hard, fast, out of rhythm as his climax takes over too, and he cums buried inside you, passing his moans directly to your tongue.

You must pass out, slipping into unconsciousness just like that with Jaemin’s body covering yours inside and out, pressed together inseparably. 

When you wake what feels like hours later to the sunrise painting the sky a hundred different shades of pink, Jaemin still sleeps with his face tucked against your shoulder, his arms around you, cock soft but still pressed into the mess between your thighs. When you shift to rearrange a little, Jaemin’s arms hold you tighter still. He sighs, eyebrows furrowing a little. 

“Don’t move,” he mumbles sleepily. “I want to hold you for as long as I can.”

You settle in comfortably to the warm security of his arms, content to stay like this with Jaemin for however long you can have.

a/n: day 2 completed! when i started working with a few different prompts and they combined to spell out that I should write mermaid Jaemin with candle wax play I really wasn't sure where this was going to go, but then I started thinking about Eros and Psyche and her dripping hot oil/candle wax on him, and I thought about a book I read as a kid about selkies, and I decided yep that's it, that's the one

I hope you've enjoyed this one, and I look forward to all of you sticking around for the rest of this month's kinktober fics!

Reblogs are deserving of my eternal gratitude, likes are greatly appreciated, and your thoughts and comments are always welcome !

[captain-joongz]

Space for two

Pairing: demon!Kim Taehyung x f!reader

Genre: smut, both angsty and fluffy, dark themes, positive ending, historical au (maybe like 18/early 19th century Joseon)

Summary: Trapped in a marriage arranged by our families, married to a cold, uncaring man and taking care of a farm in the middle of nowhere, I had sunken to the lowest lows. Aware of my husband's gambling habits and love for brothels that often kept him from home, I'd gotten used to the feeling of falling asleep in a cold, empty bed. But that changed one day, when an uninvited guest made himself quite at home and brought with him warm touches and scorching dreams. Gentleness coming from the one least expected may just be the push into the right direction.

Word count: 25.4k

Warnings: some dark themes, demon Taetae (he's a sweetie though), he's messing with the reader a little tho, he does have some slight yandere vibes, themes of depression and loneliness, infidelity, a shitty husband, some themes and mentions of domestic violence and verbal abuse (at one point the husband grabs her by the hair, throws stuff around the house), mentions of death and murder

NSFW warnings: slightly dubcon-ish (at first he visits her dreams), reader is inexperienced and embarrassed, slight innocence/corruption kink if you squint really hard, wet dreams, fingering, dirty talk, praise kink, making out, handjob, unprotected sex (it's joseon :// you be careful out there), some slight breeding kink, half clothed sex

A/N: super late but finally here!! i'm sorry for all the delays, but this just kept getting longer and longer and i had to juggle it between schoolwork, but i hope it is worth the wait! this is actually based on a korean folklore story of prince cheoyong, which i explain in the end notes so i don't spoil anything hehe

I was preparing the food in silence, the only sounds in the room the clanking of my knife on the cutting board and slight bubbling in the pot over the fire. It was winter and so I kept the doors leading to the yard closed, but I still heard the thuds of my husband chopping firewood, the dull thumps of the wood hitting the ground, the swish of his axe in the air.

I was already well used to this, to the silence of this place.

It was a quiet that could only come from unhappiness and spite, the kind that made you feel lonely and desolate, knowing the only other person around rather chose to not speak than engage with you. It was what I had come to know very well in here.

I had found myself married quite abruptly. It was a little over a year ago, when a messenger from the Ryu family of the neighbouring village arrived at our door. My father accepted him, but didn’t speak of what the meeting was about, which raised some suspicions between the women of the family. I was the second child of the family and the eldest of the daughters, and way past the age when women of my standing usually married. It felt like we all knew what it would come to.

My unmarried status was a bit of a controversial story around these parts.

I wouldn’t call our family exactly disgraced, but we weren’t at the full glory the Kangs used to stand at, back in the days of my great great great great-grandfather, who built the family into a considerable fortune, but whose grandson to the family’s great embarrassment failed the gwageo examinations several times and couldn’t secure an official position. The family had tried to bribe their way into the office, but the local official came from a family that had been feuding with ours for a few generations, over something that was no doubt petty and no longer relevant. He basked in the desperation of our family and wished for nothing more than to see them crash and burn, thus if we couldn’t secure a position through the examinations, he wouldn’t allow any bribery in order to destroy our clan.

The embarrassment continued as neither his son, nor his grandson were able to pass the qwageo and our family was stripped of our title. We had been living on the rapidly thinning fortune, trying to keep some sort of decorum, but feeling the full force of shame the other inhabitants from our area showed towards us. To them, we were pathetic. Just some thirty years ago we were strolling through these streets as if we owned them and now, disgraced and quickly running out of options, here we were – on the same level as them.

My father was able to break the family curse by starting a successful shop with trinkets, toys and other useful little devices, which allowed us to stay afloat money-wise, but cast us further into shame, considering our family had once been part of the yangban class and thus weren’t supposed to work. Even if disgraced, rules applied to us, and we were a great embarrassment to those who we used to call friends and allies.

The curse was further broken when father in his quite advanced age managed to pass the gwageo and got a spot in local office. He pushed my younger brothers into studies, as his pride never took this situation lightly. He was brought up to be an aristocrat, but here he was, working his days away like a commoner. In the end, his obsession was fruitful when two of my three brothers also passed their examinations and entered into civil duty, one striving for the office and one for the military service. The middle son, who struggled with his studies, was put in charge of the shop where he excelled.

As such, we were suddenly catapulted back into our previous standing, after several generations of disgrace, after struggling financially and fighting for survival every month, we were back to walking the streets with our chins held high, wrapped from head to toe in silk.

And that’s where the controversy about my marriage started.

As most young people, I had been promised and engaged to a young boy from a different neighbouring village. Due to the fact that we lost our title, I couldn’t strive for marriage withing the yangban class – after all, social standing was inherited after the mother, so I couldn’t be more than a concubine since I would curse my child with low social status. But that would be a hit to my father’s pride. Therefore he rather engaged me to a son of a lower middle class trader. To them, I was someone of a better status as they had never received a title, and my family would expand their funds.

But then several things happened all almost at once.

We regained our status, thus our marriage in my father’s eyes was no longer appropriate, even though finding someone from the yangban who would want me to marry their son would be nigh impossible. He demanded the breaking of the engagement, which was something the society looked down upon, especially since he had sealed the deal years ago. The two families started feuding, the trader now even more eager to secure me for them, and my father with his regained confidence insisting upon marriage to someone “of our class”. And during this time, the boy fell ill and promptly died.

Since we were engaged, I now was to be considered his widow even though we hadn’t had our wedding, but my father insisted that the engagement was broken off and I had no such obligation. The trader of course claimed the complete opposite and demanded we go through with everything as was arranged. The people in the area, even if they followed the drama between the two families closely and listened to gossip religiously, they themselves couldn’t tell who was telling the truth. Our engagement had been in place for years, but it was also widely known that my father has changed his mind and demanded for the wedding to be off.

In the eyes of some I was free to marry, but some viewed me as a young widow, a ghost bride, and thus I couldn’t find another husband unless I wanted to bring huge shame on the family and reap cosmic consequences. But most simply disliked my father for his underhanded tactics and newfound arrogance.

But this situation had made the question of my marriage impossible to solve. It was already unlikely that a match of my father’s expectations would be willing to take me as a first wife and honour me as such, since the yangbans looked down on us heavily, and now I had become tarnished goods in the eyes of potential suitors. My family still tried desperately to pawn me off to someone, but we had turned into a huge joke between the families in the area and I was doomed. Some even started to view me as a cursed woman, touched by black magic, that would bring death to any man who would want to marry me, and that was a final nail in the coffin of my marriage.

But my father wouldn’t give up so easily. He still had something that many desired enough to risk a curse on their family – money and power.

Thus, when the messenger had come and father refused to divulge any information about the nature of the meeting, the wives and daughters that had amassed in our house over the years all whispered about a potential engagement. I thought it was possible, but it was probably for one of my younger sisters. I was wrong.

The Ryu family used to be a powerful local aristocracy, but over the last few generations they had fallen considerably. Their disgrace wasn’t as openly talked about as ours, even though they were the centre of some mean-spirited jokes, however they had one powerful advantage. They didn’t lose their title, just most of their money. While their children still could live their lives telling everyone they were yangbans, they didn’t have the money to uphold the lifestyle. Only one of their sons had an office and it wasn’t enough to keep the whole extended family afloat. There were rumours of gambling, addiction and unwise spending, which were the most probable factors in their fall.

They knew no one self-respecting would marry their children, who were all pushed into working for their livelihood, and they couldn’t marry under their standing lest the children lose their status. That’s when they came up with the bright idea to get into talks with our family.

My father didn’t waste any time. For him, this was perfect – the right class, family with still some respect left intact, he had enough money, so he didn’t mind striking a business deal with the mostly impoverished family and I was used to working, as I had also grown up before our rise. It was just the perfect deal.

From the moment I had first heard about it, it was barely two months before I found myself fully engaged and a week away from a wedding to a man I’d never met before. He was the second son; he had a house on the foot of the mountain a little further away from the town that was the heart of this area. It would take some travelling, but still remained close enough to keep close ties.

Our wedding ceremony was brief and awkward, a lot of stilted conversation and pretend joy, while my mother and sisters all gathered around me in silent support. I saw their sad and worried eyes, the graveness of their usually more cheerful voices, the barely masked sympathy they looked at me with when I interacted with my stone-faced husband. Marriage was something I had since long made peace with, after all it is what every woman has to face at some point in her life, so I had just squeezed their hands and smiled at them gently, whispered words of assurance and prepared myself for the long journey to my new home.

I had soon found out he was a cold quiet man, rough and unhappy. Most of the time he wouldn’t address me with much more than grumbling complaints, cross when I tried to speak to him, when I asked him questions or requested something to be bought, turning away from me and rather spending time tending to his house and to his animals.

I was suddenly confined to a few rooms within an unwelcoming dark house, knitting or sewing or cooking, trying to lose myself in the mindless tasks of caring for a man and a household instead of dwelling on the growing despair in the pit of my stomach. Since then the situation between us has considerably worsened, but I found that the angrier he grew with me, the less he wanted to see me and the more he avoided me, which had begun to bring me relief. I was lonely and I did feel abandoned, but it was better than surviving in the same room as him.

I had gotten used to the air of gloom hanging over this dwelling.

My hand reached over for another carrot and found none, and I startled myself out of reminiscing. The vegetables were cut and the stew was boiling vigorously, so I busied myself with finishing. The sounds of chopping wood have ceased and I could no longer hear any traces of my husband’s presence.

Curious, I opened the door and peeked outside. The bitter coldness of the air immediately bit into my face and I shuddered, my body shocked by the sudden freezing temperatures when it was so warm from the kitchen fire. Looking over the yard, I didn’t see the hulking form of the man I’d come to live with, but I did see his fresh footprints in the snow leading towards the pig sty. Satisfied I walked back in and closed the door again. Rubbing my hands on my arms and cheeks I hurried back to the pot to warm up.

Soon the sun would go down and night would fall, so he was tending to the pigs for the last time tonight, making sure they had everything, which gave me a little more time to finish up dinner.

Some maybe half hour later the door finally opened roughly and he made his way in wordlessly. There were wet footprints on the floor left behind and a puddle was slowly gathering as melted snow dripped from his coat. I bit my tongue and said nothing, just pulled out the table and started setting it for dinner.

No words were traded and yet the atmosphere chilled considerably, the mood dropping low along with the sun on the horizon. We sat down, we ate in silence. Once he was done, he again got up, put a fresh coat on and was out of the door before I could even wish him a good night.

I used to ask where he was going, but there was no longer any need for that. He spent his evenings and nights in the same place every day, it was a habit that must have started a little before our betrothal. He had found himself some new friends from the town, friends that very happily spent most of their time playing cards, smoking opium, drinking and crawling from brothel to brothel.

Around the time of our wedding, he only joined them a few nights of the week and usually came back in the middle of the night. Back then I saw it as a problem and oftentimes tried to dissuade him from throwing away money this way. His family lost all they had because their young lord lived this exact lifestyle, it was foolish for him to fall down the same trap, but it was a frequent cause of arguments between us and the more I pushed for him to not go out and spend so much money, the more he wanted to. Gradually he went more often, came back later, until I had started waking up to an untouched, unslept in bed.

But I do have to admit that nowadays I saw it more as a relief that he never spent his nights home, even if that meant our already hard-to-come-by money was being thrown out the window like it was nothing. I’d come to prefer spending time alone.

I cleaned up after dinner and started preparing myself for bed. The ritual of changing clothes, brushing out my hair and smoothing out the bedding on the mats was helping me calm down every evening, but tonight I couldn’t find rest for some reason. While I sat on the floor and carefully brushed my hair, the house felt chillier than usual and I kept hearing soft creaks from the outside as if someone was walking around on the porch. It’s just the wind and the frost, it must be.

Unsettled I lost the battle with myself and went to look out into the yard. The moment I got near the door, suddenly a gust of chilling wind bust the door open and I screamed with shock, covering my naked arms to shield them from the frost. Immediately I jumped towards the door to close it back up, not before looking out into the yard and the forest beyond the walls of our house. There was a full moon hanging over us in the night sky and its light allowed me to see everything with startling ease, casting an eerie silver glow over the murmuring trees. I quickly shut the door and sat back down to help my heart calm down, as it was beating so hard I feared it might tear right out of my ribcage.

After I laid down, it took me a long moment to settle down enough for sleep to start licking at my consciousness. I kept startling myself with every crack and every hum of the wind outside and the fright from before still coursed through my veins, making me shiver and trying to persuade me there was something wicked hiding behind the darkness, lurking in every corner and waiting for an unguarded moment.

But somewhere along the way I did nod off and when I woke up in the morning, I was certain the strong arms that at some point found their way around my waist and pulled me into a warm wide chest were nothing more than a dream. An embarrassing dream that just spoke of my sombre solitude.

In the first months of our marriage, much to my chagrin, Minhwan practiced his marital rights almost nightly. Some nights he would return late from his outings with friends and immediately roll over on me and demand I submit. I did of course, it was expected of me and I was well aware of that. I had been taught that.

But over the course of several months, the frequency of such encounters lessened as I wasn’t getting pregnant, until we no longer even spoke to each other and his side of the bed became permanently unoccupied.

Of course, there was a simple, and really the only, reason for my introduction into this family – a child. A son. That was the end-goal of this union and the purpose for my existence in their eyes. After I had failed to fall pregnant despite months of effort, the man I married who already wasn’t very kind to me slowly turned into someone crueller, angrier. I could see the frustration taking over him until he completely lost himself in the rage at my uselessness.

He couldn’t divorce me, even though my inability to bear him an heir would be a legitimate reason. His family was already teetering on the edge of respectability, and this would make them the laughing stock of the town, since they definitely wouldn’t be able to find him another bride. That was because of the other issue. Money. They bought me with what last they had left and if divorced they would not only lose my father’s protection and financial help, but also wouldn’t be able to scrounge up enough money to buy another woman, if they even found one that was willing.

Minhwan knew that, knew that he couldn’t get rid of me, and even though his status would allow him to take a second wife or even a concubine, he couldn’t afford them. What little he had he gambled away and spent on girls in the red district; and not much was left for actually running the household and keeping us alive. No self-respecting family would let their daughter enter a family like that and women who were after money and status wouldn’t find anything here. And if he had an illegitimate son from a kisaeng, he could hardly bring it here and claim him as an heir, his father would never let him disgrace the bloodline like that.

Thus in his eyes I was worse than useless. I was his doom, a wasted effort that only pushed him further down and he no doubt felt that the best thing I could do for him was to die, so he could remarry. That’s why I preferred when he didn’t return home for the nights. Living alongside such pure hatred was draining.

When I was sitting by the mirror in the morning, I had just heard him return home. I opened the door a crack and peeked outside, just catching his eye as he was changing into fresher clothes. He held the contact for a few beats of my wild heart and then looked away.

“Breakfast?” he asked gruffly, not even forming a full sentence, while still looking away from me. I followed his gaze and found it stuck to the door leading into kitchen. I sighed quietly, making sure he couldn’t hear me lest he gets angry with my insolence.

“I will prepare it in a second,” was my short answer. He wasn’t interested in hearing anything more, the less I said the better. Thus my morning routine had to be cut short. Walking past him, I was suddenly bombarded with the smell of smoke, stale alcohol and cheap perfume and powder. The stench was a bit too strong for my queasy morning stomach and I felt it roll a few times, threatening to spill even though it was empty. I subtly covered my nose and busied myself into the kitchen smelling pleasantly of food and spices. This room has become my refuge. I knew he wouldn’t overstep here, this was my domain and I felt at least a semblance of power in here.

As distracted as I was, I kept finding my tools in places where I didn’t leave them in. I would turn around and suddenly my spoon would be laying two paces further into the room then I remembered leaving it. I told myself I was just tired, I was feeling unnerved by my husband’s hulking presence on the doorstep of the room, watching me prepare porridge as if fearing I’d poison him if he’d look away for a moment, I was still flustered by my dreams and nervous from the scare the night before. Surely it was that.

That day I spent mostly inside, sitting by a dying fire trying to mend broken and torn clothes, worn thin by hard labour and years of wear, but I couldn’t shake off the feeling of unsettlement that has been plaguing me since yesterday’s evening.

By the time the night fell and Minhwan left again, I found myself quite anxious to be left alone in the cold house, still feeling like a presence was glued to my side, invisible and watching me, but every time I would look over my shoulder, I’d find an empty room. Before settling down to sleep, I walked out and checked the courtyard again, and just like the previous evening, it was illuminated by a silver light so brightly it was almost shocking.

I looked to the sky and was stunned by the giant full moon hanging over my head. The night was calm, much calmer then yesterday, no wind shaking the trees and the only sound was the distant cawing of a bird. The white snow reflected the night sky and blinded me, but not enough to not notice the stark contrast of pitch black footsteps disrupting the otherwise clean coat over the ground. I could see their path clearly, leaving the house and disappearing behind the gate, and they filled me with gentle sadness. With my mind off of the ghost of a feeling that’s been following me the whole day, I made my way back inside to sleep. But I wasn’t prepared for what the night had prepared for me.

As soon as I closed my eyes and started drifting off, I felt the mat and bedding shifting as another body laid down next to me. I had fully accepted it, not questioning the arms making their way around my waist and pulling me into a warm hug. It felt as a very clear dream, and I found myself fighting to open my eyes to see, but instead chose to sink into the comfortable atmosphere. There was a hum behind me, but the voice was so deep and pressed so close to me it almost felt like a purr. Non-consciously I answered with my own, drifting with the current. I fooled myself into this, so desperately needing to feel a nice touch that I didn’t even want to think about why somewhere deep down I felt alarmed and unsettled at the situation. I buried that away and let the hands run along my sides, basked in the quiet humming somewhere right behind my ear and the warmth it filled me with.

When I woke up in the morning, it was to the sound of a door slamming open and heavy steps and sighs. I was confused for a few moments, subconsciously searching for the comfort I had felt in my sleep, only to be hit with a wave of embarrassment and mortification. I had been dreaming again, imagining inappropriately a stranger’s presence in my bed, hoping for a touch and comfort of man’s hands.

I felt the blush spill over my face just as the door to the bedroom flew open and my husband found my gaze. I saw suspicion in his eyes, most probably not used to seeing me in such a flustered state and questioning what could stand behind it. His eyes shifted subtly over the room as if looking for a hidden lover and in my mind I chuckled. He dragged me away into the woods, and living in the middle of nowhere and not allowed to leave the house without him or an attendant I couldn’t afford, how could I have possibly found a lover? No one came here and I went nowhere, the only company I knew was the animals and a warm fire, a needle and a thread and worn books, I couldn’t take the same liberties he has been taking for a better part of our marriage.

When Minhwan made sure I was completely alone, just as he left me, he looked back to me and asked for breakfast. That broke the strange silence and I was thrown right back into the routine of my normal days.

Over the following few nights, the dream kept coming back to me, but every time the unknown man in my fantasy went a little further. More often than not I found myself waking up with a start, blushing red from head to toe at the daring hands that kept straying more and more south, embarrassed with myself but also not wanting them to stop before I had the chance to experience whatever my subconscious wanted to grant me.

At first, his hands would only lightly caress along my side, as if trying to console me and help me sleep peacefully, while he hummed along some kind of a lullaby behind me. Everything always felt pleasantly fuzzy and I’d come to think of him as my dream guardian. My days, in comparison, felt dull and sad, and I’d found some sort of peace in these dreams.

But soon, the direction started to change. The hands strayed lower onto my thighs, grabbing the flesh lightly and teasingly, or going over my stomach until they were right under where my breasts were. I could feel him pressed closer to me too, his front moulded around my back, shoulders caging me in, the sweet humming slowly turning into something more akin to satisfied purring, causing me to flush red and a rush of excitement to flow through my veins. He always laid behind me and his existence felt like half here half not, but the closer he pushed himself, the more solid his presence was, the warmer I felt in the embrace and the more flustered I woke up.

Clearly, I hadn’t been taking proper care of my body and it was screaming for some sort of attention, there was no other explanation for these embarrassing dreams. The shame I felt from such urges surfacing in this manner was overshadowed only by the pressing loneliness, and I kept telling myself that even if I am a married, proper woman, dreams are dreams, and indulging in them a little wouldn’t hurt anyone, right? So, I let myself slip into sweet sleep every night, anticipating where my mind would take me.

During the day the little slip ups would continue. I would misplace things, find them in completely different places then I’d left them before. Sometimes it felt as if I was losing my mind, that the combination of the strange dreams and my sudden scatteredness meant I was finally feeling the effects of the situation I’d find myself in. But I could swear sometimes I would catch a glimpse of shadow or hear a gust of wind that sounded suspiciously like a laugh when I couldn’t find something. It made me feel even more insane.

The moment I realised what was truly happening came a few days later. Even though I was a little unsettled, I’d grown accustomed to the dreams and I treated them as my little escape, no matter whether I should have been concerned or not. I felt comfort from them and they felt like a dirty secret of mine, something I shouldn’t have been doing but it felt so nice I couldn’t stop myself. My husband spent all his nights god knows where doing god knows what with god knows who, I could allow myself this little thing.

Usually, I would sleep through the night without a problem and in the morning I’d be woken up by Minhwan coming back home and barging into the bedroom to ask for a breakfast, but that night for some reason I was shaken out of my sleep somewhere in the dark hours of the early morning. There was some noise outside, something that sounded like a wolf howl, and it was so close I was almost afraid to check the yard in case there was a wild animal there, but I had to go see whether the rabbits and chickens we were keeping were peaceful, just to be sure.

I moved to get out of the bed, but found an arm around my waist pinning me to another body and keeping me in place. My first instinct was to panic, but quickly that was overridden by utter bottomless embarrassment. What if Minhwan has been returning home earlier than I thought and this whole time my mind only substituted some unknown man in the place of my husband as I was falling asleep? Had I been embarrassing myself in front of him the whole time, dreaming about such immoral things and imagining a stranger’s embrace? But he had never touched me like this, and even when we shared a bed at the beginning of our marriage, he never showed the habit of hugging something while sleeping. He always kept himself to his side and never touched me unless completely necessary, even during marital activities. I couldn’t imagine him slipping quietly into bed in the middle of the night and embracing me so tenderly.

Complicated emotions flooded me, not knowing what to make of this, but in a moment of weakness I fooled myself into thinking this could maybe be a beginning of a better marriage. That was shattered the moment I reached back to gently pat at his thigh to wake him up to go check on the animals. There was some shuffling, the arm tightened around my mid and suddenly I could feel him nosing at the crook of my neck, laying a single long wet kiss there. I froze and flushed, completely flustered and even more confused by the situation. Then he chuckled and ice cold flooded my veins. I felt myself freeze in place, terror keeping me so still I barely even breathed. That wasn’t my husband’s voice. It was deep and velvety, rich like the dark chocolate I’d once gotten the chance to try in the city, completely different from Minhwan’s quiet rough commands.

Fear was making it hard to think, but I knew he realised I was awake based on how stiff I’d gotten, I could hear him quietly breathing and waiting for my reaction. There was certain amusement to him, I didn’t know how I felt it, but somehow I just did, something about him gave off excited anticipation and I imagined a sly smirk stretching his lips as he laid there. Then suddenly as if everything caught up to me, I felt my body jumping into motion, tearing his arm away and flying out of the bed. I grabbed the first thing I could see, which were my shoes, and turned around to try my best in defending myself against this stranger that’s apparently been sneaking into my bed deep into the night.

But the moment my eyes fell on the bed, it was empty. No sign of anyone being there. Frightened out of my mind, I searched the room with my eyes, but it was mostly bare and there wasn’t a place that could hide a man. I knew he was bigger than me, I’d felt him behind me and I was sure he couldn’t have been hiding in the sorry state my bedroom was.

For a moment I just stood there and processed before my knees gave up on me and I slid down to the floor, shoes still tightly clutched in my hands, heart beating out of my chest. I wasn’t going insane. My mind wasn’t playing tricks on me. There was something not human in my bed.

Needless to say, I spent the rest of the night sitting on the bed leaning on the wall and watching the room. My eyes frantically jumped to any movement, even the tiniest flickers of shadows would make my hands twitch, fingers tightening around my slippers, ready to jump out and fight for my life. But nothing happened. The only sounds I could hear were coming from the wind tearing into the walls of the house and messing with the trees and branches outside, and at some point the room was so still I almost felt as if I fell through the cracks into a painting and was now stuck inside.

Thus I had hours to sit there and stew in my fear and humiliation. Whatever the being was, it must have had nefarious intentions, why else would he sneak in like that and make my dreams turn to such depravity? And here I was, fooling myself into thinking it was okay to feel such cravings and giving into them, anticipating them and with bated breath hoping maybe the next night the dream lover will finally cave and touch me in a way I’d barely ever felt in my life. Instead I almost gave myself over to a demon, let him have my body and feed off of my energy, damn my soul and prove that I truly was cursed.

I also had a lot of time to think of my next steps. But what could I really do? I could never tell Minhwan and ask for his help, he’d chase me out as an impure woman. Once I’d tell him the nature of the encounters,  he’d accuse me of adultery and use it as an opportunity to get rid of me. If I was returned to my father in such a manner, death would be more welcoming than facing his rage and humiliating the family. Telling him would do more harm than good.

I could buy myself talismans and hide them around the house, but there were many, each of them used for a different ailment. I’d have to visit the village shaman and pay her to exorcise me and our home. I’d have to explain to her the troubles I’ve been having so she could paint me appropriate protective talismans. It was obvious that the being must have been a demon of lust and once I admitted that, the delicious  gossip would no doubt spread and I would be as good as dead.

No, I couldn’t tell anyone what was happening. I had to chase him out myself, no matter what it took. Come morning, I was completely exhausted but determined to deal with the situation myself.

When Minhwan barged into the house, pale in complexion and with dark bags under his eyes, I was already preparing the breakfast on the small table, looking similarly dead on my feet. The man’s eyes flitted over me, but he didn’t seem to take notice od my state and only grunted, pleased at not having to wait for food or scream for me to leave the bed.

I was so lost in my thoughts I didn’t even notice when he left for the yard, didn’t even have time to process the usual air of coldness and disinterest he brought with him, as I was too preoccupied thinking of the unwelcome guest. The little tricks with misplacing things must have also been him. I felt rage lick at the edge of my mind, suddenly making itself known in such an intensity I surprised myself. I’d fully start to believe I was no longer capable of feeling such strong emotions, but here I was. Thinking of million ways to get back at someone who’s been making a fool of me for his own entertainment for the past weeks.

The next few days were suspiciously uneventful. No more visits, no more “dreams”, even all my tools stayed suspiciously still and didn’t suddenly appear at places they weren’t supposed to be, but I wasn’t a fool. I knew he wouldn’t give up so easily, not to mention I still couldn’t get rid of the feeling of being watched or messed with.

And slowly he had begun giving me subtle hints he was still as present as ever. The books that were put in order, the robe that was waiting for me on by the partition one evening, water refilled in a cup I knew I’d finished. He suddenly switched to being helpful instead of messing with me, but I knew it was all just entertainment to him.

One of the bigger ones was some days later in the evening. I’d taken to walking around the veranda checking on the yard and the forest outside of the yard walls. As usual, there were footsteps in the snow, my husband left them there every night when he left, but that evening there was something different about them. I frowned, trying to discern what about them caught my attention. I leaned over the railing to inspect them closer with a sense of foreboding looming over my head like a silent monument. The moment I realised what it was I gasped and dread and anticipation filled me. The footsteps, they didn’t lead from the house. They led towards the main entrance.

This must be it, I thought to myself. This must be the night.

When I walked back inside, I lingered around each room a little, watching the surroundings like a hawk and expecting him to jump out at me from every corner and every shadow. But the house was still and silent, not even any sounds from outside creeping in. I slowly walked towards the bedroom and found it empty and in the same state as I’d left it. I made it through my little nightly ritual without a hitch, but anxious and expecting something to happen any moment. It didn’t. Lying down in bed, I continued sharply watching the room, but to no avail. Even though I could basically taste the anticipation in the still air of the room, and knew the demon was most definitely watching me back, he didn’t make any move. I fell asleep suddenly, without realising I was even teetering on the edge and when I woke up, I wasn’t sure whether the fingers I felt gently carding through my hair just as I succumbed to sleep were my imagination or not.

He didn’t return abruptly, instead he slowly built it up, as if testing how far I’d let this go. Sometimes he would hand me things when cooking or I would be looking for something only to find it gingerly sitting on the table a few hours later, as if suddenly becoming helpful would make me more accepting of whatever his end goal was and I would let him return like nothing happened.

The problem began when he started leaving flowers for me. The gentle quivering of my heart when I saw a beautiful little flower in bloom laying by my bedside was alarming to me, and I didn’t want such a confusing feeling to enter my life. But I couldn’t help myself.

Without thinking I picked it up and brought it to my nose. It smelled sweetly, almost too ripe, the scent permeating the air and everything around it, making me slightly dizzy. I couldn’t remember when was the last time I received a flower like this, maybe when my little brother was still a child and brought it for me from playing in the fields. Our father scolded him then, for running around with other boys instead of studying, but after that whenever either of us saw the little white blossom, we would giggle at each other, sharing smiles like tiny secrets.

I was startled by a tear sliding down my cheek at the memory, the sudden reminiscing of my family, of the one person I was truly close to before he joined the military and went to Hanyang. He was to be married soon too, already at that age when the promises turn to actions and I couldn’t wait for the spring to come so I could travel for his wedding. I’d met the girl before, she was a shy quiet daughter of a smaller aristocratic family who just recently got their title for their merits. I quite liked her, even if I didn’t get much time with her before leaving.

He was the one person in our family who had a chance of a happy marriage, I hoped he would. No matter what our father tried to create out of him, he was a sensitive boy, full of mischief and laughs. I so desperately wanted his life to turn out better than mine did. Or that his marriage wouldn’t end up like our eldest brother’s did. He had married first, when we still scrounged for money, I remembered going to his wedding as a young maiden and being swept away in the celebrations, wishing for my own wedding with red blushing cheeks as young girls did. His wife was a practical woman, strong and resolute, but kind. They never had much affections between them, but they had an understanding and their marriage functioned well. I believed my brother respected her as a husband should his wife, but I was wrong.

After our title was restored, our father started pushing my brother to divorce her so he could marry a lady from an aristocratic family, but he couldn’t do that. She had given him children and wasn’t causing him any troubles, so a divorce wouldn’t be allowed. So my brother did the next best thing. He married a woman of a high standing and made her his main wife, pushing the first wife into a secondary position in the family and robbing her children of their inheritance of the title. Since then she became quiet and withdrawn, no longer she was allowed to make any decisions and lived only to serve a man that didn’t even look her way anymore, couldn’t even explain to his firstborn son that he no longer would inherit his estate and left her to pick up the ashes and survive such disgrace.

It was terrifying when it happened. While she never showed much gentleness, she always smiled at the children and sometimes would sneak me sweets like I was one of her own, even when I was the second oldest child of the family. My heart bled for her, and I started to fear my own marriage, knowing I would never get any aristocrat’s respect due to our family history. At that time, I had no idea that what would happen to me would be even worse.

I was startled by a sudden touch on my cheek, a finger wiping away the few stray tears falling down while I sat on the ground and stared at the pretty flower. I gasped and tried to flinch away, but another arm snaked around my waist and I could feel his head leaning on my shoulder. He sat behind me once again, like always, holding me as if he didn’t want me to see him.

“Shhhhhh…,” came his deep honeyed voice, whispering in such a gentle way that I could feel a wave of goosebumps hitting me, “I didn’t know it would make you cry.” Against my better judgment, I could feel my body relaxing into his embrace and a few more tears slipping out. He rocked us from side to side, trying to console me, but it was like my dams broke and soon I was sobbing in his arms, pushing my face into his shoulder and clutching the single blossom in my shaky hands.

I couldn’t say when the last time I was held so tenderly by someone was, but it must have been when I was a child still, begging for my mother’s touch any time something happened. I was warm, wrapped into him, and soft. There was a hand in my hair, carding through the locks and caressing me like a lover would. I couldn’t stop the stream of tears and emotions and I felt ashamed and scared. I couldn’t trust him, and it hurt because no one’s ever treated me so softly, but I knew. Knew it might be just a way to get closer to me. So I decided to allow myself this just for a moment.

I let him hold me, listened to him hum some kind of a song I didn’t recognise, let him lull me into a half-asleep state until I was draped over him, boneless and numb. His hands never strayed like before and he seemed to be genuinely trying to console me. In my mind I scolded myself, believed myself pathetic for falling for such tricks and for being so desperate I would let a demon embrace me just to feel some warmth, but outwardly I didn’t let anything show. I was too drained for that.

When I quieted down and just limply hung off of his frame, he must have decided it was time to sleep. He grabbed me and carried me onto the bedding, making sure my head was pushed into his shoulder so I couldn’t look at his face. I found it strange, but had no energy to ask him anything, just letting him manoeuvre us around until we were lying just like we used to before I caught him, on our side with him behind me. Sleep came and claimed me suddenly and out of nowhere, but I found myself strangely comfortable.

When I awoke in the morning, the house was silent and the bed was empty, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Would I have confronted him and demanded answers? Or did I allow myself to be vulnerable around someone that wished for my downfall and now I found myself inappropriately attached? One thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t like thinking about it, and so I got up and went about my day as if nothing had happened. I did find myself wondering what happened to the flower, as it was nowhere to be found, wondering whether it even was real or if I hallucinated it. But after that night, a fresh blossom was waiting by my bedside every evening, leaving me full of complicated confusing emotions. No sight of my demon, though.

“Do you want that?” a gruff voice by my shoulder growled and I barely stopped myself from scowling. The hairpin I had been staring at was suddenly plucked from the table by the eager merchant who understood that question as my husband’s intention to buy it for me. The older man pushed it towards me and started reciting all the reasons why such a lady like me absolutely had to have such a decoration, hoping to pitch it to a loving husband doting on his wife. Unfortunately, his guess was completely wrong.

“How much is it?” I asked towards the merchant, who seemed confused by me talking to him while Minhwan stared daggers into my back. His eyes flitted between us, awkward silence taking over for a few seconds before he stuttered out the price, looking at no one in particular. I went to fish out the amount from my purse, but my hand was stopped by another much bigger and rougher one.

“You don’t need it,” Minhwan said resolutely, voice leaving no space for discussion, “Don’t waste money on useless things.” I gritted my teeth, minutely losing control of my expression as rage swept through me at his statement, but as soon as I saw my husband’s eyes narrow in warning, I schooled myself and pulled from the stall.

“Of course,” I answered with false demureness, shooting the merchant an apologetic smile before ducking my head down and following after Minhwan through the market like the picture of the perfect wife. We walked around for some time, from stall to stall, haggling for vegetables and tools, whatever was needed around the house. Minhwan didn’t like it when I spoke to the vendors, he had me trailing behind him with a veil on or my head demurely ducked down like an obedient wife, and I was to speak only when he asked me something. Thus I spent most of the time in the market saying only “yes, we need it” or “no, I think we still have enough”. I hated it, but there was nothing that could be done.

The ride back to the house was also incredibly tense. I could still feel my husband’s rage at my earlier behaviour and knew that the moment we walk back through the gates of our farm, he’ll have some things to say. So I sighed and waited for the endless journey to finally reach its final destination.

To my shock and unease, nothing came when we walked back into the house, supplies in hands and struggling to pull the baskets through the door. Silence was all that greeted me. Minhwan helped me pull things into the kitchen and then with one last burning hateful stare he walked across the house. I watched him rummage through a chest, pulling out his only other jungchimak he usually wore when outing with his friends. It was the better one, in deep indigo colour, that made him look like a young affluent yangban. I snickered behind my hand and pretended to sort through the different bags and baskets we brought back.

When Minhwan was done changing, he charged out of the door without even a second glance. I looked out of the kitchen door facing into the yard and watched him until the gate slammed shut behind him, then I returned to the task at hand with a sigh. He didn’t do this often, but sometimes when I would make him angry, he just left. Without a word. He likely wouldn’t return until late noon tomorrow morning.

I’d long since given up on trying to stop him when the sun was still high up in the sky, he would still leave, just significantly angrier, which would result in him throwing out more money, so it was better to not get in his way when he wanted to drink, smoke and fuck his frustration away god knows where with the other young men.

I busied myself cleaning around the house and caring for the animals, finishing the work he had left. I found myself gritting my teeth in anger and annoyance as I chopped the firewood, wildly swinging the axe around and taking it out on the logs. When the time to go to sleep came, I was drained, both emotionally and physically, too strung out and tensed to even enjoy my nighttime routine like I usually did.

When I turned to the bed, a single hairpin was lying on the bedding. A beautiful, red, lacquered hairpin with a carving of a flower and a single red gem in the centre. The one I’d been looking at while we were in the town and almost bought to spite Minhwan. A mix of emotions overtook me, the most prominent one being sudden anger. My heart stuttered under the weight of it, the frustration of the day and the past weeks bursting through me in one big eruption.

Our uninvited guest was keeping himself surprisingly scarce after that night I had cried, but kept bringing me flowers. I accepted them with complicated feelings, but I had convinced myself into believing that since they’re already here, since they already have been plucked, it would be cruel of me to not accept them. So, night after night I tucked them away so Minhwan could never find them. I didn’t even know where the demon was getting them, since we were in the middle of a tough winter, but after all, I should care for them all the more, right?

But the hairpin was a step too far. I did not need to be reminded of my shameful behaviour and of the fact that my husband felt it appropriate to blow all his money away but couldn’t spare a single silver to let me buy a hairpin, and definitely not in such a way.

“Okay, come out,” I spoke loudly into the empty room, “We need to talk. This can’t keep happening.” I looked around, but everything stayed silent and still. Then, a soft voice rang out.

“Close your eyes.”

I stood up and crossed my arms defensively, spinning around to try and catch a glimpse of the being.

“Why?” I asked gruffly, speaking to an empty bedroom like a lunatic, “Why do you not want me to see you?”

“I can’t let you see me until you truly want to,” the answer came, the voice just as melodic and soft as it was before, as it was always, and I involuntarily shuddered.

“I do want to see you, right now,” I replied, ticked off. He just wanted to have the upper hand and not face me head on, I was sure of that. There was silence again, seemingly even the wind outside the door quieting down to listen to us, the room unnaturally still.

“You want to scold me,” he answered petulantly after a moment, sounding more like a child. I could hear the pout on his lips, the childlike upset of doing something wrong and not understanding why. My resolve softened a little, but I pulled myself together, determined not to let the demon play me like that. I couldn’t keep letting him get away with everything.

“So you know,” I stated, the anger seeping back into my voice, “You cannot keep doing this.”

“Doing what?” I could hear genuine curiosity in his question, one that filled me with exasperation.

I gestured to the hairpin wildly. “This!” I exclaimed loudly, “The leaving of gifts, the creeping around, nothing of it. Leave while I’m still asking nicely.” Even as the words left my mouth, they felt like an empty threat. What could I possibly do against him? I’d let him go this far, what could I do to stop him now? But he completely ignored the second part and focused solely on the gifts.

“Do you not like them?” there was slight dejection present in his voice, like he didn’t understand why it was such a problem, “I thought you did. You never threw them out.” I cursed my soft heart. I should have never let him get away with bringing me flowers, I shouldn’t have let him get to me like that. I should have been resolute and told him to leave right then, not let him coddle me and embrace me when I felt sad.

I hesitated for a moment, not knowing how to answer. I found myself not wanting to upset him by saying no, falling victim to his sweet demeanour. Again. I groaned with frustration and hit my forehead with my palm.

“It’s not that I don’t like them,” I started a little softer than before, “It’s just embarrassing.”

“Why?” I groaned again. Good lord, this was going to take a while.

“Because…” I stuttered for a moment, the vulnerability of words on my tongue shocking me, “It feels humiliating. My own husband wouldn’t buy it for me and it feels like an insult for a demon to do that.” There was a beat of silence, in which I almost managed to persuade myself that there was never anyone there and I had been talking to myself the whole time, but then he spoke again.

“I didn’t mean to humiliate you,” his voice was quiet, contemplative, “I wanted to make you happy.” That shocked me enough to have me stutter over a few breaths, wildly looking around the room with wide eyes. “W-why?” I managed to squeak out, flabbergasted at such admission.

“It felt like you needed it,” came his simple reply, as if talking about the weather. That statement drained the whole fight out of me, leaving me standing there unsure and confused, filled with shame and wonder at the simplicity of it all.

“What?” I whispered, not really looking for an answer, just voicing out my inner turmoil.

“It felt like you needed it,” he replied a little louder, “You were always so sad. I didn’t like it. You shouldn’t be so sad.” It was such a simple statement and yet it pulled down the walls of my heart and made it flutter. I chided myself for being so easy to fool with a few sweet words, but I couldn’t stop the lightness taking over my heart, the relief bleeding into my every pore.

Someone saw my suffering, I thought to myself. Someone noticed my pain.

“What are you?” I whispered the question into the empty house, but no man stepped out into the light, no shadow moved. He was silent for a moment and then said: “Close your eyes.” And this time I did.

The moment my lids fluttered closed, I could hear slight shuffling of clothing behind me and light footsteps. On instinct I went to turn around, but a hand suddenly tightly covered my eyes, startling me slightly. I jumped a little, pushing myself back straight into his chest, which embarrassingly enough was a position I’d gotten used to over the past weeks. Then a silken ribbon touched my cheek and the hand moved quickly to tie it over my eyes.

“So you don’t try to cut this meeting short,” he explained lightly, voice full of amusement.

“But I do want to see you, is it not enough that I no longer wish to scold you?” I asked, confused by the strange rules.

“You need to desire to see me, truly, with your soul,” he said lowly, voice deepening into the honeyed register I was used to hearing from him and I shuddered lightly, feeling the words trickle down my skin and bite into my very being.

“S-so I can only see you when I want t-to-“ I couldn’t bring myself to finish that thought, the sinful image burning into my brain making me stutter and blush so fiercely I felt as if I burst into flames. I ducked my head, but his chuckle followed me, melting over me. There was no longer any amusement in his voice, now there was something darker and heavier, threatening to consume me from the inside out.

“Smart girl,” he whispered and I couldn’t help the wave of goosebumps that hit my skin when I felt his breath on my ear and neck. The sudden turn from his earlier more innocent voice and words left me confused and flabbergasted, blushing at his newfound confidence. I felt him lean closer into me, nose almost touching the crook of my neck, only to whisper: “Time to sleep.”

Before I could react, he swooped me into his arms and I yelped in surprise, before hiding my face in my hands in embarrassment. He carried me to the bed and very gently laid me there, his hands smoothing down my nightgown and pulling the blanket over us. My face burned, but I stayed silent and let him happily chirp behind me as he pulled me closer to his chest and made himself comfortable.

It felt like years before I fell asleep. I just laid there, feeling his chest move and his breathing deepen until I was sure he was sleeping, but even then I didn’t reach back to untie the ribbon. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to trust his words. That’s how I finally got pulled under, with my heart trembling with careful hope.

Come morning, something new happened. When I woke up, his strong arms were still wrapped around me and as soon as I started wiggling in his grip, he woke up with a content groan and a big stretch, like a cat. I blushed again, which seemed to become more of a permanent thing in his presence. I went to call out to him to scold him, when I realised something. I didn’t know his name. I haven’t asked him for his name all this time.

“Good morning,” came his morning raspy voice, then he burrowed his face somewhere deeper into the bedding and my hair. The ribbon slipped during the night and with my movement it unravelled onto the pillow, making me freeze slightly. I reached for it, playing with it between my fingers a little, before I spoke to him too.

Good morning...” I trailed off uncertainly, not sure how to ask him his name, “d-demon?” I flushed in embarrassment. Truly perfect, why not just call him a pervert if I was going to be like that? Behind me, the man chuckled and wriggled a little, presumably to make himself more comfortable. I couldn’t believe I let myself lie with a man like that, but it was better to just not think about it.

“Taehyung would be a bit better, but I’ll take it,” he replied nonchalantly, but then suddenly stiffened. Before I could truly register his alarm, the entrance door slammed open and heavy footsteps made their way into the house. I panicked and flew out of the bed, but when I turned to warn Taehyung, I was met with an empty bed. The other half was even made as if nobody slept there.

Seconds later, the doors to the bedroom slid open and my disgruntled husband peeked in. His hair was a mess, his face taunt and white, bloodshot eyes adorned with dark circles underneath. He looked like death itself, the exhaustion seeping out of him in waves, but he still managed to scowl when he laid eyes on me still in my nightgown. I wondered what time it was, but concentrated on schooling my expression and not showing my flustered state, my heart still beating wildly in my chest. He regarded me with slight suspicion in his eyes, but ultimately decided not to comment on it.

“Make me a breakfast,” was all he said and then he disappeared into the house. I glanced at my little vanity sitting in a corner of the room and noticed the hairpin sitting gingerly right in the middle of it. I swiped it away quickly putting it with the flowers, and started getting ready for the day. But the thoughts of Taehyung and his words and behaviour wouldn’t leave me for the rest of the day, plaguing me when I was making breakfast, when I was cleaning up the melted snow Minhwan carried into the house on his shoes and clothes, and embarrassingly enough even when I went to wash up that evening, wondering whether he could see me now too.

The peak of the winter came and went, but the layer of snow stayed thick, blanketed over the world and painting it pure white. I had found myself much fonder of the quietness it brought, how it swallowed all sounds and created a bubble of calm over everything, especially when my husband was gone from the house, which has become more and more frequent. Lately he left earlier and came back later, turning more and more pale with every morning. He didn’t speak to me about what he did, he barely ever spoke at all, but the tension in his shoulders and the troubled angry expression that has made itself home on his face told me that he must have gotten himself into some big trouble. I found myself just as anxious, waiting for him to tell me we would be losing it all because he made a bet or let himself be swindled.

Taehyung, during that time, worked hard on trying to distract me, bringing me little gifts and messing about the house trying to help me. Anytime I would come across clothes that have been rearranged or things that have been cleaned up, but put into the wrong places, I would sigh and jokingly glare around the room, but I couldn’t stop the fluttering of my heart and the fondness that spread through me at hearing his disembodied giggles.

During these evenings he took to covering my mirror, sitting behind me and brushing my hair for me. We would spend this time in comfortable silence, resting against each other and enjoying the simple companionship. It was such an intimate act, like we were lovers taking care of each other, like husband and wife who love each other, I would find myself flustered and blushing, feeling like it was my wedding night all over again. It was such a strong contrast to how tensed and hostile the silence was when my husband was around, that I often shamefully dreamed and pretended that Taehyung was my spouse, that this was a part of our life and our routine. He would caress my hair, my sides, press soft kisses to my shoulders, play with my hands and my fingers, and when we retired for the night, he hugged me tightly, pressing himself into me and making me feel safe and secure.

The longer this went on, the more torn with fervent longing I was, wishing this was my life and not just pity that a passing demon took on me. I was choked up with emotions, the words “stay”, “show yourself to me”, “love me” always on the tip of my tongue, fighting to spill, chest heavy and full like I was about to burst. It hurt. I hurt. I wanted a life I couldn’t have; I wanted a man that would take my soul and leave once he’d gotten what he came for, and I hated myself for it and I hated my life.

Taehyung felt this in me, felt this shift from happiness back into tortured silence, I could feel it in his touch, in how gently his hands and fingers regarded me, how reverent his lips were on the skin of my shoulders and neck, I felt it in his voice whispering praise to me. The desperation to make it all better, the frantic beating of his heart against my back because he feared he did something to upset me. No matter how much I wanted to ease him, the words would just not leave my mouth.

And my body, it betrayed me. It lit up with every touch, heat pumping through my veins with every brush of his lips, I could feel it swirling in my lower belly and oftentimes found myself hoping for his daring hands to explore as they had been doing back then before I caught him. But Taehyung stubbornly never strayed from the safe spots, never returned to his previous antics.

One night when he didn’t show up, I had a lot of time to think about where this was going and how I was dangerously teetering on the edge of improperness. When I sat alone by the bed and worried for him, called out to him and then promptly spiralled into believing he had grown tired of me, the feelings of pain and despair it filled me with shocked me. I missed him. I missed his touch, his presence, his voice. I didn’t want him to leave me. I’d grown attached to him, to a shadow that spoke to me and treated me with gentleness and kindness.

I wanted to see him. I looked at the ribbon lying on my vanity, the one he used every night to cover my eyes so I couldn’t swindle him and peek when he wasn’t paying attention. I wanted it gone.

I wanted. I longed. I needed.

Falling asleep that night was a challenge, I couldn’t find a comfortable position when I suddenly laid alone once again, too used to a warm comforting body behind me. And when tiredness finally overcame me, he visited me in my dreams, his bold hands exploring places that haven’t been tenderly touched before; drawing out sighs out of me, body trembling with unknown pleasure as his fingers dipped between my legs and leisurely moved in little circles over the bundle of nerves. My dream self was moaning and writhing in his arms, begging for him to never stop as the pleasure mounted until it burst out in a bolt of pure ecstasy. I jolted awake, breathing heavily and still shaking from the intense sensations. Startled I realised there was wetness coating my intimate parts and the top of my thighs, the sticky feeling making me blush in embarrassment. My whole body seemed to be tingling from this experience and I couldn’t calm myself down.

“Taehyung?” I called out carefully, checking that he wasn’t around to witness this. When no answer came and the man himself didn’t come out and shown himself, I quickly ran to the vanity to grab the first cloth I found and cleaned myself. My shaky hands couldn’t hold onto anything properly and I couldn’t get my breathing back under control, the experience leaving me full of confusing feelings, longing filled with arousal mixing with shame until I my head was spinning and my chest hurt. After that, I didn’t fall asleep again, instead I sat on the bed and tried to make sense of my own heart.

The only thing that saved me from getting suspicious stares from my husband was that he himself barely looked at me. But it felt different from his usual coldness, he looked haunted and worried, too preoccupied with his own thoughts to even realise anyone else was present. It made me anxious. Whatever he’d gotten himself into, it seemed bad and if it came to it, he’d drag me down with him. For the first time in so long I found myself wishing he’d just talk to me, tell me what was happening so I could stop drowning myself in worry. But I knew that if I had come to him and asked him, he would get angry. So I waited for my life to end with bated breath.

Taehyung returned after two days and acted as if he was never gone, as if he didn’t suddenly disappear without a word and left me spinning, thinking he’d never return. When I heard his voice ring out it the empty house for the first time in so long, I couldn’t stop the tears of relief and he spent the whole evening and night holding me and consoling me, whispering into my ear how he’d never leave again.

More than ever I realised the burning desire coursing through my veins whenever he touched me. I wanted him, like wife should want a husband, and it was getting harder to ignore the way my body responded to him. I wasn’t sure if Taehyung was aware of my plight, if he registered how I seemed to stiffen anytime he pushed me closer to himself, how I held my breath when his arms snaked around my waist, how I shuddered when his hands slipped through my hair when he tied the ribbon over my eyes. I didn’t know if he noticed, but if he did, he didn’t say or do anything. Sometimes he would get closer to me, nose at my neck or play with my ear and then he would suddenly stop, as if he remembered himself, and pull away. And I wanted to scream at him. To not go. To do more.

And the more the situation went south in my marriage, the more I realised that my heart has long since been stolen by a being I haven’t even seen, but whose actions spoke louder than thousand words.

And so I decided to take the situation into my own hands. Or, well, to put it into Taehyung’s hands.

Some nights I would dream about him, even when he laid behind me I just wouldn’t have enough. And in those dreams, he would do the things I desired from him. It felt like my dirty little secret, enjoying him in such way in the privacy of my own mind, but knowing he was there. That he could be witnessing me be improper, could be witnessing my needs resurfacing in this manner. He never showed it, but sometimes I wondered if he knew, if he was waiting to make a move. And it excited me even more. The tension kept thickening, and I boiled, I boiled until one day I just… burst.

I had woken up in the middle of the night, woken up by my own dream as usual, hot and breathless, but just short of release, pent up and frustrated and needy. Taehyung behind me stirred, but his breathing stayed deep and stable, arms minutely tightening before he relaxed again. I felt my wetness seeping down my thighs, squeezing them together on instinct to chase the pulsing and throbbing there, choking out a little whimper and squirming in my place.

That seemed to shake Taehyung out of his sleep, I could hear the shuffling of his clothes, his hand flexing on my belly. He raised his head and murmured something, but I couldn’t hear through the rushing of blood in my ears. I was so aroused my head was almost spinning, my mind zeroing only on getting back to the pleasure I had been feeling. I squirmed in his arms again and whined.

“What’s going on? What’s happening?” came his quiet raspy voice by my ear and I could feel goosebumps breaking out over my arms. Without saying anything I reached for one of his hands and pulled it lower, until it laid over my thigh. There was silence behind me and neither of us moved for a moment.

“What?” he whispered again, confusion lacing his voice as he started caressing my thigh, thinking I just needed comfort, “Did you have a nightmare?” I shook my head, frustrated at myself for not being able to get the words out of my mouth, so instead I grabbed his hand again and this time I gently laid it over the very top of my thighs, the tips of his fingers just grazing my intimate area. Taehyung froze for a moment, and I held my breath, fearing his reaction.

But then he released a long breath and his hand moved, grabbing onto my nightgown and slowly pulling it up over my legs. “Are you being naughty?” he asked me playfully and I trembled with anticipation, the searing heat seemingly reaching a crescendo with the promise of his touch. The moment I felt him gently caressing up the naked skin of my thigh, I whimpered again and immediately lifted my leg to grant him access to where I wanted him the most.

Behind me, there was a chuckle, so deep and rumbly I felt it in my bones, satisfied and overjoyed with my eagerness. Taehyung nosed up my shoulder, until I could feel him laying searing wet kisses into the crook of my neck. His hand suddenly shot up back to my knee, grabbing it so he could hook it over his legs and keep me spread. I blushed, but another gush of wetness seeped onto the skin of my thighs at the prospect this finally happening.

“Want to have your pretty little cunt played with, hmm?” Taehyung whispered into my hair, the smirk evident in the smugness of his voice. This was his element, and I ducked my head into my arms, embarrassed by the words and the actions, embarrassed by my body screaming for him. He didn’t seem to need an answer, pleased with my shyness and with how my body responded for me, arching into his touch and begging for more. So he indulged, both himself and me.

His fingers descended between my legs suddenly, shocking a moan out of me as they glided through the wet folds until they settled over the little bundle of nerves. He touched me teasingly, circling it lightly, tapping and pressing on it and then sliding his fingers down to play with my entrance, as if testing how much I would be able to take.

I trembled whole, overflowing with relief, pleasure and burning need for more, spilling out of me on sighs and whimpers. I lost the control of my body as it swayed and arched, pushing into his elusive playful fingers. When my whines took on a more desperate tone, Taehyung finally seemed to be satisfied enough to stop teasing. He started playing me masterfully, fingers drawing tight quick circles on my clit, making me choke on my spit, brain not comprehending the sudden onslaught of sensations.

I found myself hurling towards that edge of ecstasy quicker than I’ve experienced before, my whole body singing under his touch, thrumming with the fulfilment of all the desires that had been piling up over the past weeks.

“Let go whenever you need to, don’t be afraid,” Taehyung whispered to me, voice low and aroused, and I arched with a silent scream as the release overtook me, bursting through my body in a single white flash. Taehyung carried me through it, fingers slowing down but never stopping, little quiet groans leaving him at seeing me blissed out. When the pleasure ebbed away gradually, I pushed his hand away with a quiet whine, feeling too much all at once.

He led me down from the high gently, hands running over my body, over my sides, his voice murmuring loving words into my ear, telling me how lovely I was, how well I did for him. I soaked it all up, preened under his care and attention and loved every moment of it, the fear and insecurity about his intentions taking the backseat for a few calming moments. My body thrummed with the after-shocks of my climax, and I pleasantly floated on the feelings of relief and release.

I was still catching up to my brain, when the words “I want to see you” tumbled out of my mouth. Taehyung’s hand stopped for a moment and then grabbed onto my arm gently. He hummed, non-committally, fingers suddenly teasing again as he lightly dragged them on my arm up and down.

“Do you really?” he whispered sensually, almost purring, and I gasped at the sensation. Before I could reply, he was suddenly gone. I heard him moving around in the room, the sound of his steps, his stable breathing and the light clanking of items as he moved them. I had no idea what he was doing, but when he was satisfied, he returned to me. Taehyung leaned down to me and grasped my arm, pulling me up to stand.

“Get on your feet, darling,” he told me sweetly, the sudden nickname making me blush as if we weren’t just wrapped in each other in such sinful ways. I stood, knees still a little shaky, but managed to hold my weight. I was a little achy, but it was a pleasant and boneless feeling, as if everything had been drained away and all that was left were soft sweet clouds.

Taehyung’s hands left me, and I could hear him stepping away, his heels hitting the wooden floor heavily. I held my breath in anticipation, my hands trembling, my body still confused from the screaming pleasure it was put through just moments ago.

Then, he spoke.

“You can pull the ribbon down.” His voice was smooth, kind and happy. My arms moved as if they had a mind of their own, lifting up to my head to grasp at the ends of the ribbon to pull. When it fell away, at first I was left blinded by the light for a moment. I blinked; eyes hurt from getting flashed with white after so long in the dark. I hurriedly wiped away the few stray tears and gently pressed on my eyelids to alleviate the pressure. When I opened them again, he stood in front of me.

He was beautiful, absolutely breathtaking. I gasped as I took him in, the softness of him.

He had long black hair, half done up into a bun at the back of his head. He was dressed in a black cheollik with red hems and pulled together by a silk red string adorned with dark grey jade, and his underclothes were also in black. He was barefoot, standing on my cold wooden bedroom floor like he didn’t feel the chill at all, when I already started shivering in my thin night robes. My eyes shot back to his face. He was ethereally pretty, all sharp edges but still looking so soft and lovely it stole my breath away. Even though his eyes were shockingly blue, I could see the kindness in them, unlike his mouth that was pulled into a mischievous smirk. Just I as I imagined he so often had.

I could see he started nervously fiddling with his sleeves, face flashing with panic and unsureness. He stepped from foot to foot, looking at the ground bashfully, before looking back up at me with wide round eyes full of pure-hearted earnestness.

“What do you think?” he asked, as if I was looking at fruit at the market. He squirmed in his place again and I couldn’t bare to let him believe that I didn’t think he was the most beautiful man I have ever seen. In a few quick strides I crossed the room to him and threw myself into his arms. He caught me, as always, and I had begun believing he always would, and pressed me closer into him. Before I could talk myself out of it, I pulled him down by his neck and pressed our lips together.

Taehyung caught on quickly, wrapping his arms around me and taking charge, kissing me like a man starved, passionate and hungry and all-consuming, filling my head and my heart with him and only him. I dreaded my husband’s return, because it would mean my little fantasy dream life would dissolve and Taehyung would have to disappear again, but for now I focused on his mouth claiming mine with such fervour it left me breathless.

Seeing Taehyung made things both easier and more difficult. Nothing much changed between us, only now I saw him messing with my things and “helping out” around the house. I heard his endless giggles and sometimes would catch a glimpse of his figure before he disappeared into a different part of the house, and I always trailed behind him and looked for whatever it was he misplaced or swapped.

I found that even though he was visible to me most of the time, he still didn’t talk much, preferring to sit by me and watch me with fond eyes. He would silently take heavy things from my hands and carry them for me, only sending a playful grin my way, or push me away from the cutting board to prepare the ingredients himself with a simple quiet “let me help”. I liked it. Taehyung filled the space with his presence, with kind eyes and gentle laughs and comfortableness I haven’t felt with anyone else. Sometimes laughs would just bubble out of my throat at his antics or at his expressions and I stopped, surprised at my own ability to laugh. I was happy. I felt content.

I loved him, and I knew that. I wanted my life to be like this from now on until the end of time. More and more often I found myself thinking how married life wouldn’t be that bad if my husband was Taehyung, and I blushed at those thoughts, but couldn’t fully fight them away. I imagined him chopping the firewood in the yard (he already did that for me after he saw me with an axe one), taking care of the animals (it wasn’t unusual for him to feed the hens and the pigs after sundown, since Minhwan was already long gone around then) and then coming home to happily eat supper I worked so hard on (he loved my cooking and never failed to compliment me). I loved watching him walking around the farm as if it was him who owned it, him who married me. Him who loved me.

And during the nights… Taehyung was more than happy to dote on me, naughty hands suddenly insatiable once I showed interest, bringing me to the peak of pleasure every morning, wandering around my curves and gently squeezing and loving on every inch he could reach. I melted in his hands, my brain suddenly interested only in how to get him to please me again. But he never moved it further, no matter how much I gently probed, tried to touch him back or insinuated that I would like to do more, he always grasped my hands and pulled me into a tight hug until we ended up falling asleep.

I was confused. I wasn’t a virgin. I knew how it worked between men and women and I trusted him with my body and my pleasure, and I wanted to return it too, learn how to please him too, but he didn’t seem to want that to happen. He would always give me this unsure smile and then hold me all the tighter and I didn’t want to push him.

But while I found my domestic bliss in Taehyung’s presence, it was harshly brought down every time my husband returned home. Even though he’d become strangely withdrawn, he always seemed to fill the house with gloom and uncomfortable tension, choking every spare inch in despair. I was dancing on eggshells around him, trying my hardest not to draw his attention lest he redirects his ire to me.

This explosiveness was also new. He’d been angry at me before, but never like this, never with bloodshot eyes and shaking hands, spewing poison until I was trembling with fear and shame, and then walking out. He would scream at me for the food not being warm, about spilling something on the floor, about not cleaning proficiently enough, and I begun to dread his returns, because he would always smell of alcohol, opium and other vices, and immediately find something to vent on, only to become silent and absent the moment after.

I could see on Taehyung he was worried for me. I wasn’t a fool, I knew he was present and heard everything, I could feel it in his sad tender eyes, in his loving caresses and the little gifts he would leave me. I wanted to assure him that everything was okay, that this was just my life and I had to deal with that, that him being around the house was already making a dreadful reality all the more bearable, but sometimes he just zoned out and I saw the cogs turning in his head, trying to come up with a way to somehow deal with this. But there was nothing that could be done.

While Minhwan spiralled and came home looking worse and worse every day, Taehyung tried his best to raise me up and make me feel better. And I couldn’t be more grateful for that.

One afternoon we were enjoying a particular sunny day, the door to the kitchen cracked open to let in the crisp freezing air, but I couldn’t feel the chill, not with Taehyung plastered to my back. He hung off of me, hugging me and whining playfully, his hands ever so often straying to my thighs or breasts, trying to rile me up while I made broth. I would always slap them away, but I couldn’t hide the blush on my cheeks or the way my body started responding to him and demanding his attention lower.

I was playing with the idea of letting him pleasure me right in the kitchen in the middle of the day, when Taehyung behind me stiffened, arms tightening around me. At first I didn’t register it, but when the sound of snow crunching under someone’s shoes reached my ears, I panicked. Throwing the wooden spoon away I turned and pushed Taehyung away from me.

“Quick, disappear! Minhwan must have returned!” I whispered urgently, almost sobbing with frustration when the dark-haired man just continued standing there as we both listened to the footsteps getting closer. He was looking out the door, his face curious but impassive, as if he didn’t realise the impending doom.

“Taehyung!” I cried out desperately, pushing him away just as the doors slammed opened. I froze and turned to the door, while Taehyung’s arm snaked around my waist and pulled me into his chest. At first I recognised the gesture as protective, but then I realised it was too casual.

I forced myself to see through the panic and registered that in the door stood a complete stranger. He regarded us both with a bored expression, his eyes sliding down my panicked frozen face and then skipping to Taehyung, sneering lightly in a pretend angry manner.

“So this is where you spend your days, I haven’t seen you in forever,” he grumbled a touch whinily and made himself comfortable on one of the seating pillows in the corner. He had elegant gestures and moved about in a graceful manner, he was also dressed in expensive clothes, showing off to everyone his status as a son of a wealthy yangban family. His face was sharp and impassive, but I could see a strange spark of something in his feline eyes.

“Hyung,” Taehyung said cutely and pulled me towards the man in expensive robes, “this is Y/N.” I stared dumbly between the two men, flabbergasted at the situation I had suddenly found myself in. Hyung? Was this another demon?

The man in question nodded towards me, showing polite interest. He looked intimidating, but whenever his eyes jumped to Taehyung, there was softness in them, and his face would suddenly relax and look more human and boyish.

“This is one of my hyungs,” Taehyung said towards me and then leaned closer until he could whisper into my ear: “He’s a tiger spirit.” I gasped lightly and looked at the man. He gave me a goofy toothy grin, his posture loosening as he made himself more comfortable. I slipped into the hostess mode and started offering drinks and food and he indulged happily, even getting Taehyung to take a glass with him. I listened to their gentle teasing for a while, content with watching him be so happy and carefree.

“So if one wants to see your face around these parts, they have to come here, huh?” said the tiger with a little smirk and winked towards me. I giggled and added: “As long as my husband isn’t home.” I immediately blushed, but the feelings of shame I used to feel over this have ebbed away and now I could only feel a little twinge of it as a phantom pain, before I put it away and focused on the men in my presence.

“Oh, I know your husband very well,” the man said, his face turning into a mysterious sharp hungry grin, “He isn’t home very often.” Taehyung tensed behind me, and I glanced at him, before throwing a confused smile at the visitor.

“What do you mean you know my husband well?” I asked, ignoring the way Taehyung’s hands tightened around me. I refused to turn his way, instead focusing my all attention at the dangerous being sat in front of us.

“He plays cards out of his league,” the man stated, eyes glinting with some feral contentment, “He lost a lot of money to a lot of people. An especially big sum to a certain very dangerous man that likes to prowl around those parlours.” It felt as if I was thrown into a freezing water, the panic seizing me at this information. I had known, to a certain extent, that he must have gotten himself into something, but losing in cards and owing money to someone dangerous, that would absolutely destroy my life alongside his. Distressed, I looked to Taehyung, who immediately pushed his hand into my hair in an attempt to comfort me.

“Hyung, stop that,” he scolded the man gently, “Stop scaring her.” I blinked at Taehyung owlishly.

“You knew?” I whispered the question, my heart aching when the dark-haired man looked away with guilt etched into his handsome face.

“I told him,” the older man piped up again, gently inserting himself back into the conversation he himself started, “I happen to have an insight into the situation. Don’t fear, dear, this is between your husband and the forces he messed with.” The vague statement did nothing to ease my anxiety and my eyes flitted between the two men again, but I chose to not say anything anymore. They shared a resolute look, full of determination, and then moved on from the topic.

Mr. Min, as I finally learnt his name, stayed for a better part of the afternoon, only departing once the night fell with only the moon lighting his way. His sharp eyes seemed to glow in the dark and once again I was reminded that he was a spirit of the mountain. I snickered gently at that. Look at me, the cursed widow dining with a demon and a tiger. If the old ladies in my home village knew that, they would lose their minds.

Taehyung wrapped his arm around my shoulders as we watched his friend go, looking at my amusement fondly, but the way his hand squeezed me I could tell he was worried about the conversation we had. I looked at him, truly looked at him, and contemplated whether to bring it up again.

He sensed it, his face turning a little guilty and sheepish again, before turning to me, grabbing both of my shoulders and saying: “Y/N, do you trust me?” Did I? Of course I did. I loved him, I loved him more than I have ever loved anyone. He never failed me, never gave me a reason not to trust him. So I nodded firmly.

“Then know that it will be taken care of,” he stated, voice gentle and kind, “I wouldn’t let this impact you.” I nodded again, looking at him fondly before caving in and seeking the warmth of his embrace. He held me tightly, then and through the night, whispering words of love. I trusted them.

I should have known that this would smudge lines, that me living my little fantasy with Taehyung and him living in the house fully visible would lead to us being careless and slipping. But still, when it happened, I was sorely unprepared for the whirlwind it started.

We depended too much on the belief that Minhwan wouldn’t return home early. He didn’t, in the past weeks. Every morning, I would watch the sun climb pretty high up on the sky before the door slammed open and he trudged in wordlessly demanding food. Taehyung spent the mornings lazily spread out in the bed, stretching like an over-sized cat, grinning at me lazily and watching me get ready for the day. And usually I would be woken up by his gentle hands or kisses, or by the sun shining through to my face, or the cold would make me turn and snuggle deeper into my lover’s arms.

So when I got woken up by a scream, I was shocked and confused to my core. I jerked up into a sitting position, eyes wide open and looking for the source of the commotion, heart beating out of my chest and throat tight. It was a cry of rage, a man’s ire bursting through the quiet comfortable space of early morning.

There was a flash of movement and then suddenly I was being painfully pulled out of the bed by my upper arm. I cried out, legs fighting to get into working order and stop the pain from the uncomfortable angle. Suddenly I was face to face with a seething Minhwan, his face red and bloated, twisted into a grimace of pure primal rage. He grabbed onto both of my shoulders, nails digging into my skin until I feared he would draw blood, shaking me violently.

He screamed something, but I was too tired and shocked to fully comprehend what has happened. Panic started pumping through my veins, my breathing getting out of my control as I choked on the instinctual fear of being met with a man in such an emotional state. He shook me again and I got dizzy. Behind me the bed was empty, but very obviously slept in.

 As if wading through a thick fog, I finally realised he must have seen Taehyung in the bed and my knees buckled. He let me fall, let me knock painfully into the wooden floor as he paced around the door. Thoughts going a mile a minute I scrambled to try and come up with something, with anything instead of just sitting there staring dumbly. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes, slipping slowly down as my mouth opened and closed. My head hurt, my chest was so tight I could barely breathe and my heart was beating so fast I feared it might just tear right out of my body. I looked at my shaking hands and released a few strained breaths.

“Are you even listening to me?!” Minhwan was suddenly screaming right into my face and I flinched. It was as if a filter lifted off of the world and the sound was suddenly getting to me fully, the thumping of his feet on the floor, his ragged breathing, his enraged mumblings. I stared at him blankly for a moment and in a split second decided to play it the only way I could.

“W-what happened?” I asked quietly, still looking at him with wide confused eyes, movements sluggish. I put a hand to my head, shaking it from side to side. At least I didn’t have to pretend I had a headache.

Minhwan stopped pacing and regarded me with suspicion. Come on, I prayed to myself, I know you must have seen him disappear in front of your eyes. He watched me for a moment, and I made sure to look as disoriented as I could, blinking blearily around and pulling a blanket closer over my rapidly cooling body. The seconds ticked away as he just looked around the room, watched the bed, the doors, as if measuring whether the man could have gotten away around him. He wasn’t saying anything for the longest time, and I felt like I was losing my mind, fearing any moment he’ll decide I was a liar and do god knows what in a fit of rage, but then he looked at me again with eyes filled with more confusion and fear than rage.

“Do you really not know?” he inquired, and his voice was grating to me, rough from speaking and drinking the whole night. I nodded slowly and then asked again: “What happened? Why were you screaming?” His face filled with determination, and he wordlessly walked out of the room. I scrambled to follow after him.

“Where are you going? What’s going on?” I hammered him, looking for a confirmation that I was safe, at least for the moment, but he just silently started fastening his hat back on. Finally, right before walking back out of the door, he turned to me and said: “I’m getting the exorcist.”

The next few hours I spent sitting in the house in panicked silence, wondering what my fate would be beyond this day. What would the shamaness say? How will this go? Do I have to pretend to get exorcised? I tried calling out to Taehyung, but he didn’t respond once. I bit my nails and paced around the house, counting every second ticking by as if waiting for execution.

By the time the door slid open again and stone-faced Minhwan stepped in, my nerves were completely frayed, and I could barely support my own weight on my shaking knees. My head snapped into the direction of the noise, and I saw a man and a woman step inside. The moment their eyes landed on me, they bowed slightly to me, but said nothing and instead followed my husband through the house into the bedroom. I hurriedly trailed after them, shaky hands with nails bitten almost bloody grasping onto my skirt to ground myself at least a little bit.

When I stepped into the room, Minhwan was gesturing to the bed, still unmade as I was too panicked to clean, and explaining what had happened.

“I walked in and saw four feet instead of two,” he said darkly, anger shining through to the surface again, “They were clearly man’s feet. I threw a shoe at him and started screaming, but then he was just gone. He disappeared into thin air. When she woke up, she was disoriented and had no idea what was going on.” I listened to him with a lump in my throat and when they all turned to look at me standing in the door, my knees almost buckled. I hoped that my nervousness would be interpreted as my unawareness, but when the woman’s eyes bore into me with a startling intensity, I couldn’t help but flinch and look down.

She came over to me and an expectant silence fell over the room, all of us collectively holding our breath and waiting for her judgement. She grabbed my chin, not roughly but definitely not gently, and moved my head so that I was looking at her. Her eyes flitted across my face, in search of something. I wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but I wondered how I must have looked to her. Did I look guilty? Did I look sick? What did she see?

She examined me for a moment and then let me go and stepped back to the man. She looked at him and nodded.

“It is a demon of sickness,” the man spoke, “He was draining your wife’s life energy, eventually saddling her with plague or similar illness. It is good you caught him before he did irreparable damage to her.” I touched my own face, wondering how bad I looked for her to come to the conclusion I was getting drained in such a way, but felt immense relief. Before I caught myself, I swayed, the feelings of anxiety crashing onto me, leaving my body too weak to stay upright. I crashed into the door and barely managed to catch myself before I hit the floor full force. The woman rushed to me and pulled me up, holding onto my arm and helping me stand in a manner she must have believed was comforting.

“Don’t worry, darling, he will not get you,” she whispered in a raspy old voice, “We will take care of this.” I mumbled something out, an insincere thanks, and propped myself up by the door. Instinctively I looked to Minhwan and found him already looking at, eyes coldly assessing me. He was scaring me, I had no idea where I stood with him and what was going through his mind, but I hoped this would buy me some time. I looked back to the floor and started smoothing out my skirts with shaky hands.

“We will get the supplies we’ll need and return tomorrow with the dawn,” the man spoke again, looking mainly to Minhwan, “For tonight, hang garlic and onion around the house. The foul smell will keep the demons away. I will draw you a talisman for your door and main gate, plaster it on the wood and keep it there until we come.” My husband curtly nodded.

The pair started moving towards the door to leave and Minhwan followed them out. I took the time to slide down to the door. I was trying to keep myself calm, but the stressed tears came anyway, rolling down my cheeks and there was nothing I could do to stop them. Once Minhwan returned, I was silently sobbing on the floor, too overwhelmed by everything that’s happened in these few hours.

Minhwan regarded me silently and then moved to the main room, sat by the fireplace and didn’t speak again. I sat there, filled with dread, and waited. Waited for the other shoe to drop, for him to fly off of his handle and do something, but the house was eerily silent. In the end I pulled myself together and moved about my day as if nothing was happening, as if Minhwan wasn’t sitting in the other room counting minutes before sun went down. The uncomfortable atmosphere stretched over us like a suffocating blanket and even though I went with the motions, cooked food and served it, I wasn’t even interested in eating, and neither seemed to be Minhwan.

With dark setting over the dwelling, the moon shining over the snow and creating a silver glow over everything, I found myself anxiously glancing at my husband to see whether he would leave, but he stayed firmly sat. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like I had to have a talk with Taehyung, confide in him and see what he thinks we should do. I desperately craved his comfort and calming presence, I needed him to hold me and kiss me and whisper about all the things he loved, I needed him to whisk me away into the woods and keep me away from this life I had found myself in.

As I paced around the bedroom nervously, I realised that. I wanted to leave with him. I wanted to flee into his reality and leave my own behind. I needed to talk to Taehyung soon.

The door slid open, and I flinched and instinctively moved a few steps further into the room. Minhwan looked at me, his eyes empty and dark, and then moved to the corner of the room, sitting down and staring soullessly at me.

“Aren’t you going to get ready for bed?” came his gruff voice when I stood there frozen for too long, watching him out of the corner of my eye. I could hear a certain accusation in it and my heart jumped into my throat. Without saying anything, I mechanically moved to my vanity and started brushing my hair while keeping an eye on my husband’s dark form slouched in the corner. His eyes never left me, slowly with every second ticking by filling with more and more pure hatred.

The room felt as if it was freezing, the air so heavy with tension I could taste it on my tongue. I could feel my heart beating hard in my chest, my clammy hands squeezing around the brush.

“I feel quite stupid now, you see,” Minhwan started suddenly, his cold voice startling me. I turned around to look at him, trying to keep my expression neutral but knowing I probably looked truly scared and guilty. He stared at me expectantly, but when I failed to say anything, he continued.

“I saw it,” he simply stated, “the hairpin.” It felt as if time stopped, the blood freezing in my veins with one simple word. I opened and closed my mouth a few times, but I ultimately failed to say anything. He knew I wouldn’t be able to go back to the market to buy it myself, there was nothing I could say to excuse that.

“I saw how certain mornings you seemed to be flustered,” he continued quietly, “how you changed, I saw the flowers you tried to hide.” He chuckled darkly, mirthlessly, but stayed sprawled out in the corner, watching me. I sat frozen in front of my vanity, brush still in hand, thoughts going a mile a minute.

“I ignored it, of course,” Minhwan carried on, seemingly okay with being the only one to talk, “I know how hard it is to get here and there’s no one close enough to sneak here like this. But when I went to town for the shamaness, I started remembering these moments. I saw the hairpin in my mind, as clear as day. And it made sense. Whatever he is, you knew about him.” I gulped, but said nothing, staring at my hands. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movements and I looked up startled. Minhwan was now moving towards me, slow and calculated, and dread filled me.

I looked up at him and couldn’t help a few stray tears escaping me. Minhwan watched me coldly, but it was so different than what I was used to from him and it terrified me. This was a different kind of rage, the kind that made people unpredictable, the kind when you know the person is so angry they’ve become calm.

He slowly threaded his hand into my hair, gripping it tightly until I could feel slight pain. He angled my head, watching the tears slide down my face with a scowl. Then he pushed my head away and released my hair, sending me crashing into the vanity. I caught myself on my hands, but the impact still hurt and I whimpered through the tears.

I heard Minhwan moving about the room, thrashing the chest I kept some of my belongings in, tearing through my fine robes and sending little reminders and keepsakes flying through the room and crashing into the floor and the walls. With every crash I flinched again and again, shrinking into myself and slowly slinking into the corner behind my vanity.

Minhwan finally got to what he was looking for – the dried flowers and other little gifts Taehyung has been bringing me. Whatever he got his hands on, he destroyed, tearing the flowers apart or breaking things by throwing them on the floor. I watched him helplessly, now fully sobbing as I witnessed my life being torn apart.

Minhwan paid me no mind, his eyes catching onto something in the chest. He bent over to pull out the object, and I eyed him carefully before I realised what it was. The hairpin. He glanced over at me and when he saw my eyes trained to it, he smirked with such malice it made shiver. He gripped it with both hands and then with a quick gesture broke it in half. Before I could stop myself, I cried out with my hands outstretched going to grab it, grab him, just do anything to stop it from happening, but I couldn’t. Minhwan threw the broken pin on the floor, and I watched the little gem break away and fall through the tiles.

Minhwan walked over to me again and crouched down so he could look at me closer.

“Did he get you pregnant?” he suddenly asked, and it was such an unexpected question it shocked me into silence as I just stared at him dumbly. Then I just slowly shook my head. Minhwan’s face stayed impassive. He just stared at me until I started squirming in my place, my skin crawling with fear and nervousness.

Then he just got up and walked out.

I stayed put, not daring to move from my place, but I strained my ears to hear whatever he was doing. He walked around the main room for a moment and then his footsteps seemed to get further away until I heard the door slide open, slide shut and then silence. I held my breath, waiting for a moment before I allowed myself to decompress, immediately slumping down onto the ground. With the stress rapidly draining from my body, I found myself a shaking crying mess. I crawled over to the chest and grabbed onto whatever destroyed piece of memory I could, cradling them to my chest and desperately hoping that I could mend it, that it would all go away. That I’d wake up in Taehyung’s arms and he’d console me and tell me it was all a bad dream.

I didn’t sleep that night. And Minhwan didn’t return in the morning. The shamaness and her husband came knocking with the dawn and I sat on the porch and expressionlessly watched the main gate rattle and shake under their fists, listened to their raised concerned voices calling to be let in. I was drained, empty and exhausted. I waited until they got tired of it and left, and then I continued sitting there watching the trees move, the sun travel the sky. I could barely feel the frost biting at my fingers, my arms, my face. I could barely feel anything.

For two days, I waited. I sat around the house and watched the walls, walked around the yard and looked outside, into the forest and the trees. Minhwan didn’t return. Taehyung didn’t return. I was completely alone, in the silent house, just wondering whether I was forsaken by both of them, wondering what would happen if neither of them came back.

On the dawn of the third day, I heard footsteps in the yard. My stomach dropped and my heart felt like a piece of ice. Footsteps meant Minhwan. Footsteps meant the end of my life, meant my husband was back and there was no telling what he would do.

I drew the blanket closer to myself and resignedly made my way outside. I would accept whatever was to come. Except the moment I slid the door open, I saw a sheepish Taehyung nervously stepping from foot to foot in our yard. I could only guess how I looked, but when he saw me, he closed the distance between us in a few quick strides, arms immediately pulling me into his chest. I felt my resolve break and desperately clawed at him, pulled him closer, just needing to touch him and make sure he was real and he came back.

He pulled back and I whined, but he took my face into his hands, gazing upon me with tenderness and sadness and despair. His fingers smoothed out the worried lines on my face, touched the puffy cheeks and eyes, gently caressed my face until I could see my vision blurring with unshed tears. Taehyung sighed and bent down to lightly kiss my forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered quietly, his voice like soft caress for my soul after days of loneliness and solitude, and sudden onslaught of emotions hit me like a stone wall. I grabbed onto his robe and looked into his kind beautiful eyes.

“Where were you?” it came out choked on a sob and I couldn’t even wait for his answer before the dam broke and I started crying. Taehyung held me through it, he took me in his arms and carried me inside, petted my back and held my face, whispered to me and it almost felt like a huge déjà vu to the first night I let him get closer to me. He apologised again and again, and I should have pressed for more answers, but I was so relieved he returned, I couldn’t bring myself to ask more.

When I calmed down, Taehyung’s attention was finally drawn to the state of the house. I didn’t clean up the bedroom, I barely even slept, and all the broken things were still lying around. It must have been quite a sight – a broken life, and in the middle of it all, a broken me. But instead of saying anything, he just reached over to grab the remnants of the hairpin. I watched him wordlessly, heart struck with grief at the sight of it, but he played with it for a moment, eyes peeking over at me and grinning mischievously. I returned it shakily, heavy emotions still weighing the corners of my mouth down but I tried, head leaning on his shoulder.

He encased the broken parts of it into his hands and shook them little. I thought nothing of it, watching his hands turn from side to side, expecting this to be just a way to distract me, but when his hands stopped, he uncovered his palm with a grand gesture and I gasped. There, lying on his palm, was the hairpin in one piece, looking as if it’s never been broken.

I immediately went to grab it, but he moved his hand away, keeping it out of my reach. Instead, he grabbed my brush and started slowly brushing out my tangled unkept hair. I let him care for me, I sat there on the floor of my thrashed bedroom, leaned on him and listened to him hum as he played with my hair. When Tae was satisfied with it, he tied my hair with his red ribbon and then pushed in the hairpin.

The fondness in his eyes when he looked over his work warmed my heart, and I relaxed into his embrace.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” Taehyung whispered again, “I shouldn’t have left you alone.” I shook my head and tightened my arms around him.

“There was nothing you could have done,” I told him and attempted to smile. I wanted to ease his worries, but I still felt too shaken.

“I should have been here,” Taehyung reiterated, “You needed me, and I failed you.” I squeezed his waist, trying to share comfort to him as he did to me. He looked at me fondly with a little smile, then kissed me gently.

“Where were you?” I asked again, this time much more calmly. Taehyung’s face fell immediately and I expected him not to want to tell me, but with some difficulty he started talking.

“I went to my hyung,” he admitted to me, and I realised there was guilt in his expression, “I asked him to sort something out for me.” I looked at him confused, but his face has turned hard and cold, gazing out of the room. I wanted to ask more, but I couldn’t bring myself to. It didn’t matter now, all that mattered was that he returned.

“We need to leave,” I blurted out suddenly, the calmness leaving my body. I turned on my knees and grabbed onto his clothed shoulders, looking into his eyes with urgency. Taehyung smiled at me and attempted to sit me back down, but I wouldn’t let him. “We really need to leave, before my husband returns,” I continued, the words falling out of me quickly, “I don’t know where he went, he hasn’t returned for a few days, but when he returns I cannot say what he will do.”

Taehyung’s hands pushed onto my shoulders, gentle smile on his face, mouth opening to tell me something, no doubt to calm down, but I jumped in before he got a chance.

“No, you don’t understand Taehyung, he knows,” I whispered urgently, “He knows about us. When he returns… Taehyung, I’m scared of what will happen…” I trailed off, hands flexing and bunching up the fabric of his robes. A few stray tears escaped my eyes, and I was surprised I even had some left in me, after the last few days.

Taehyung gave me a soft smile, hands coming up to hold my face. He gently wiped my tears away and bent down to kiss my forehead, my nose and finally my lips. I watched him, despair mixing with love and fear inside of me, making me feel like I was about to explode. I didn’t know how else explain to him that we weren’t safe here.

“I’m ready to leave,” I whispered again, desperate and broken, “Please Taehyung, I’ll go with you. I’m ready to go. There’s nothing left here.” He said nothing, but caressed my hair, fingers smoothing out the edges of my cold wet face. His eyes were trained on his hands moving on my skin, as if he wasn’t registering what I said at all. I could see in them that he was battling something, lips pursed in a bittersweet smile like they were trying to keep in some awful truths.

My heart gave a few painful pumps before it felt like it stilled completely. My hands fell from him as despair and hurt took over. Suddenly the realisation hit me, the realisation of what this must have been for him. A goodbye. My lips curled around a silent sob, but I couldn’t cry more, there was nothing left inside.

Taehyung noticed my plight and immediately pulled back into him, and I realised why he looked so guilty when we sat down.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” the words barely left my mouth, so quiet they could be barely heard, but Taehyung reacted to them immediately, arms tightening around me.

“No, darling, of course I’m not,” he replied, but I didn’t want to hear more lies, not now and not ever. My own hands balled into fists in my lap.

“Please, tell me the truth,” I said resolutely, looking straight into his eyes that were coloured by confusion at my statement. “What are you talking about?” Taehyung asked, lost and worried. His hands travelled across my shoulders and back, grabbing onto anywhere they could and then passing on as he tried to comfort me without fully knowing what was happening.

“You didn’t respond before,” I told him, and the realisation seemed to hit him almost instantly. “Oh, darling,” he whispered and kissed me softly again, “of course I want you to leave with me. But…” He seemed to struggle there, looking down to his lap guiltily, fingers digging into my shoulders nervously. I grabbed onto his shoulders too and pressed a little closer, until our faces were just a breath away.

“What is it?” I asked, desperate for a resolution, desperate to leave this all behind and go into the woods with him, follow him wherever he’d take me.

“Your husband…” Taehyung started and I tensed at the mention, but I wasn’t prepared for what came out of his mouth next, “he isn’t coming back.” I scrunched my face up in confusion. Taehyung avoided my eyes again, this time looking towards the door with a quiet resolution painted on his face.

“What are you talking about?” I pushed out of my mouth, mind muddled and tongue tied, “Of course he is, and he’ll bring all hell back with him.” Taehyung sighed, hands flexing into my skin.

“Y/N, you don’t understand,” he reiterated, urgency taking over his sweet, honeyed tone, “He isn’t coming back. Ever.” I froze when I finally put together what he had tried to tell me. I wish I could say I was terrified. I wish I could say that I was filled with dread and panic and disgust instead of relief, I wish I could say that I pushed him away, confused and hurt, instead of letting out a shocked laugh, hands immediately searching for his face. I turned him so he’d look at me.

He was painted with shame and guilt, with fear that I would hate him for the implication, so I gently caressed his face and laid a little kiss over his furrowed brows. He closed his eyes, sighing in relief. My heart was beating fast, but I couldn’t tell if it was out of nervousness or joy. I wondered whether that made me a bad person, whether I was cursed after all. But when Taehyung opened his eyes and gave me a toothy grin, it didn’t seem to matter much.

“What did you do?” I asked the question in a hushed whisper, as if discussing my husband’s demise was a thrilling secret just between the two of us. Based on the dark-haired man’s reaction to it he was expecting to hear a horror-struck tone, not the casualness with which I spoke about this matter, but he shook the surprise quick enough.

“Do you remember my hyung? The tiger?” Taehyung begun his explanation, a small smile taking over his face when I nodded in answer, “He was the one your husband owed money to. It was a matter of time before he’d gotten himself reaped, I just called in an early favour.” I frowned slightly at that.

“You mean that my husband was always destined to die?” the question was asked more out of curiosity than concern, but Taehyung still seemed to be a little on edge, fearing my reaction and attempting to gauge my emotional state. Still, he indulged me.

“He was since the moment he decided to play cards against a spirit,” Taehyung explained, “Tigers don’t play for money. We have no need for earthly possessions. But the more the human loses to you, the more under your power they are. With the mounting debt, the spirit only bides his time, terrorising the soul and pushing them into losing more. Then the spirit only waits until they’ve lost the amount of money that could buy their soul, before reaping. Your husband was a lost cause since Yoongi set his eyes on him.” I took in the information slowly, but to me his death was inconsequential now. Taehyung would take me away, I didn’t have to fear being left behind and collected by a family-in-law and living out the rest of my life as a proper widow, a property of my husband’s relatives. With that my only concern was taken care of and I found myself empty of any big reactions regarding his impending sudden demise.

“Do souls have prices, then?” I inquired more, interested in his earlier statement. Taehyung’s eyes sparkled slightly, as if he was delighted I wanted to know more, delighted that I wasn’t mourning, that I didn’t think him a murderer.

“Yes they do,” he answered simply, “a saint would be hard to tempt, the amount would be higher. A tyrant on the other hand, a sinner, they don’t take much.” I hummed quietly, absent-mindedly playing with some of Taehyung’s long hair. It didn’t take much to know which category my husband fell to. Getting my questions answered, I was satisfied to let this subject go. I felt as if a great weight has been lifted off of my shoulders and off of my heart. I found myself cautiously hopeful, looking forward to leaving this house and everything in it behind, letting it rot and fall to the ground and never return. But Taehyung seemed to have something else on his mind still.

“It was me,” he confessed quietly and suddenly, leaving me confused what he meant. He looked at me, gauging my reaction, fingers nervously playing with the edge of my jeogori. “It was me who told hyung to seek him out and tempt him into playing,” the man finally got out and it seemed as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders too.

I said nothing, hands migrating to caress his hair gently, smiling softly, and then getting up. I walked across the room to where my possessions laid strewn across the floor as if they were violently gutted from the insides of the chest. I found a cloth big enough and started piling the most important things inside. Taehyung watched me quietly, unsure of where I stood, still believing I could shun him for this. I smiled at him again when I caught his sad eyes watching my hands move. He returned it, in the same cautiously hopeful way I felt, and I could just think to myself. How perfect. We’re perfect like this.

“I just need to grab a few things and we can go,” I said, giving him a reassuring smile. His returning one was as bright as the sun itself and I felt my drained heart tiredly jumping in joy.

When I gathered everything, he took the bundle from me gently into one of his hands, the other holding mine as I quietly led him out of the cold empty house. Outside, the air was crisp and freezing, but the sun was shining and it filled me with happiness. The snow was sparkling, reflecting the rays of sunlight, blinding me slightly, but I had everything I needed, and it was a beautiful day outside. I squeezed Taehyung’s hand and he returned it.

Once stood in the gate, I turned back to the house wordlessly. I could see through the open doors the mess that was left inside, the state of the bedroom, and the two trails of footsteps leaving forever. Taehyung watched me carefully, making sure I was okay. I nodded at him and he grinned gently. We both turned and walked away.

He led me through the forest, up the mountain path. I’d never been here before, and it seemed that it was a long time since someone else than the demon himself took this path. Briefly I wondered if it even was visible to other people or if it was one of those paths you see once out of the corner of your eyes and then never find it again, even if curiosity kills you from the inside.

Taehyung was walking confidently now, once we crossed the threshold into his world he gained strength and resolve and led me through the trees until we reached a little clearing with a dwelling firmly in the middle of it.

It was smaller than our farm, but it looked much nicer, with little windchimes and colourful decorations hanging from the beam over the porch. Their clanking created a nice ambience in the background and their colourful flashes reflected off of the snow. I smiled fondly at that, feeling at ease.

The house only really had two smaller rooms and a kitchen, but they were filled with books and clothes and paintings. Taehyung seemed to be a lover of arts, his walls full of various pieces varying from flowers to landscapes and portraits. I peeked at them curiously, but Taehyung seemed eager to pull me along until we reached the other room, where a bed was unfolded but untouched. There was a vanity on one side, very similar to the one I had, ready with a brush and another beautiful hairpin sitting next to it, waiting for their owner. I smiled at that, heart filled with so much love it felt like bursting.

Taehyung carefully laid the bundle with my things on the ground and then skipped back over to me, plastering himself to my back, arms possessively coiling around me and lips and nose immediately running over the expanse of the skin at my shoulder and neck. I shuddered lightly, noting his palpable excitement at bringing me to his home.

“This will be our bedroom from now on,” he whispered in a rough voice, laying a series of wet open-mouthed kisses down my shoulder, “This house will become a home.” His hand splayed over my stomach and pushed me more into his form, his heated body melting over me instantly, lips travelling wherever a sliver of skin presented itself to them.

I shuddered lightly, squirming in his arms. I managed to turn to face him and immediately was met with fond eyes full of unshed tears. I grabbed his face and gently pressed our lips together. I meant for the kiss to stay innocent, but Taehyung clearly had a different idea, descending onto me with an urgency of a starving man, lips devouring mine in a hot all-consuming kiss.

I moaned lightly into his mouth, hands tightening in his clothes and subconsciously pulling him closer to me. He used the opportunity to slip his tongue inside my mouth, sighing with content when it met mine and twisted and pushed around each other. He towered over me, with every second bending down a little more, making me arch into the kiss. The dark-haired man was grabbing onto my hips, as strong as a vice, digging fingers into the layers of fabric with such force I still felt his nails biting into my skin. My own hands slowly travelled up, tangling into his hair and wrapping around his neck. When I pulled on the strand lightly, Taehyung sighed into my mouth and pushed us closer together.

My mind was quickly becoming muddled, only thoughts of the man in my arms swimming around in my brain, body heating up rapidly and begging for his attention in the way that he used to give me. And with the way he held onto me and pressed into me, he was in a similar state.

Without interrupting our kiss, Taehyung started slowly sliding down to the floor and pulled me with him. I gasped slightly and finally broke our kiss to breathe and take in the new position, but Tae didn’t get discouraged and continued his path down my jawline and my neck. I had enough mind to breathlessly move my head out of the way and present my neck for him, which made him hum appreciatively, his low deep voice purring into my skin. All I could really do was hold on to him and let the sensations sail me further.

I could feel his hands inching higher, until they were kneading my waist, thumbs slipping under the jeogori and messing with my undergarments. My whole body trembled like a plucked string, desire wreaking havoc on my psyche. I released a shaky sigh and decided to be a little bit braver. I grabbed one of his hands, Taehyung making a little questioning sound in the back of his throat, but didn’t stop his ministrations, and I pushed it towards the bow tying my top together.

Taehyung paused only for a second, eyes searching mine for any kind of hesitation, but I only blushed under his heated gaze, the lust taking over the control of my body and pushing my chest more into his curious hands. He no longer wasted time after that, leaning a bit back and making quick work of the binding and soon he had me sitting in his lap in only my undergarments. My lips found his again, needing to feel his touch more than I needed to breathe oxygen.

With new skin now visible Taehyung seemed to be over the moon, a little content sighs and quiet moans leaving his mouth as his fingers travelled across the expanse of my shoulder blades and my arms. The intensity of the kiss kept increasing, my body confusedly trying to move with the motions and seek even more pleasure. When Taehyung gently bit on my lower lip, my hips jerked forward on their own and I could feel a hardness sliding across my centre. We both gasped, Taehyung’s hands jumping to my hips to stop them, but I felt as if a lighting struck me to my core, pleasure zapping through me on a jolt. I gasped, hips mindlessly chasing after the feeling again. Taehyung separated the kiss on a groan, his head falling to my shoulder, hands now encouraging my hips to move instead of stopping them.

For a moment we just enjoyed each other, mindlessly kissing here, grabbing onto each other and chasing the pleasure, moving against each other. I managed to get Taehyung out of his outer robes too and he was clad only in a thin undershirt that teased a little bit of his collarbones, which I immediately covered in kisses. We didn’t speak and the room was filled with the sounds of shifting clothes and airy little gasps and moans, but I needed more. I needed so much more.

Taehyung’s lips travelled down to the edge of my undergarment, kissing the soft swell teasing my breasts, and I gasped and arched and curved into him, but I could feel the smirk settling on his face as he moved away again. I whined, mind gone and begging for more solid touch, for his hand between my legs and his lips biting into my shoulders.

I pushed onto his shoulders and as Taehyung wasn’t expecting it, he went easily, slight alarm painting his face, but I just grabbed him and pulled his face back to mine. The moment our lips crashed together, I keened, licking into his mouth desperately. The dark-haired man chuckled, but he seemed to take pity on me.

With one hand gently laid on my lower back, he slowly toppled us over until I was lying on the ground with his weight settling gently on top of me, legs tangled and lips intertwined. With a wet smack our lips separated and for a moment we both just looked at each other breathing hard, but then the time and reality caught up to my overheated excited brain and I immediately started tearing at his clothes, untying anything I got my hands on and pushing the fabric away until his whole torso was on display.

I choked on a moan, the desire reigniting within me tenfold. He was beautiful, strong and lean, honey-toned skin blemishless and perfect. Distracted with all the possibilities and my body screaming at me to have the man take me now, take me as soon as possible, my hands wildly flitted over his chest, kneading the skin but not settling anywhere for too long. I decided to pay back the favour and my lips latched onto his neck, making him shudder and moan. I played around lightly, just like he had, kissing anywhere I could, moving south to his pecks and then back up all the way to his ear with wet open-mouthed kisses, revealing just how far gone I was and how needy he made me with his earlier ministrations.

Taehyung buried his face into the crook of my neck, skin rippling with every touch, releasing low groans right into my ear, which made me work even harder. I was ecstatic that I was finally able to touch him too, ecstatic by the prospect of returning the pleasure he had been bestowing me with all these mornings that would have otherwise been cold and lonely.

With that thought in mind, my hands shifted to his hips, at first seemingly just sitting there and holding onto him, but slowly moving downwards, pushing the pants down. Taehyung didn’t seem to notice at first, but once I got low enough to expose the v of his hips and the thicker part of his happy trail, he let out a loud excited groan, body shaking with anticipation.

His lips pressed into my ear. “Do you want to see me? Touch me?” he whispered, voice rough and aroused. I gasped quietly, legs falling open more so that he could settle his hips more comfortably and I could see the moment I finally pushed them low enough, breath held in excitement.

“Yes, please,” I answered in a similarly debauched hushed voice, “please, Taehyung.” His chest rumbled happily, lips busying themselves with biting and kissing into my neck. I must have been absolutely covered with little red and purple bruises and the thought sent a bolt of arousal through me, my body jerking underneath the bigger man.

“Go ahead then, darling,” he said sensually, regaining back a little control. His hips stiffened, allowing me to pull them down the final stretch, releasing his erection. It hit his lower stomach with a tiny noise, the wet tip leaving a little smear of clear liquid there. I clenched on nothing, a gush of wetness suddenly leaving me at the prospect of having him inside of me. He was watching me closely, a wild look on his face, and the more excited I felt, the hungrier he looked.

Then Taehyung pressed his face to mine again, lips caressing the shell of my ear as he whispered: “Do you want it? Do you want my cock, darling?” I nodded, a whimper escaping me, thighs and pussy throbbing with pure burning need. I was so aroused my head was spinning and every thought inside curled around the pleasure this man was providing me with. He clicked his tongue though, and shook his head a little, giving me a playful grin.

“Then you need to say it,” he stated meanly, eyes sparkling with mischief, “Good girls always ask for it.” The way his tongue wrapped around the words good girl made me borderline delirious, back arching and thighs spreading even further, until my hips hurt and I was gasping with the liquid lust coursing through my veins.

“Please!” I whined out again, hands grabbing onto his searing hot skin and attempting to pull him closer, but he didn’t budge.

“No, no, no, darling,” his voice seemed even darker and richer than usual and I was losing my mind on the little rasp, his tongue peeking out to play with the lobe of my ear quickly sending me spinning, “You need to say it.”

“Please, Taehyung,” I choked out, a few tears of frustrated arousal slipping down my cheeks, “I want you.” He smiled, giving me false sense of victory, but still kept his hips away from mine. I whined again, not knowing what else to do.

“I want to hear the words from your mouth, darling,” he stated firmly, “Say ‘Please Taehyung, I want your cock’.” I gasped at his words, the flush on my face deepening despite the lewdness of the situation I already found myself in. My tongue darted out to wet my dried lips and Taehyung’s eyes zeroed in on my mouth, fascinated.

“I want your cock,” I whispered, the arousal pushing me into boldness I’ve never displayed before, “Please, Taehyung, I want your cock so bad.” He groaned and I saw the exact moment his pupils expanded with pure lust and his eyes were overtaken by desire to have me. While his lips crashed to mine, his hand grabbed one of mine and pulled it towards his cock and wrapping it around it.

I squeezed on instinct and Taehyung moaned into me, hips bucking gently. I took a moment to feel him out, just gently ran my hands over the ridges and curves. I could feel the way Taehyung trembled, the way his breathing stuttered on tiny, muted groans, his eyes firmly shut. His hands grabbed onto my thighs and dug into them through the underskirt still half covering me from his eyes.

When I began sliding my hand up and down the shaft, Taehyung’s head once again fell to my shoulder, open mouth pressing into my skin and releasing rugged moans. His hips jerked forward in tiny motions, thrusting lightly into my curled hands. I was content with touching him, but my body also screamed for attention, thighs shaking and muscles in my belly contracting in pleasurable little ripples. I was so wet I could feel my essence sliding down my thighs and my bottom, leaving a little puddle on the bedding under us.

I squeezed around him lightly and he jerked into my hands harder, a debauched groan leaving him. I spasmed, pussy pulsing around nothing, begging to be filled up to the brim, an answering moan leaving my own lips. Taehyung looked at me through half-lidded eyes, reason completely overridden by the need to push himself into my tight wet heat at the clear need depicted on my face, he shuddered again, pre-cum leaking out the red tip of his painfully erect cock.

His hands scrambled to grab my skirt and push it up my legs until it pooled around my stomach, wet pussy exposed to his needy hands. He didn’t waste any time and pulled his fingers through my folds, teasing my clit for a moment and punching out desperate moans out of me, whole body spasming at the sudden onslaught of pleasure cursing through me, but then his fingers hurriedly slid down and pushed inside of me. At the feeling of his fingers getting so easily swallowed up by my wet cunt he groaned, thrusting them in a little and scissoring to make sure I was absolutely ready to take a cock, but both of us were beyond gone with desire.

I was enjoying the feeling of finally having something inside of me, but it didn’t last for long. After a few hurried thrusts of his fingers, Taehyung pulled his hand away and I whined, arching my back, pussy chasing after him. He quickly swatted my hands from his length and lowered his hips until we were pressing into each other, his cock snuggly sliding through my wet folds.

Our breaths were knocked out of us on deep satisfied groans. He moved his hips back and forth a few times, coating himself in my juices to ensure easier slide, and then pushed inside with one firm motion, cock driving inside of me without any resistance, filling me absolutely all the way up on the first thrust. I threw my head back, mouth open on a silent scream, the contentment of finally having him inside me lighting my every nerve on fire and satisfying something deep inside of my core. I trembled, desperately holding onto him as my brain turned to mush with barely anything.

Taehyung was having more trouble staying silent, mouth open and instantly pumping out groans and moans, shaky hands keeping my hips still and desperately trying to stop himself from immediately mindlessly driving into the divine pleasure that was the feeling of being enveloped by my wet tight walls.

I whimpered and squirmed underneath him, grabbing onto him. I wasn’t even fully aware of myself, body and mind consumed by the heavenly feeling of being filled by him.

“Please!” I whined out loud, desperately needing him to finally start doing something, like there was an itch deep inside of me that needed scratching, “Please, give me more!”

Taehyung chuckled above me, trying to stay suave and smooth but I could hear how breathless he was, could feel his hands tightening and loosening on my hips. His hips trembled against mine, jumping with excitement at my words.

He pulled his hips back and slowly slid back in, making us both sigh with content. He kept the pace slow and deep, covering me with his body and claiming my mouth with his while I fell apart on his well-aimed pace. I moaned on every stroke, arching my hips and spreading my thighs to let him hit deeper, pull him in closer.

The slow build up of the pleasure had me losing my mind. I felt like I was getting gradually submerged into boiling water, the heat steadily rising with every thrust filling me with deep primal satisfaction. My hands roamed over Taehyung’s body, appreciating his smooth skin and muscles as they jumped with movement, soaking up Taehyung’s little hick-uped groans when I passed over sensitive areas.

Taehyung changed the angle a little bit and when he pressed all the way inside, his tip pressed into a spot that had me keening loudly underneath him, eyes tightly shut and mouth wide open. My hands instinctively grabbed onto his waist and squeezed, nails digging into his skin, and Taehyung groaned loudly, hips jerking into me roughly, punching out a whiny moan out of me.

That seemed to break us into a frenzy, my hands sliding down his body and grabbing onto his ass, pushing him into me and encouraging his movements. Taehyung happily took the sign and started thrusting faster and harder, filling the room with sounds of our moans and the wet slapping of our hips. I couldn’t stop the sounds spilling out of my mouth, his every stroke hitting deep inside me and lighting my every nerve on fire, stoking the lust and the bliss in pulsing consuming waves.

I felt myself getting close to the peak I was so familiar with from his hands, the sensations drowning me and washing over me in over-powering waves. Taehyung’s moans were reaching crescendo, getting higher and whinier as his hips unfalteringly pounded into me.

“So close, darling,” he croaked with a raspy voice, “going to paint you with my seed, going to fill you to the brim.” I moaned in response, pussy throbbing and clenching around him, sucking him in deeper. I needed us both to peak, I needed it more than air to feel him unwind and release, get consumed with pleasure I provided him with.

“God, just a little more,” I answered to him breathlessly on a pleasured sigh. My hands squeezed his bottom and pushed him a little rougher. His breath hitched, but he changed his pace accordingly, slowing down but snapping his hips into me harder and rougher, making me wail with pleasure.

I felt myself spiralling into the heat, knowing I wouldn’t last too long like this. Above me Taehyung watched me through half-lidded eyes, mouth open and face consumed with raw lust at my blissed-out state. I caught his eyes just seconds before my whole body spasmed and then stilled, climax exploding over me with force that shocked a raspy scream out of me. I blanked out, trembling and overflowing with bliss and ecstasy, legs spasming and toes curling with the sensation of the fire consuming me inside out. It was the best feeling I’ve ever felt, the most intense thing my body has ever gone through, but I loved every second of it. It felt as if all the stress just drained away from my body and was replaced by molten gold.

Taehyung fucked me through the orgasm, and it took him only a few more thrusts before his hips jerked wildly, pleasure mounting until he released deep inside of me with his head thrown back and a long drawn-out moan. I felt his cock throb and pulse inside of me as it spurted his seed, his hips lightly swaying in circles to ride it out, until the boneless weightless feeling set in and he collapsed on top of me.

I was feeling so content, body pleasantly light and thrumming with aftershocks of our shared moment, eyelids heavy with sleep. I felt Taehyung slip out and move away from me, his release running down my legs and making me blush again, but I didn’t have any strength to move or wipe it away, so I just laid there and waited for the man. He returned with a piece of cloth, still just as naked, shooting me a little playful wink when he saw me looking at his body. I turned around, embarrassed, even though we had just enjoyed each other like husband and wife.

I heard his little chuckle, but then the cloth suddenly pressed onto my thighs, making me gasp quietly. Taehyung squeezed my leg in apology and continued cleaning me up. I couldn’t help the little sighs of content leaving me, the warm cloth and his gentle touches filling my heart with love.

When he was done, he threw the piece of cloth away carelessly, before jumping onto the bedding and snuggling up to me. We ended up like we always have, Taehyung holding me from behind, hands pulling me as close to him as I could go, lips and nose pressing into the crook of my neck and into my hair, trilling happily.

I let it gently lull me to sleep, melting into his loving embrace, listening to his content purrs, our bodies moulding perfectly together like it was always meant to happen. I closed my eyes, and welcomed sleep, feeling the most comfortable I’ve been in years.

I couldn’t remember what I was thinking right before I slipped under, but I did with the feeling of just everything being right.

I would be okay. We would be okay.

hope you enjoyed yourself and see you around <3

A/N: the story of prince cheoyong, the son of the dragon king who neglected his wife to which a demon of pestilence took a liking and sneaked into her bed - one day cheoyong returned home and saw four feet sticking out of the bed instead of two, and he chased out the demon with singing and dancing, saving his wife and becoming a guardian god - it was said that no demon or evil spirit could enter a house as long as there was a likeness of cheoyong there, so people bought his portraits or talismans with his face and put them on their door, but i kind of switched the sides hehe

[brainrotandbedrot]

i have a cold and feel like a victorian child with tuberculosis so here’s this

(yeah yeah i know it’s been done before but my bursts of creativity are rare these days)

price is the one who won’t come near you with a ten-foot pole. yeah, maybe it’s a controversial take, but that man has responsibilities. and while he loves and adores you, he unfortunately can’t abandon them to sit with you and wait for you to feel better. so instead, he makes sure you get anything you want delivered to the front door. he puts medicine next to your filled water bottle, alongside your fully-charged kindle, a full box of tissues, and the tv remote. by the time you shuffle downstairs, all hacky and achey and tired, the sofa is a little haven of everything you could possibly need. everything’s within reach, there’s a blanket tossed over the couch, and a mug of tea is keeping warm in the microwave. just remember to text him when you’re awake, honey.

simon has an immune system made of steel. he could probably take on the black plague and survive unscathed, considering how many times you’ve had a stomach bug and he’s just totally unaffected. despite that, he’s also a germaphobe. the second you get the sniffles, he’s disinfecting every surface and giving you cup after cup of emergen-c. or anything he can find that has vitamin c in it. sorry, love, but you’re in separate rooms until you recover. that doesn’t mean he abandons you, though — he just brings you everything with a face mask on and gloves, then makes you sanitize your hands after you touch him. he’s an acts of service man: while you’re down for the count, he takes a few days off and cleans the house, takes care of chores, and makes sure there isn’t a thing you need to worry about.

johnny is the one that acts like you’re one foot in the grave even though it’s just a fever. he senses you’re sick before you do — he can see the slight glaze over your eyes, the way you’re drinking more water than usual, the way you seem to be just a bit off. as soon as you’re actually running a fever, he’s right there next to you. lazes on the couch with you, hand-feeds you, takes a swig of your electrolyte drink right after you. even though he’s a very dedicated attendant, handling your every need, it’s really not a shock that he ends up in the same predicament a week later. but he doesn’t mind it. he’d rather catch a bug if it means he gets to take care of you. and with all the naps you’re taking — the fatigue hits hard — he gets to be your pillow. he doesn’t see any downsides, really.

kyle is an angel. he knows you’re not feeling good. he doesn’t hold anything against you when you snap at him — you can’t help it, baby. it’s not your fault you’re sick. just let him take care of you, yeah? he’ll sit you down in the bath, keeping the water lukewarm so it can be made hotter or colder depending on what you need. he’ll wash your hair, scrub all the sweat away, and make sure you feel a bit more like yourself as he rubs in your lotion and dresses you in one of his big shirts and a pair of boxers. anything you ask for is acquired within minutes. you want water? already taken care of. ibuprofen for your sore throat? open up. jello or pudding? already in the fridge. just don’t forget your protein and greens, love, they’ll make you feel better. he’s fixing an omelette for you with all the nutrients you need to shake the little bout of flu off, and he’ll even blend it all up if you don’t like the texture of having everything chopped.

[youhavethesun]

saw a tiktok on pinterest (because I don’t have tiktok lol) about how annoyed someone was that Rory had given up all her hopes and dreams ‘because of one comment from a man’. and I know this was meant as a joke but honestly I wonder if this is how a lot of people view this plot line. I’ve seen so many people talking about Rory’s ‘downfall’ and how she was so unable to handle criticism/that she fell apart from a single comment etc.. and I just honestly can’t see how people continue to view it this way.

I think there are honestly a lot of factors that influenced Rory’s breakdown after Mitchum’s comment, but first of all I quickly want to say that (I know this is controversial but I genuinely do not care) I don’t think her leaving Yale was a bad thing!!! It was treated as this ultimate sin, (maybe this is for another post idk) but honestly I think Rory made the right decision. I don’t think the right decision was obviously her giving in to the lifestyle Emily wanted for her/joining the dar and so on, but actually taking a break from formal education I think could have been positive, all through season 4 we see how much of a toll college is taking on Rory, and I think taking a year out if she knew she was going back and using that year to rest and learn more about herself could have been really beneficial.

anyway sorry for the tangent, okay so the first thing is that a lot of people seem to view Rory’s conversation with Mitchum as a single interaction which caused her ‘downfall’, and everything was a domino effect from then on, instead of looking at it as the straw that broke the camels back. like I said, Rory was not in a good place at Yale even during s4, she had a terrible breakdown when she was slipping in her grades, and the impact of having to drop a single class was huge for her, she was desperately anxious about disappointing especially her grandfather’s expectations, but she was also at risk of at least somewhat disappointing all her immediate family. In season 2 (in my beloved car scene in teach me tonight) we can see hints of it too! Jess is just chatting casually when he says he didn’t expect her to dream about becoming an overseas correspondent, but this immediately rattles Rory, with direct dialogue being:

“well, it's not a little too rough for me. I hope it's not a little too rough for me, I've been talking about this forever. I mean, I don't even know what I would do if –-“

and this is in response to a comment from a friend.

the prospect of failing at her goal but also very importantly what Rory has ‘talked about forever’ is incredibly frightening. I think it’s so interesting that she doesn’t say ‘I’ve wanted this forever’, but rather implies that the expectations of those who have watched her grow up, who have heard her talk about this for so long, would be shattered because she has shared this with them. so much of Rory as a character is someone who is afraid to disappoint in every way possible, I think that is such a core element of her personality, and as the child prodigy who was (to some extent) raised to achieve what lorelai couldn’t, the pressure she is under not to disappoint is massive.

anyway, back to Mitchum. I think honestly to some degree it could have been anyone to criticise Rory’s capability and she would be considerably affected, seen not just when talking to Jess but even in season 1 after getting lower grades when she transferred to Chilton - Rory immediately questions whether she is even good enough to be at private school, whether she could just be disappointing those around her if she stays.

The fact that it’s Mitchum Huntzberger who says she ‘doesn’t have it’ in my opinion is kind of just the icing on the cake. Whether or not Rory had even taken the internship I think the pressure of it all would have led to a larger breakdown at some point or other, this was really just the final straw for what Rory could take at the time. Imagine one of the most successful people in the world in your chosen field telling you that everything you’ve worked for isn’t enough, that in three short words every expectation you’ve set for yourself (and more importantly every expectation everyone around you has held you accountable to) has been torn apart. Imagine believing you had let down everyone who had sacrificed something for you, who had put their faith in you, and tell me you could just bounce back from that.

Anyway the tiktok was not that serious but my thoughts just kind of spun out from there so if you read all of this I love you <3 and also I love you later season Rory you’re flawed and you’re lovely<33

[angelicdanvers]

BREATHE DEEPER | five.

a charlie bushnell x fem!reader social media fic.

levizmiller

liked by y/n, dior.n.goodjohn, leahsavajeffries, and others

levizmiller — she won at pool. again.

tagged | y/n

y/n hey at least we got drinks ↳ levizmiller true ↳ walker.scobell YOU CAN DRINK??? ↳ y/n technically yes BUT i settle for virgins

dior.n.goodjohn best duo loading?! ↳ levizmiller YES

user i lowk shipp ↳ user2 nah they prob friends ↳ user3 ay no need to speculate 😭

y/n

liked by levizmiller, dior.n.goodjohn, walker.scobell, and others

y/n — prep for the jumpscare at the end

tagged | levizmiller

levizmiller 😭

walker.scobell i wanna be your age ↳ y/n in like five years buddy

walker.scobell also levizmiller your physique is ELITE ↳ levizmiller thank you walker :)

leahsavajeffries YOU GUYS ARE SO COOL ↳ y/n that’s our goal >:)

iamcharliebushnell hope ur having fun! ↳ y/n thanks!

dior.n.goodjohn YOURE SO HOT ↳ y/n BABES YOU ALL YOU

user2 not charlie becoming less and less consistent ↳ user4 fr man this is sad

GALILEO’S GALS

forbidden child added cutie patootie

↳ HI ARYAN OKAY SO UH I NEED YALLS HELP i think you guys were right

cutie patootie aw what’s wrong?

chanel’s enemy uh oh

↳ yeaaah so is charlie mad at me??? for hanging out with levi?

lee lee he shouldn’t be, he doesn’t have a reason to because even tho all of us are close it’s still your life yk

chanel’s enemy i second that, and if he does that also means SOMETHING if yk what i mean

dr dre im not even gonna sugarcoat, his comment seems so passive 😭

↳ welp i’ve screwed up big time 😃

cutie patootie i mean he’s okay around walker and i. he did keep talking about you at one point last night when we were watching moon knight literally made us pause the ep and just spoke of you

chanel’s enemy BRO UR GONNA HAVE TO SAY MORE ELSE WE’LL JUST ASSUME HE’S GOT A CRUSH ON HER

cutie patootie idk bro it just seemed to me that he missed her a lot. he kept saying how he wanted to take her to egypt esp a restaurant by the pyramids considering y/n still hasn’t been and other places

chanel’s enemy ong he deffo should if he likes her, he should actually ask her out before anyone else does take her to a nice lil restaurant, get her flowers, whatnot

cutie patootie yeah fr

↳ yall pls tell me youre not speculating he likes me

dr dre omfg Y/N ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION TO ANY OF THESE DETAILS

↳ yes but im choosing to ignore them for the sake of my sanity

lee lee GIRL HE PROBABLY LIKES YOU IF IT ISNT THAT, THEN ITS BECAUSE WALKER SAID LEVI’S PHYSIQUE WAS GREAT AND HE ONLY EVER USED TO SAY THAT TO CHARLIE

↳ YEAH BUT CHARLIE’S MATURE

dr dre is he tho guys do dumb shit when they like a girl

↳ he doesnt like me 😭

cutie patootie ANYWAYS i'd keep my eyes and ears open if i were you, y/n, you definitely didn’t screw up but if you're worried abt charlie maybe just be a tad bit more careful?

↳ gotcha, no more levi posts then?

chanel’s enemy i mean ofc you can post him, it shouldn't be anyone's business as to who you're posting, but idk it's so hard to explain like don't get me wrong i think you should post whomever you wish but hopefully it won't hurt anyone. i mean you're not with anyone controversial so it shouldn't be a big deal anyways, plus if someone cough charlie cough can't fess up their feelings it's on THEM not YOU

↳ i definitely get that, thank you for the insight you guys :) it’s just tough because i really don’t know how i feel either

chanel’s enemy WAIT WHAT i did NOT expect that response

↳ i can't help it idk my emotions are all over the place right now

chanel’s enemy GIRL YOURE NOT A BOP STOP ACTING LIKE ONE

↳ RIGHT SORRY 💀 K PLEASE HELP THO

cutie patootie okok miss y/n do you, or do you not, have a crush on levi?

↳ i do not

chanel’s enemy okok MISS y/n l/n would you rather be MRS. y/n bushnell?

↳ DIOR WTF MAN

dr dre well THAT got a reaction out of her

↳ ugh but he's cute and he’s so sweet and he’s so charming too he texts me every morning no matter what timezone i’m in and he gave my mom flowers when he first met her too he’s so smart, both emotionally and intellectually like doing math with him is just >>>>

lee lee girl. GIRL.

chanel’s enemy LMFAOOO MATH 💀 she down bad BAD

dr dre you see there’s a river in egypt…

cutie patootie AND YOU STILL THINK THIS IS PLATONIC??

↳ OKAY OKAY fuck i like charlie don’t i

chanel’s enemy OH YOU DO YOU DEFINITELY DO

cutie patootie YOU LITERALLY WORRY ABOUT HOW HE FEELS ABOUT YOU ABOUT THE PEOPLE YOU HANG OUT WITH YOU'RE DOWN BAD N/N

↳ aw shit man WHAT DO I DO

chanel's enemy MAKE A SUBTLE MOVE ASAP

lee lee HANG OUT WITH HIM SOON

dr dre MAKE A SHORT FILM

cutie patootie YES THATS PERFECT

↳ guys this is too hard i dont like this

chanel's enemy STFU YOU WILL DO THIS WE ARE HERE BAE 💪

↳ OKOK LOVE YOU GUYS LEMME TRY THIS OUT

— taglist.

@shokocoded @istillremeberthefirstfallofsnow @surftrips @svtsimp22 @thames-fig @captainshischier @reggieslifeboat @multifandom-loser @wheelerslover @mermaid-mqtel @randomnpc456 @kaithoughs @isab3lita @mariposa555 @sunshinessky @myr-cheri @thedeadlynights @ella33 @c1nn4mng1rl @poppysrin @breadbrobin @lucy-the-ant @jules-loves-lukecastellan @taloulalila @tom-pls-fuck-me @mia-luvs @iknowyoureabigfan @rinisfruity14 @chasebeth @auttumnsayshi @prettygirlformula @alwayswndr @balletfilmss @kestisvrse @1forthemoney2forthekish @eissaaaa @emelia07 @toffytaste @soulaires @bearwon @happy-mushrooms @simrah1012 @blimp-blimp @obxstiles @yuminako @hopexcroc @mackycat11 @knowugetdejavu @0puddleofgender0 @callsignwidow @i-heart-emos @eddiesdrummergf @suckerforblondies @homebyeleven @bookworm-center @kawliflo @https-evan2 @ihrtzku @strawberryapplesauce13 @captainshischier @vbbaby-girl @honeysmoonn @itssmandiee @kinderwh0r3 @willsdills @americanbluebirdrb @bokutos-biddys @ln4author @lqclercs @czennieszn @laveens-pearl @inlovewithcarsthatrunreallyfast @aerangi @taygrls @ilamara @hanjiiberry

hi my loves! i am so so sorry for disappearing for a bit, school was getting horrible during the second semester and i found very little motivation. i rested all of july and i am hoping to update this series, along with posting a luke one i've written for the past few months, throughout this month! i think i've mostly tagged all the people that requested to be a part of the taglist, forgive me if i missed you or tagged you twice.

how are you guys doing?

please stay safe and drink water, i'm proud of you <333

[lavenderlyncis]

Join me in reviewing Olivia Rodrigo's album GUTS. I've waited years for this!!

all-american bitch - 9/10, big fan. I love it when she screams because the world is unfair. same girl, same

bad idea right? - 10/10. I know this one is controversial but I LOVE her more punky songs, I think that's when she's best

vampire - 10/10. I'm not always a fan of piano ballads, but the bridge and outro really make it for me. The hurt turning into anger and despair is just so cathartic. And the video is one of my faves of all time

lacy - 1000/10. What the hell. Did not expect to feel this much emotion from that title. Uhhh... yeah, same. I super relate to that. Whether or not lacy is supposed to be a real person or a manifestation of the beauty standard, this hits. Also, idk if I'm making this up but I dig the romantic undertones, they sell it

ballad of a homeschooled girl - "I made it weird, I made it worse"/10. OLIVIA HOW DID YOU KNOW that I lie awake thinking about all the weird things I did and said, Olivia, did you write this for me specifically??? Every day I am alive IS social suicide. I'm sorry, this is my song, actually. "Can't think of a third line", she's so real

making the bed - "I'm playing the victim so well in my head"/10. How. Does. She. Do. It? I could write an entire essay about this song. Maybe THIS is my song?? She's so good at saying exactly how I feel. I already know that this song will play a million times on my phone. Also I love the drivers license references. Big fan of the making the bed metaphor

logical - 9/10. favourite crime vibes. She's good with these songs about bad relationships. Used to be my favourite thing she did, but now I'm more invested in the songs that are about her/other experiences. That being said this song is really fucking good. This is the Olivia I fell in love with and she's still amazing at doing piano ballads

get him back! - 9/10. Olivia having ANOTHER song with speak-singing where she wants to get back with her ex?? Yes, PLEASE. Bad idea right 2.0. Fucking obsessed

love is embarrassing - 10/10. I said it before I'll say it again, angry Olivia is the best. And she's right, love IS embarrassing as hell

the grudges - 10/10. She does the paino ballads SO WELL. I think this is my favourite one on here. Because, wow, yeah, that is how it is

pretty isn't pretty - i can't rate this/10. GOD, I love it when she talks about insecurities. And don't think I don't see that skipping lunch line. It's sp hard to articulate how this song makes me feel. Especially since I've been low key comparing myself to her, even though we have entirely different bodies and faces. It's nice to know she also struggles with this. And she's right, you could do literally anything to change your appearance and you'd still be unhappy

teenage dream - 100000/10. "Is it recording? Of course it is.", the way I gasped. Okay, I love the interpretation of it ending with a child to be about growing up and childhood innocence. But the line she says?? Especially combined with the meaning of the song it feels a lot like it's about taking away youth by recording it and putting it out there just like she was supposed to be everyone's teenage dream as a child actor and young musician. This feels so personal to her while also being relatable to others. I'm 19 too, Olivia and I are born in the same year. And this is exactly how I feel about growing up. I hope it gets better, my teenage years were crap, I'm tired of being young, but it's also the only thing I can hold onto. I'm honestly terrified of turning 20. But hey, Olivia did it, so... it'll get better, right?

[kingconia]

Can we please please please PLEASE get a Vice Warden version of the "Reader is the characters favorite celebrity"

(obvi, Ortho is a child so if you add him make it platonic. But if you take him out maybe you can add Floyd instead! Plus RUGGIE CUZ HES THE UNOFFICIAL VICE )

Take your time and have fun with the request! If you end up not doing it, now worries lol!

A/N: I actually planned to do that for a while. Thank you for reminding me.

HOW TWISTED WONDERLANDS' VICE-HOUSEWARDENS ACT WHEN YOU ARE THEIR FAVOURITE CELEBRITY

Trey Clover. ❤️

— You are his favourite chef, of course. Who would've guess, right?

— You are a quite popular one, a former student of the Royal Academy, and very controversial figure in the media world, because... Well, you are quite talented, yes, but your attitude is just... Awful;

— Trey doesn't see anything that bad in your character, though! You might appear rude to adults, but he just loves how gentle you are with kids! Gordon Ramsay kinnie, you see;

— He is so. So. Happy, when Riddle accidentally asks you to be a chef for his birthday. A very lucky accident.

•

”Did I make that right?” Ace asks nervously, glancing at the bowl in his hand.

An event that Riddle Rosehearts plans is huge. Thousands of quests from all houses, completely different kitchens for each of them... So, of course, when students of Heartslabyul suggested to help you, you were happy.

Until you realised that they are chronical idiots.

You feel your blood boil, hands curling in fists.

Just how in the world this boy managed to mash raw carrot in fucking puree, when you asked him to cut it merely?! How?!

”You stupid donkey!” A yell that escapes your lips makes another two students, Deuce and Cater, shiver in fear. ”Get off!”

Ace instantly puts bowl on the table, taking a step back.

”M-me?”

”All of you!” You hiss, glaring at three of them. ”Out of this kitchen, idiots. And never, ever, come back here again!”

They shrink, running away instantly. You sigh in relief, but then, catch another figure, a taller one, moving after them.

Trey Clover.

”Hey,” you call for him, calmer this time. ”Where do you think you are going?”

Trey glances at you, completely surprised.

”Y/n-sama told everyone to leave,” he bows his head respectfully.

”Only to idiots,” you huff. ”You can stay, Trey.”

You actually noticed that out all of them, he worked more effectively. He knows how to cook, clearly, and he does so quickly and wordlessly. So, if anyone's help would be truly useful, it is his.

”...That would be a big honour for me, Y/n-sama.”

You smirk.

”Yeah, yeah. Come on. Let's finish here.”

Ruggie Bucchi. 💛

— You are his favourite true-crime blogger, lol. He watches your videos as he eats, and it annoys everyone, which also sometimes leaves him more food;

— You are actually not worldwide popular. You are just a student from NRC, from the Ignihyde, and sometimes, he catches your figure lurking around;

— Ruggie supports you from his side account, leaving a lot of comments, and likes, making other Savanaclaw watch videos, too. There is nothing more soothing that listening a gentle voice explaining how someone's body was dismembered, after all!

— Once, you decide to start a special event week: a true crimes connected to each house of the NRC. And Ruggie is especially exited for Savanaclaw video, only to find out that...

•

”Ah, you are Ruggie, correct?”

Ruggie flinches.

He recognises this voice from everywhere.

When he turns to the sound of the voice, he founds you, his favourite person in the world, standing in front of him. You look shy, as if it is not you, who constantly speaks of murders so eagerly.

”Y-yeah, hello, Y/n.”

...Shit, he shouldn't know your name.

”Hi!” You wave your hand. ”I am so sorry to bother you, but, I am busy with a project right now... It is connected with crimes in different locations that representing houses here. And, I spoke with Leona-sama this morning...”

Wow, you really caught Leona Kingscholar in the early morning? Awake? It is another proof for Ruggie's PowerPoint presentation about how cool and perfect you are!

”...But he told me that if anyone is better informed about crimes in Savanna, it is you, since, well, your class differences... I am so sorry, did it sound rude?”

Ruggie had never been happier to be poor.

”You came to the right person,” he exclaims with the coolest expression he has in his arsenal. ”Don't worry, Y/n. I will be your guide in the most darkest parts of the Afterglow Savanaclaw.”

You beam. He tries look collected, but fails.

”Ah, Ruggie, you are the best!”

It is going to be the best week in his life!

Leona-sama:

Brat

Firstly, she is fucking scary

Secondly you owe me for this one

Jade Leech. 🩵

— You are his favourite photographer. At first, you only share your works at art exhibitions, but recently you created a page in the Magicam, to have more connection with your followers;

— Jade is amazed by the way you see this world. How gracefully you present the nature, how gently you portrait people, and how skillfully you froze time! Ah, you are amazing!

— Jade always tries to see more of the world that was closed to him before, and your works are a great help for him;

— ...He is absolutely stunned, when Azul tells him that payed you to come to the opening of the renewed Monster Lounge as the photographer, though.

•

Jade is... Slightly frustrated.

To think, that Azul had an opportunity to employ a walking talent for a few hours, and he used this chance to take photos of the Lounge... Impossible!

He sighs.

He respects Azul, of course, but sometimes he is such a baby.

”Good evening,” Jade greets you with a polite smile on his face, hoping to conceal his genuine amazement. ”How is here to your liking?”

You are straightening your back, stopping taking pictures of the main hall. As you turn to Jade, your eyes lit up curiously.

”You must be... Jade, correct?”

You know his name.

”Indeed, I am,” he nods.

”Thank you, it is fine,” you shift from one foot to another, and he can say there is something you want to do. ”Ah, excuse me, but... Can I ask you something?”

Jade nods again, tilting his head on the left. What with your great mind came up this time?

”...Am I allowed to take a few photos of you?”

Now, it is his turn to be surprised.

If anything, Jade has never been an interesting subject for others' eyes. But here you are, his favourite person in the world, wishing to take his photos—

”Are you sure?” As you nod vigorously, he can't help but laugh shortly. ”Then, of course. Do as you please.”

But if you see it in him, something charming and breathtaking, then there are must be he something. Because you are never wrong.

...And when on the next morning, Azul asks him to explain why the fuck there is Jade's photos instead of Monster Lounge's, as they had an agreement with you, he shrugs.

’You asked me to show others the beauty of your Lounge,’ you write Azul later, absolutely unremorseful. ’And I did.’

Oh, you can't even understand how happy you made a certain someone!

Floyd Leech. 🩵

— Do you know those accounts of tarot and astrology readers, who constantly goes live to speak with audience and made them an online reading? Yes, Floyd adores you for this;

— I feel that he sincerely curious about all this stuff, and though, at first, it was only an aesthetic interest as he found you pretty, now, he is too deep in this to pull out;

— He listens to your everyday advice videos religiously, and I am not even kidding. He trusts you too much, and at some point Jade starts worrying about him;

— Floyd is absolutely reckless and shameless, so, of course, he decides to make a first move unexpectedly and openly.

•

”Since it is a Lover's day, I might as well today be more focused on romantic readings,” you warn, shuffling cards in your hands, eyes fixated on the chat. ”So, write first name of yours, and, your lover's, and both of your ages. Will see how it goes.”

Tarot cards have been a huge part of your life since you were a kid, watching your mom and aunt doing that, whispering quietly. It was only natural that eventually you became an esoteric, too.

It is not your work or main to-do thing, more like a hobby, and an instrument to help others. And most of the time, you are doing it for free. Unless, someone wants to pay you, of course.

”Hm, who is here...”

You see a familiar username.

Floyd Leech is a quite constant fan of yours, always liking your videos, commenting them ridiculously, and asking questions about this and that. So, you decide to start with him. Just ouf of respect.

”Floyd, seventeen and... Y/n, whatever your age is,” you read out aloud.

As you understand what that meant, your cheeks flush instantly. You almost drop your tarot on the floor.

Is he trying to hit on you?! Just like that?!

”I... Uhm...”

What should you do? You spoke with him a few times, yes, and it has been more or less fine? Yet... Urgh.

You take a random card from the bottom of it.

Lovers.

Shit.

”You have some good chances here, Floyd” you finally manage to say that aloud, looking away from camera. ”Just be more forward. And private.”

There is no answer—or it gets lost in many new comments—and you distract yourself with other followers. Until a notification appears on the top of your phone.

Floyd_Leech:

hi :)

You almost groan.

What an impossible man?!

Jamil Viper. 🧡

— Might be not entirely accurate, but you are his favourite book critic! I feel, like whenever Jamil has some time to himself, he reads, and if he doesn't, he listens to all these podcasts or three hours long videos about why a certain book good or bad;

— He finds you accidentally, and since then obsessively checks out your every video, even the oldest ones. Puts notifications on. Follows on other social media. Loves your content;

— He is definitely a more quiet supporter. He likes your videos, but never comments them. So, there is no direct contact between two of you;

— At least, until he bumps into you by accident. In Scalding Sands. On the summer holidays. How insane is that?

•

Jamil knows that you travel a lot, he has seen your highlights in Magicam, but how could he expect to meet you in the bazar of all places?! This place is noisy, awful and there is nothing beautiful or picturesque! What would you do here? And with a book in your hands, too.

”The sands of Love,” title says.

It sounds ridiculous already.

”Shit,” you hiss, rubbing his shoulder with your free hand. ”I am sorry.”

”Please, be careful,” he murmurs quietly, trying to act normal as if he doesn't update your channel every morning and night in the search of new content.

Anyway, Jamil is slightly freaking out. Just a little.

”I am trying, but this book is so awful, I want to die,” he chuckles fondly, a familiarity of your words that you say so often from the screen on his phone, softening him. ”You know, I bought this goddamn book, and the setting of it is here, like, in Scalding Sands. So, I came here to check some details. Like traditions, and, and stuff. And you know, it is all a fucking bullshit—”

So, you made your way to here just to... Criticise an obviously bad book with even more reasoning?

God, he loves you.

”...And, and...” You stutted. Blushing suddenly, you sigh. ”I am so sorry. I shouldn't be dumping that on you.”

Jamil tries his best to offer you a rare smile of his.

”Oh, but I am interested now. Would you mind continue telling me about this book?” He can't help but notice how cutely your eyes lit up. ”But not here, obviously. Please, let's go. I will find a quieter place for you.”

...Seems, like all his luck was saved just for this moment to happen, because you actually follow him, continuing your blabbering.

What a beautiful day it is.

Rook Hunt. 💜

— You are his favourite opera singer! When Rook sees you for the first time, he is in awe. Your beauty, your voice — it is everything. He knows, just from the first sight, that he will be a Phantom of Opera for your Christine;

— He buys the best, and I must stay, the most expensive places for your opera, but keeps himself hidden away for a while. Doesn't need to be seen, he is in his studying sessions;

— Rook is not pleased if you are not a leading singer. He will make everything for this fact to change in future. Would giggle if overhears you saying how lucky you are... If you want him to be your luck, then so be it;

— When Rook is sure that his work more or less done, and he is ready, he will finally meet with you personally.

•

”It is a shame I never noticed you before,” you shake your head, cheeks darkened from the amount of complements you had heard in past ten minutes. ”And you've been here for me from my debut? I am so flattered...”

A boy in front of you smiles eagerly, pressing another warm kiss on the back of your hand.

”Ah, mon inspiration, it is me who is blessed and grateful for being able to witness something so beautiful and generous... The rise of the angel of Opera, indeed!”

His eyes are shining with a pure awe. You almost squirm, when Rook falls on his knees, cheek pressing to your well-kissed hand. You are fighting a wish to caress his cheek just as you do with your cat at home.

”If Gods ever existed, at least one of them, it must be you, their last creation, a gift for dying civilisation!”

”Ah, Rook,” you giggle, getting more and more shy with each second. ”Please... Maybe, you want to... See with me later? Beyond these walls? I mean... Don't get me wrong, of course, it is just...”

It might be a risky movement, you know. Yet, you can't help but feel attracted to the person, who stares at you as if you are the Creator yourself.

”I would be more than glad, mon ange,” his voice becomes quieter, yet, a little more nervous. ”I love that one café in front of this opera, if you care to know. I often order there their special drink... The fall of the Devil, isn't it?”

You blink in surprise.

”That is my favourite, too!” You exclaim enthusiastically.

”Really?” Somehow, he doesn't really look surprised. ”Well, then, after getting drinks, we, perhaps, could see the Art Gallery... Had you ever seen a whole room dedicated to the minerals from different countries? It is my favourite one.”

Your chest warms.

”Mine too!”

You hope it doesn't look like you try to impress him by mirroring his answers, but it is really this way.

Seems, like Rook just knows everything you love!

”I feel like we are a perfect match, mon destin.”

And, somehow, you can't disagree.

Lilia Vanrouge. 💚

— This man is hard to impress... But, you are his favourite... Psychologist. Alright, I know it sounds ridiculous, but I think, considering the fact that he was the general for a long time, never caring about human emotions before, and then suddenly adopted three idiots, and that with having his own trauma, he takes a great interest in the psychology;

— So, when he accidentally finds your account, where you speak of different problems, navigate people through theirs, and merely discussing different situations in the world from the point of psychology, he dives in;

— I don't think that Lilia goes on appointment, though. I think, he masters psychology through your channel, instead. He is such a self-taught and crazy-ass talented person;

— When you are invited to work as a school psychologist in the NRC, since Crowley realised that overbolts might or might not be because of lacking a one, Lilia is actually really excited. And he doesn't hide it!

•

”Seeing how mature you are, how healthy you analyse all these situations with overbolted students,” you make a small sip of tea, smirking shortly, ”I can't help but feel slightly proud of myself.”

Lilia laughs quietly, extending you more chocolate muffins that he obtained from the cafeteria just for you.

Since from the first day, two of you became a great friends. And, though, of course, it is you who should take care of him—since he is a student as well—Lilia yet can't help but worry about how much you work, skipping meals constantly, because, apparently, everyone wants your help.

”You are great at what you are doing, Y/n-sama,” he smiles mischievously.

Though both of you are quite old, centuries of life long ago left behind, there is a certain childishness inside of you, that you prefer to call a healthy life enjoyment. A term that Lilia now uses every time when someone tries to lecture him about being too immature.

”Thank you, thank you, Lilia-kun,” you bow your head jokingly. ”But, seriously, I need a proper schedule with all of these kids. But they just can't stop coming... I don't know what is so traumatising about this school, honestly. It is about lessons?”

Lilia laughs.

”Maybe. I mean, my genuine wish to start a massacre returns sometimes, when headmaster comes on our lessons...”

You smack him slightly, chuckling softly.

”I see, now. Honestly, after meetings with him, I too, search for the professional help...”

As both of you laugh, Lilia watches you relaxing eventually.

Ah, who would've thought that a person who helped him unconsciously once, would eventually became his friend?.. What a crazy world he lives in!

[taranida]

Alan Thomas "Scratch" Wake-Za(Sei)ne or 665-???-667 or the Alan headcount; part 2

The second part is finally here. It took most of my time: the Alans I’ve discussed in the first part are, aside from Awan, I guess, pretty straight forward, no big revelations, not much conflicting facts. Now we step into the territory of the Alans, who spark arguments and never-ending questions of their true nature.

This part, as was the first, will be split in sections for each Alan we have, list of the things we know that I deemed relevant (and didn’t forget to mention in this jumbled mess) for the theory; and a bit of dissecting of some of the points.

If you didn’t read the first part it is strongly advised, since once upon a time it was one theory and parts are heavily intertwined. There we took a look at Alan from the first game, Alans from the DLCs, Imaginary Barry, Alan from AWAN, and Noir-Casey. Now we will take a look at more controversial Alans. I know some of them will raise a lot of questions, but bear with me.

A fair warning, it is a lengthy read, maybe take some snacks and drinks and hop in for a ride. And before we begin, allow me to introduce alternative covers for this mess; to set the mood, yaknow:

I'm not sorry.

As promised, I will put the AW1 Alan here as well, as he’s our best baseline for the character. There are few new points, but for those who will read parts back to back, I put them at the very start of the list.

Alan Wake before and during 2010.

I’ll call him just Alan; so, what do we know about him:

Alan considers Alice to be his muse.

Alan has a Number One Fan—Rose Marigold.

Alan was born in 1977… or 1978-1979, the guide for AW states he was 31 in 2010, the memorial in AWII reads 1977-2010; go figure.

Alan was born in New York or moved there at a very young age, since he and Barry, who grew up in New York, were childhood friends.

Alan was born with a condition that made him sensitive to light to the point of being blinded by it and prone to migraines.

Alan never knew his father and was raised by his mother, Linda Wake, who had mental issues and spent a lot of time in various institutions while Alan was growing up. Alan was deeply affected by the absence of his father or a father-figure in his life.

Alan had crippling nightmares as a child before his mother gave him the Clicker.

Alan’s first published story was “Errand Boy,” which centred around a broken and twisted father-son relationship, horror, and a lighthouse occupied by the creatures that might’ve been an inspiration for the Taken.

Alan’s first serious writing gig was being a semi-regular writer on the Night Springs show. He hated it, by the way, felt that it was trash, and he was not a real writer. But he got over it; Night Springs ended up being a huge part of his personality.

Alan might’ve taken a job as a night watchman, carrying a gun and torch, in hopes of getting inspiration for his stories; as he states in one of the manuscripts, his first passion was crime. It was a boring gig, but at least he ran into Alice.

Alan is madly in love with Alice and cannot live without her.

Alan also knew that Alice actually can live without him and was always afraid that she will leave him, not allowing himself to truly believe that she loves him.

Alan’s first novel was about Alex Casey; the series grew and brought him success that he didn’t handle well. Parties, fights, substance abuse—all this rock-star lifestyle BS.

Alan considered only two people being close to him: Barry and Alice. And they didn’t get along well, although both care about him and genuinely love him, as he did in return. We have no information about what happened to his mother and what relationship he had with her.

Alan hit a writer’s block after the last Casey novel and his state started to deteriorate. He was moody, angry, and quick to lash out; the rock-star BS intensified. This drove his marriage to a breaking point.

Alan’s involvement in the vacation is unknown; he did say in one of the flashbacks that he wants a vacation for him and Alice, but Alice surely was the one to arrange everything and choose Bright Falls.

Alan forgot more dreams about the Dark Presence than Clay Steward remembers.

Alan had nightmares on a regular basis at the start of the first game; if it’s connected with giving the Clicker to Alice is unknown.

Alan had anger issues.

Alan was a sceptic.

Alan wrote everything that happened in 2010, taking inspiration from Tom Zane’s books, he found in the shoebox in the cabin, and advice from his non-human editor Barbara Jagger. His scepticism didn’t stop him from writing supernatural events and Lovecraftian beings.

Alan, even at the time of the first game, had very strict rules about how exactly he should write to make fiction come true. He presents it as some sort of hunches or a writer’s wisdom.

Alan can manipulate time.

Alan ate the Dark Presence and enslaved the Bright Presence.

Alright, maybe the last fact was a bit too exaggerated, but it’s not without truth. Alan did indeed enslave the Bright Presence (and, frankly, everyone who has been mentioned in the manuscripts, plus some others, whose manuscripts Alan didn’t find), but the deal with the Dark Presence is a bit more nuanced. His last words, before he sat down to write “the ending to the story,” effectively rewriting the whole loop we just witnessed in the game, were about balance. Knowing what we know now, Alan might’ve consumed the Dark Presence’s powers whilst banishing her, effectively becoming too large of a presence himself to leave the Dark Place, or he took her place because, as he said, the scales have to balance, everything has a price; the price of killing the Dark Presence and freeing Alice from the Dark Place is staying in the Dark Place (as he himself believes in AWII) with complimentary Scratch in your head. Both of those possibilities have supporting evidence, and it doesn’t really matter which one of them you choose to believe; they lead to the same outcome.

Being consistent af, I will address the third fact(-ish?): as far as I know, no extra material was deemed non-canon, therefore the guide for AW is still a source one can use. Yes, it has some conflicts with the games, but the games have some conflicts with the games, and given the loops, memory issues, and the nature of this story, that has no need for retcons (‘tis just another loop, mate!), I’d say Alan just doesn’t remember his own birthdate and changes it on a whim. Or there might be another reason, drawn from other sources, that have nothing to do with our story.

Honestly, I’m not sure other facts need any clarification; people who will read this surely know a thing or two about Alan Wake. Moving on.

Now to the part proper. As it goes in this blog, we will start with Thomas Zane (honestly, I never have thought that in my RCU theory blog I will spend so much time talking about—of all people—Tom Zane)—the real one, not a Finnish knock-off, and his Bright Presence version. I’ve written extensively about him, so I will try to be as brief as possible. So let’s make a step back into AW1.

Thomas Zane

What do we know from several in-universe sources about Tom and his, let’s say, legacy, Meaning the Bright Presence using Tom’s identity, of course. I don’t see a point in splitting the two, it will be explained later.

Tom was a very famous poet. If we are to believe Alan’s taste—a good one.

Tom wrote—at some point in his life—about Lovecraftian horrors lurking beneath Cauldron Lake.

Tom might or might not be a local of Bright Falls, nowhere it is stated if he moved there or was born there, we simply have no information about this.

Tom was a passionate diver.

Tom lived in the cabin on Diver’s Isle, which he owned; we have no idea for how long he was occupying the place, but he was an important part of the Bright Falls community, so much so, the Isle was called after his diving hobby. So, probably, he was occupying the isle for a long enough time.

Tom might or might not been in contact with the Old Gods of Asgard; it is never stated that they were acquaintances, but the boys knew about Tom’s existence at the very least, calling him “the other writer”. Also, in the diner the boys seem to be happy to see “Tom”.

Tom dated a local girl Barbara Jagger; they were not married, as I saw people believing this was the case, but it was not so. Tom considered Barbie a piece of the puzzle, that brought everything in his life together. He was never a very happy man before he met her, she changed that with ease, being young, vibrant and full of life. He fell for her fast and she became his muse.

Tom had a Number One Fan—Cynthia Weaver.

Tom was scared of how his writing had power beyond that of a regular art, even if a very good one, and if not for his assistant, he would’ve given up. This assistant was Emil Hartman.

Tom wrote Barbie back after she tragically drowned in July 1970. She came back with a complimentary Dark Presence inside.

Tom tried to kill the Dark Presence that took over Barbie by cutting its (filled with darkness) heart out first and then diving into Cauldron Lake with it.

Tom tried to shif+del the Dark Presence and all the horrors he unleashed by writing himself, Barbie, his works out of existence.

Tom left a shoebox with his books in Bird Leg Cabin, containing a poetry of his, probably published at some point.

Tom wrote the Last Poem, his masterpiece; after the Dark and Bright Presences claimed his and Barbie’s bodies, he recited it as he was diving deeper into Cauldron Lake, creating a baby universe, where he and Barbie could live happily ever after.

Tom was memorialised at Cauldron Lake Lodge by Emil Hartman.

Tom left a loophole—shoeboxes, knowing that there might come a time when they will be needed.

Tom, after the ordeal with the Dark Presence and diving into Cauldron Lake, saved Cynthia with his light, tasked her with guarding a shoebox of his, and consequentially ruined her life, making her the town’s crazy lady. He enforced all this by keeping contact with her: talking to her via television, from beyond, from below.

Tom might’ve written a manuscript, describing how Alan came into possession of the Clicker in his childhood and how he used it in 2010.

Tom entered Alan’s dream to teach him about the danger of the dark.

Tom saved Alan from the Dark Presence with his light, freeing Alan from the cabin.

Tom was the one to scatter the manuscript pages around. Or, how he said, “deliver them in the right place at the right time,” but as a person who did collect all the manuscripts, I would beg to differ.

Tom is elevated enough to have the knowledge of the Dark Place’s concept of geography, let’s say.

Tom is elevated enough to influence the Dark Place.

Tom is elevated enough to know and use means of communication within the Dark Place without meeting face to face.

Tom never explicitly stated that he wants to escape the Dark Place, but he did search for the way out.

Tom knows about means of communicating with the real world from the Dark Place.

Tom helped Alans from the DLC for the first game to reunite.

Tom’s number is 667.

This is the list of the things the first game, This House of Dreams, and The Alan Wakes Files (together with the guide for AW1) want us to believe. I’ve scrutinised most of them already (literally just look at my first theories), so I won’t go into details. Let’s just say, most of it doesn’t add up. Tom wrote himself, his works, and achievements out of existence, but couldn’t write out Cynthia’s articles? They surely weren’t in a shoebox, Barry was in the archives, I highly doubt that whomever works there keeps old newspapers in shoeboxes for forty years, or that Barry wouldn’t take an opportunity to throw a jab at the “yokels” if that was the case. Tom wanted to make people forget him as if he never existed, but people didn’t. An argument might be made, that Hartman, Cynthia and Andersons are an exception, due to their tight connection to the powers of Cauldron Lake, yet Hartman notes in his diaries in Control, that regular townsfolk had encountered Tom after the eruption that destroyed Diver’s Isle. And he was memorialised! Even forty years after his dive, the memorial (absolutely not in a shoebox) still clearly reads his name, occupation and connection to Hartman for anyone to see. So, Tom kinda-sorta wrote himself out of existence, but kinda-sorta didn’t.

It is alluded that Tom knew that the horrors, unleashed onto our world, were not as much of a result of him writing Barbie back, but a result of him just writing. He even wanted to stop, only for Hartman to convince him to continue. Tom only bothered to do something decisive because he wanted to save his lover. There is a connection here.

In This House of Dreams, we have the line “he’d tried everything he could think of to banish it from her, but everything had failed” about Tom’s efforts to bring the real Barbie back, yet his only known action was… cutting her heart out? I mean, okay, maybe at that point he was more concerned with not allowing the Dark Presence to taint Barbie’s body, accepting that his beloved muse is dead, then again, he willingly gave up that body in the Last Dive. We can write it off as actions of a desperate man, who couldn’t think clearly and consistency wasn’t on the table, but still, we know of no other attempts to free Barbie from the Dark Presence. It went from, as Cynthia pointed out, not understanding that something is wrong, to cutting the heart out and writing them both out of existence. Sounds awfully like a first messy attempt at saving the muse.

The usefulness of writing himself out of existence is a whole other can of worms. Why did Tom leave a shoebox with his books in the cabin? It’s a small detail, that can be glanced over; after all, he left many of his possessions in the cabin, not planning to ever return. Yet the books, unlike everything else, that, we know was preserved just fine (who the hell brought the damn rocking horsie in the cabin ffs?), were placed in a shoebox. If Tom didn’t have a habit of arranging things in shoeboxes, he did it deliberately. Why then we have another shoebox under Cynthia’s care? Let’s quickly deal with the habit of placing things in shoeboxes: there is not even one evidence he was wont to do so. Tom didn’t want the isle to go down then? He wanted, but he wanted to save the books on the bottom of the (bottomless) lake and it’s a pride thing? It doesn’t make any sense as is; but if we consider the cabin as a place of power, the picture starts to become clearer. Tom wanted those books to be found, he placed them in a shoebox for a reason. And I don’t believe he was the cause of the eruption; I would bet it was caused by the Dark and Bright Presences battling after the Last Dive, or just a disaster, that had nothing to do with anything supernatural. But a more plausible explanation: the cabin was never drowned before Alan got into DP!Barbara’s trap. And from the options of how exactly the isle went down, I would bet on the version with the Presences battling. It makes more sense, since in the mines Alan hears Alice’s voice and finds Cynthia’s sign, pointing that the way leads to Cauldron Lake; it’s probably an active threshold, that was opened in 1970 and caused the eruption. Dates add up as well, Barbara drowned on 10th of July, the eruption happened on 18th of July. This eruption, btw, left Bright Falls with no power for approximately 24 hours, which smoothly leads up to the next point.

Cynthia claimed that she was saved by Tom’s light, but it is highly questionable. I would suggest, that this event happened after the end of Thomas Zane in our world and his replacement by the Bright Presence, possessing the body of Tom. In those 24 hours, when the town had no power, the Dark Presence could do whatever it wanted during nights, and “Tom,” the Bright Presence, could be there to save people with light. Or a person; because Cynthia, as he said, was needed. The Bright Presence is also the most likely candidate to be seen by the townsfolk, who recognised him as Tom Zane.

Since Cynthia’s involvement was mentioned, I will briefly talk about her. The woman’s life was completely destroyed, and not by the Dark Presence’s touch; by Tom (or, more accurately, the Bright Presence, but I will refer to the entity, that screwed Cynthia’s life here as “Tom” as she believes it was him) and his scheming; she was reduced from a normal person with a good job and maybe a hopeless crush (which is not a big deal, really, many people experience it) to a loony, obsessed with light, lamp, and guarding the shoebox with a piece of paper: changing the lightbulbs in the Well-Lit Room on a very tight schedule. Tom couldn’t give two shits about her, even though she was his and Barbie’s friend. He even went as far as to keep her leash as short as possible by contacting her via some crazy things. Another connection emerges. (I really wish one day I could write about Cynthia and the tragedy of her life; her story is the saddest in the whole AW.) There is one more thing to point out about Cynthia: she did her job splendidly—changed the lightbulbs, kept the Well-Lit Room safe, kept the town safe from darkness (to the best of her abilities, being crazy lady and all), yet she never glanced into the page. How much easier it would be for her to just read the message and pass it on at the right time? Instead, she was breaking her back, tending to Well-Lit Room and guarding the page. Another parallel.

Let’s address the Buck-Toothed Charlie in the room. Tom, presumably, wrote a page about Alan and the Clicker. I will leave the full text below, so we are on the same manuscript here:

Alan, seven years old, would fight sleep to the bitter end. When he did sleep, he soon woke up, screaming, the nightmares fresh in his mind. One evening, his mother, sitting by his bed, offered him an old light switch. She called it the “Clicker” and flicking the switch would turn on a magical light that would drive the beast away. To imbue the talisman with all possible power, she added that it had been given to her by Alan’s father. Alan never knew him, and anything of his took on mythical proportions in his mind. With the Clicker firmly in his hand, Alan finally slept like a baby. Now, almost thirty years later, Alan thought of this, as he stood on the rim of Cauldron Lake, the Clicker in his hand. He took a deep breath and jumped.

In one of the manuscripts we learn that Tom knew, that despite all his efforts, the Dark Presence might return one day; therefore, he wrote shoeboxes as a loophole. So, did he know that the Dark Presence might return or did he make sure by writing the Dark Presence return? Which is it? Because if he wrote that page about Alan, he wrote (implied, but Alan taught us that it might be even more powerful than what’s written directly) the return of the Dark Presence as well, the last paragraph is the most damning in that sense; but if he wanted a safeguard, he couldn’t possibly write Alan and the Clicker on the rim of Cauldron Lake, since he wouldn’t have known about the circumstances of the Dark Presence’s return. Looking at both possibilities we have:

Tom knew, orchestrated and guided everything that transpired in 2010. That means he did it for a reason. What reason? I have no idea, but if I were to speculate, I think there are a couple of options. First one: to kill the Dark Presence once and for all and free Barbie’s body (Barbie is the only force that can make him do something), not caring how many people will die in the process and how many more lives he will ruin (this also implies, he, not the Bright Presence, was the one to screw Cynthia, by writing her fate beforehand). Solid reason, goes somewhat fine with the character. Still, we can’t forget that Tom actually wanted to stop writing before Barbie’s death, maybe not as strongly as he should’ve, but he had some consideration for the world outside of his love nest. Would he really doom so many just to kill an entity, which for all he knew, might’ve never had an opportunity to come back? Another point for it is more in line with the second game: Tom created a hero that will set him free. There are several issues with this one. For a start, why would he create a hero, that will take forty years to arrive and do the deed? Alan was trying throughout all thirteen years he spent in the Dark Place, pushing the hero role onto multiple people, connecting stories to craft the perfect narrative, and still was shocked that it took him so long. And guess what? If Tom did write Alan as a hero, as a saviour, shaped his life, giving him all those powers, well, with all the might of this writing, he forgot to write the most important part: the escape itself! Neither Alan, nor Tom were freed as a result of the events of 2010. An argument might be made, that Tom was playing a longer game there; but let’s even assume, he was, indeed, preparing Alan to free him in 2010. For Tom forty years after the Last Dive the world would’ve been alien, everyone he loved dead, everything he cherished forgotten, everything he knew changed, yet he willingly gave the hero forty years? Or, if we consider the longer game: even more? It’s some cryonics phantasy more than anything at this point. The most important piece of information we have, that ruins this theory: Tom needs no saviour; he’s living “happily ever after” with Barbie on the private isle in the Dark Place. He’s not in the miserable loop, trying to find a way out, he’s the artist who made it in the Dark Place, who learnt how to use its power to his advantage and even reunite with his dead love. He’s exactly like the boys of OGoA in the end of the Final Draft—just chilling, happy to be with the person he lost.

Tom didn’t know how and when, he had nothing to do with the events of 2010, he just left the one and only shoebox (we know for sure about the one in the cabin; the one in Ordinary is questionable, and I’ll explain why the Well-Lit Room one is excluded), so if something were to happen, the unfortunate artist who got trapped in the Dark Presence’s web could harness some knowledge from his writings and story. But then he never wrote the manuscript, he never tasked Cynthia with protecting the shoebox and he never shaped Alan’s life. Whodunit? Alan. He knew when and how he should get instructions from Deus ex Machina, he wrote the whole story about what happened in 2010, he was controlling the powers that had access to the Clicker (that probably ended up in Cauldron Lake together with the cabin), he learnt about the shoebox in the cabin, a loophole, as he labelled it, he knew that the quest of finding the Lady of the Light should be the last step to finish the story. He has clear motivation, means and nothing really goes against it. Even after he reads the manuscript, he says “my mind swirled. I had given the Clicker to Alice. Yet it was here. Zane had written it into existence... in a story I had written” which puts Zane as a character in Alan’s story. In The Writer DLC the Bright Presence, an echo of Tom, says “I’m not the author of your story” and then refuses to elaborate when Alan presses him. This is the most we get on the topic of who wrote whom and what, and it’s quite clear.

Here will be a good time to also mention, that no matter why, the Bright Presence going by the name of Tom Zane was nothing but helpful to Alan. It weakened itself to free him from the cabin, it took the manuscripts to deliver them in the right place at the right time and then gave instructions on how to proceed into the cabin to confront the Dark Presence. In the DLCs the help extended to almost companion-like, even making Imaginary Barry jealous. The Bright Presence was a father-figure, which Alan always yearned for, and at that time Alan had more pressing matters on his mind, than to write himself friends. What I’m trying to say, he would be content with an ally, any ally to help him on the journey, not necessarily the one who’s kind and softly spoken. It’s not clear if the Bright Presence behaved this way because this is his true self, dragged into the story, or Alan did let his daddy-issues get the better of him. There is a lot of evidence that the Bright Presence is not a “good guy” by human standards, yet, he did acted with kindness and care, even if just for show.

Tom’s number is 667, as is marked on his diving suit.

This is a “quick” summary of the “real” Tom Zane and the Bright Presence, who at some point was acting in his name. Moving on to not-so-real finish Tom Zane, who, for the sake of clarity, I will call Seine.

Thomas Seine

Again, a list of things we know about him from some in-universe sources:

Seine was born in Finland.

Seine is an auteur and managed to make a name for himself in Europe. His film “Nightless Night” won a number of European awards.

Seine moved to US and changed his (perfectly fine) name to more Americanised “Zane”. His partner Baba Jakala moved with him and changed her name to Americanised Barbara Jagger, too. The extent of their relationship (was she his muse or not) is unknown.

Seine purchased an old manor (or commissioned it to an unknown architect, meaning it was brand new) outside the Bright Falls, which will eventually become Valhalla Nursing Home.

Seine planned to build Oceanview Hotel and a film studio in Bright Falls.

Seine established an artist commune in Bright Falls; members, aside from him and Baba, unknown.

Seine was a cult leader apparently, since the unknown members of his commune were seeing him as a person worth revering, and a shepherd of sorts, who guides his flock.

Seine was into “magic” mushrooms to reach a state of higher artistic inspiration.

Seine was in the process of filming “Tom the Poet” in Bright Falls; did the production start there or not is unknown.

Seine did finish the film. The film was lost.

Seine played his dark double (the poet, the writer, the diver, Thomas the Rhymer) in his films.

Seine mysteriously disappeared in 1970.

Seine is trapped in the Dark Place. He doesn’t like it there and wants to escape.

Seine doesn’t have Baba with him, her fate is unknown to the point, we cannot be sure if she’s even dead or alive.

Seine is elevated enough to remember some of the loops.

Seine is elevated enough to have the knowledge of the Dark Place’s points of interest, let’s say.

Seine is elevated enough to shape the Dark Place.

Seine is elevated enough to know and use means of communication within the Dark Place without meeting face to face.

Seine is elevated enough to know that he cannot die in the Dark Place.

Seine occupies his own puddle in the ocean of the Dark Place, which can be accessed via a projector.

Seine owns a cinema in the Writer’s City.

Seine is in a peculiar position to be able to change places with Alan.

Seine is scared of the police and FBC.

Seine claimed he worked with Scratch.

Seine, apparently, is of a high opinion of Scratch, calling him a magnificent visionary.

Seine’s number is 665.

As is seen from the list, there is a lot to be desired as to specifics. We have not much information about Seine and his whole life is a jumbled mess, yet where Tom’s life lacks a lot of details as well, we have the most important piece of information—how he ended up in the Dark Place. With Seine we have nothing. I will stand by the belief that it was done for a reason, to show that he has a potent ability to change reality, but not as refined and precise as that of Alan. Now, to be honest, Alan fucks up royally as well, but his reality-altering writing is coherent; he can use the neat little trick of “you suggest, they fill the blanks”; Seine cannot. That’s why we don’t know who was Baba, who were the members of the cult-commune, how did Seine end up in the Dark Place, why are all of his films lost, and why the hell does this man have so many god damn dark doubles. Honestly, if everyone around is a dark double, it’s time to look in the mirror.

Seine is an enigma: we have no manuscripts (or do we?) about him, no songs by the boys, nothing. Even the films, he presumably made before and around 1970 are based on the novels by Alan—both in the Dark Place and in our world as well. The manor he purchased or built appears to be a new addition to Bright Falls’ area as we can learn that not everyone remembers it to be there. The plaque in the Valhalla Nursing Home claims, that the manor was built for Seine in 1965, the news article about him claims, he purchased it and it was already old, on the manor itself we can even find the date: 1887. Which is it? Seine managed to insert himself as a filmmaker in the minds of many, but not everyone. Some still remember him as a poet. Most notably: Jesse, who is under the protection of Polaris, and Cynthia, who might be under the protection of the power of love (but most likely the Bright Presence’s light), of course, let’s not exclude Alan himself, who forgets everything, but at least twice has had a conversation about poet-filmmaker with Seine.

We have a manor that’s old, but new; career in poetry, but filmmaking; films that were made, but lost; films that were made before 1970, but based on the works of a not-yet-born writer; and a bunch of other contradictions. What was the artist’s commune? Who were the members? Why is it described as a cult-like in an article, that favoured Seine? How did Seine end up in the Dark Place? Why did the boys never-ever address his existence? And where are the magic mushrooms in the flashback of artistic collaboration with Alan?

Also, there is a question of appearance. In Control’s AWE Alan remarks that Seine looks different (from Zane), in AW2’s Room 665, he asks why Seine looks like him. In both cases Seine does look like Alan, but in AWE he has the same hairstyle, beard and even wears the same outfit (The Layered One), making a mirror-perfect image, yet Alan doesn’t comment on this. In Room 665 Seine wears Alan’s suit jacket from AWAN, cleanshaven, rocking leather trousers and, weirdly enough, has Alan’s wedding band as a necklace. A clear departure from a carbon copy we saw in AWE. I will talk more about it in a bit, but we have yet another Buck-Toothed Charlie in the room: the FBI detective Anderson has an option to look at Seine: in Suomi Hall and in Valhalla Nursing Home; needless to say, she doesn’t react, although one might think she’s quite familiar with Alan’s features to recognise his face even through a genius disguise of beardlessness. Does that mean Seine is not seen as Alan to people outside of the Dark Place, or is it a problem of a beholder, who doesn’t connect the movie made before Alan’s birth, but based on his work? Just food for thought.

Returning to the outfit. It is a clear departure from a carbon copy, but still Seine seems to be pretty attached to some things. The suit jacket is a minor thing, really, it looks cool, what else do you want? The wedding band on the other hand is questionable. In the article about Seine Baba is mentioned as his partner, not his wife of fiancée. For all we know, he could be preparing to propose or she could be just his first lady in a cult with all the dark shit that comes with it. The band may or may not have a meaning for the character of Seine, as he tried to write his life into reality. Or it might be there just to spite Alan.

Throughout the second game Seine does everything to manipulate and backseat Alan in the direction, not really beneficial for the both of them. He obviously has his own goal, that is—getting out of the Dark Place—and uses Alan. He’s not at all a friend to Alan and it’s clear from the very first phone call, where Seine probing if Alan remembers and assures “I got you now,” which has a sinister undertone: from now on Seine, indeed, got Alan—as a tool for his design. The second call cranks this subtle hostility to eleven, Seine asks about the progress, expresses his content with it, then hits Alan with a question about Alice—a low blow by any means, then he brings up the Dark Presence and Scratch (who, he’s surely aware, are the same entity). If it’s not a classic attempt at convincing someone that the only person, who has their best interest in mind, is the speaker, I dunno what is it. And this will only escalate. In the moment when Alan had enough time (even to adapt Rose’s fanfiction into a script as an attempt to escape) and desperately needs a friend like Tom Zane from the first game, he gets Seine, who, by all means, is not interested in truly helping. The scene with changing places in room 665 is one of the moments where Seine shows his real face and intentions; he’s not fazed when it doesn’t work, not at all. He has the whole cinema to try again: making Alan question if he’s the author or a character and trying to trap him in an endless loop. Note, that this draft of Initiation is the only one where Scratch doesn’t make an appearance.

Yoton Yo, that is shown at the end, spells what Seine tried to achieve. The cult leader returns in all of his sinister glory. The film even succeeded to a degree: there are similarities in the endings of AW2 and the film. Yoton Yo is truly a companion piece for Return, but in another showcase of prowess in reality-changing abilities, it only manifests when given a room: Ahti’s song, Casey being sort of a sacrifice and the final dialog between Alan and Alice, all those little things. Seine was not written into Initiation or Return, he inserted himself into those stories. Might be with the help of the Alan-ex-machina on the phone, but not by the Alan(s) we play as.

With all this in mind: Thomas Zane and Thomas Seine are not the same characters (yet they are the same entity at their core). Where Zane’s story is coherent and corroborated by multiple beings, Seine’s is not—it lacks consistency, always gets stuck in the narrative conflicts and falls apart at every turn.

Scratch

Scratch is the Dark Presence of AWII. He is a Dark Presence with unique qualities: he can actually create and he doesn’t need an artist to achieve his goal (but he wants one). Let’s just jump to the list.

Scratch is a Dark Presence.

Scratch can create, more so, if we believe certain someone, he’s a magnificent visionary.

Scratch is knowledgeable enough, but somewhat restricted by Alan’s previous experiences.

Scratch killed Alan multiple times; if we believe Alan, he also stole from him and desires to become him.

Scratch might have the memory problems Alan has.

Scratch has a tremendous paranatural power inside and outside the Dark Place.

Scratch can use anyone as a host in our world.

Scratch can use Alan as a host in the Dark Place, if he can use someone else, is not clear.

Scratch is overprotective over Alan, he kills him, yes, but he also kills Noir-Casey when Alan is threatened. One might call this a toxic obsession.

Scratch is in love with Alice, knows she’s alive, and was actually created from Alan’s love for Alice.

Scratch was named after Mr. Scratch, yet he’s a huge downgrade from a clever, charming and sadistic dark being we saw in AWAN.

Scratch is D!Alan on steroids: they both are Dark Presences, both can create, both are Alan, both represent the part of Alan that is nasty and angry, yet there is a notable difference.

Scratch doesn’t want to destroy Alan even after he’s won, he wants to reunite with Alan. In many ways Scratch is R!Alan who refuses to give up.

Scratch is insecure and wants to be admired, wants to be a real artist, revered for his genius and literary skill.

Scratch is made of contradictions: he kinda cancelled the Deerfest, and made Bright Falls a little less bright according to Pat, to… make an eternal Deerfest with sunshine and rainbows! He is a mindless monster, as he presents himself during the boss battles, but he is a patient planner, as we know from his time inside Alan’s head and then possession of Casey at the right time. Scratch is a ruthless killer, but he doesn’t kill Rose, who actually has the audacity to hide on his property, more so, after he has his way, no townsfolk are killed.

Scratch makes few appearances in Initiation: in the metro and in the hotel, he does a lil’ jumpscare in the cinema, but doesn’t participate much in this draft.

Scratch tricked and betrayed Seine, if we believe this soapy story.

Scratch and Alan were never seen in one room as doubles; one might say Scratch looks like a black cloud with photos of Alan, attached to it with a stapler.

Scratch’s number might be 666.

To clarify some of the points. As stated, we never saw Scratch and Alan together in one room, Tim never saw Scratch, even Mr. Door never referred to Scratch directly, he talked about an evil double, but it doesn’t really mean he was talking about Scratch. As of now, we have to assume, that Scratch can operate only if he has a host: Alan that is; so his ability to write might manifest only when he possesses Alan. It would be quite hard to type as a destructive dark cloud with X-ray-like pictures of Alan attached to it. This point is also somewhat supported by BarbaraDP’s last words “I will find a new face to wear” as if she couldn’t do anything without a host. Taking all this, Scratch might be Alan unleashed: a magnificent visionary, because he couldn’t give a damn about the rules and hoops Alan created, or people he will hurt in the process, he just writes as he feels, and we know Alan himself have a pretty fucked up imagination. Scratch in his “magnificent visionary” mode is, probably, the greatest Master of the Dark Place on par or even stronger than D!Alan; and both of them are so powerful because of the same reasons.

Scratch, as Alan says, “got” him multiple times, and this is probably the times when Scratch was partying with Seine and writing the original Return. Or not partying, Scratch might’ve been hellbent on his task enough not to waste precious time before Alan will take control.

As a Dark Presence Scratch, obviously, has better awareness of the Dark Place and who’s in there, therefore his lines, when he chases Alan through the Wellness Centre about how everything will be theirs, including Alice, point to him knowing she’s alive and in the Dark Place; at this point Alan himself believes that she’s dead. And Scratch doesn’t need to use her as an incentive to harness Alan’s powers, he genuinely wants to just be, you know, happy: reunite with Alan and have it all, including their beloved wife. For him it is a happy ending, as Scratch puts it. Now here’s the question, that really bothers me: does Scratch know an easy way to free her from the Dark Place or does he refer to the entire world becoming the Dark Place therefore, the Wakes will be reunited? (Given his egotistic phantasies, obviously the latter, but it doesn’t mean he has no knowledge of an easy way out of the Dark Place.)

Scratch is a contradiction: with all the horror story elements he brought into Return, he also doesn’t have the Dark Presence’s tendencies we are used to. Yes, controlling people is bad, but he doesn’t want the world to be full of Taken, eternal darkness and whatever else BarbaraDP wanted; he wants it to be a happy place with a god-like Alan Scratch Wake (Seine’s cult-dreams are surely contagious). Which, to be fair, probably in a deeper way does align with what Barbara wanted, yet she lacked humanity, Scratch has plenty of it, no matter how twisted it is. Still, his quest for the world domination is not about what we saw before: for violence to have an oomph it lacks in the Dark Place, or feeding on suffering, or destruction for the sake of destruction; he just wants to be the most successful writer with the best wife (and fame, and worship, and everything revolving around him). Not the inhuman goals, let’s be honest.

Scratch might be a vessel into which Alan dumps everything he hates about himself, but he’s also the vessel for the determination and refusal to give up. In a way they are a twisted reflection of Alans from AW’s DLCs: Alan is the one who goes insane and wants to give up, let the waves carry him wherever, but doesn’t go on a mission to kill his other half; Scratch is the one capable of rational though and planning, but does try to kill Alan and is a Dark Presence. And “kill” here is pretty literal: Alan can die in the Dark Place, he just won’t stay dead, Scratch knows and abuses it. Even after Return was clicked to come true, if Scratch catches Alan, the death screen looks like possession and resembles the first time Alan got got in the talk-show studio.

Scratch’s number might or might not be 666, he does make an appearance in the room 666, and Alan says he can feel that Scratch was there, but there are many questions, surrounding this room.

Now there is a question why exactly Scratch never makes an appearance in the cinema. I’d say this draft of Initiation is so heavily influenced by Seine, Scratch just doesn’t have a place there. But, wait, wasn’t the whole summary of Initiation, that we hear from Mr. Door at the very beginning about a writer, tormented by his evil double?

Moving on.

Alan Wake

Firstly, we need to establish that there are always multiple Alan Wakes. I’m not talking about figments of his imagination or even the shadows, that haunt the Writer’s City. At every given moment there is at least Alan-the-writer and Alan-the-character, where the former is the one who has the luxury of the TV, radio and the plot-board, and the latter is the one who’s roaming the Writer’s City, killing enemies, chatting with Tim and cosplaying a PI. But they are not the only Alans out there—there is the same pair of Alans in every loop and twist of the Spiral, countless Alans going through the motions at all times. I will talk only about those we see on the screen. (Oh, and Alan on TVs? I have no clue what he is. :D He might be a subconsciousness of either Alans we see, of some Alans from any other time, or even a memory, stored in a form familiar from the first game. I will exclude him altogether, there is not enough info to determine who he is, yet I will use his words.)

I would love to make a split for Alan-the-writer and Alan-the-character, but it’s already quite confusing with the amount of Alans we have highlighted only in this theory. So I will combine them and call them Wake for clarity. Before the usual list of relevant facts, let me quickly explain the difference between the Writer and the Character, and remind about the concept of the driver’s seat.

Last thing first: the driver’s seat was first introduced in The Writer DLC, when Alan entered Stucky’s gas station, complained about the location and remarked, that he was not the one in the driver’s seat. Which means, there is always an Alan in the driver’s seat, who determines the rules, and is in control (at least, more than others). Counterintuitively I would say in AWII the Character is the one in the driver seat, not the Writer. Yes, the Writer can reshape the Dark Place under some circumstances, but I would challenge the idea that the Writer is creating what the Character is experiencing—I think it's all just remnants of the previous loops—the Writer is documenting what’s happening, he's more of a tool. The Character is going through a hero’s journey and the Writer is just there to help, he’s that voice that narrates what’s happening, transforming a nightmare into a story. We rarely see the Writer having an insight that the Character doesn't have, but we see the Character having it all the time—the echoes come through him, the very first time we play as Alan, it is the Character, thinking there was no Dark Place in his life at all. Like in the first game we have the Character make his way to the cabin, in AWAN, again, Alan steps into the shoes of the Character; in AWII the Character makes the story, sees the echoes, learns about Alice and even if he dies, the Writer dies too, yet if one really thinks about it, it should be vice-versa: if the Writer stops writing, the Character dies, but if the Character dies, the Writer can write anything from new protagonist to resurrection. The only times when they are merging or meeting is when the Character steps into the real Writer’s Room, accessing from the apartment in Parliament Tower.

There is another Writer, who, I believe is not a mere tool, as those two; but we will talk about him a bit later. For now, I just wanted to establish who is in the driver’s seat—Alan-the-character. With that out of the way, to the important points:

Wake gave up. Multiple times actually.

Wake is a shadow of his former self; no matter what other Alan we look at, Wake is the most confused, scared, lonely, uncertain and needs a hug (even completely insane D!Alan, albeit, with questionable desires, comes off stronger and with clearer goal). And it started even before Control’s AWE.

Wake’s memory is practically non-existent, it’s just a suggestion. Throughout the game we see some improvement, but we start with him thinking, that he never experienced 2010 and needs to come back home to Alice by dinner.

Wake is not of sound mind. He didn’t lose all his marbles, but surely has a shortage in that department.

Wake somehow managed to strike a friendship with Ahti.

Wake somehow managed to involve Mr. Door into his plans: at least two times. Mr. Door is playing the role of the host on In-Between and also a host for Night Springs. If there is any other things Mr. Door is forced to perform for Alan is unknown as of now. I would pile that up with the manuscripts about Door in 80’s and the one Tim transported into the Dark Place; Alan giveth, Alan taketh.

Wake shaped the Dark Place into the Writer’s City. The Return defines it not as “the Wake’s personal and shamelessly overgrown puddle,” but “the ocean that was the Dark Place itself.“

Wake also defined the Dark Place as Ahti’s bucket; but two things can be true at the same time.

Wake consciously controls time and aware of this ability of his.

Wake is bound by the rules and surroundings he himself created and imposed—in part to torment himself.

Wake leans into the darker themes, believing them being more effective for achieving goals.

Wake has to go through the Hero’s Journey of Initiation before he can attempt to escape.

Wake goes through three separate yet connected drafts of Initiation and there is a forth one, that exists on its own.

Wake can be seen in one room with: other entities, such as Ahti, Door, and Tim; other Alans, such as Wake, Noir-Casey, Seine, and the dark cloud of Scratch.

Wake’s spiritual animal is an owl; an owl represents him and his.

Wake can reach into our world, creating thresholds right and left; he doesn’t fully understand how it works and the consequences.

Wake is elevated and tremendously powerful, his problem is not lack of ability, it’s lack of understanding and knowledge.

Wake can die but won’t stay dead in either worlds as of now.

Wake in creative collaboration with Alice created Scratch with the help of the bullet of light.

Wake can carry Scratch from the Dark Place to our world and back—in his head.

Wake can feel Scratch’s activity, but doesn’t understand much about it.

Wake can make Scratch do his dirty work in the Dark Place and in our world, “losing” the driver’s seat when it’s needed.

Wake is ready to return to his worst nightmare, sacrificing himself for the good of others and makes yet another leap of faith, believing Alice to be dead.

Wake has a peculiar case of a writer’s block at the end of Return.

Wake went through countless loops of Initiation-Return to arrive at the Final Draft.

Wake is the Master of Many Worlds.

Wake’s number might be 3. Just 3, yes.

That’s a weird collection of points, much was skipped, obviously. Let’s clear some of them up and get to the point, since it’s our last Alan to discuss before I will start drowning (meaning conclusion?). Through the points it can be seen, that from the most pathetic of Alans Wake goes to the most powerful one. He is, probably, Alan-ex-Phone at the end of the Final Draft. The second game is his Hero’s Journey, that he completed and his ascension, that happened at last, therefore we have conflicting points at the start and at the end.

Now, looking at all of it with the knowledge of the Final Draft, we can safely assume, that Wake’s state is self-imposed. He must remember nothing, he must be confused, he must not understand what’s going on, or he won’t act on his free will, won’t grow as a hero. The downgrade is needed for the story, because Wake has to suffer. Even the shape of the Dark Place, as written in the manuscript, is that of Noir-York just to torment Wake. Now, this manuscript is very important, the Door manuscript, that is given by Tim. First of all, it establishes that Wake turned the entirety of the Dark Place into the Writer’s City; everyone else, who has a puddle there, is a tenant for the landlord-Wake (and most of them are hating him and trying to kill him; sounds legit). Secondly, it shows how fucked up this ball of yarn of a story must be to meet the conditions. Multiple parties are being involved just into delivering this exact page: first the Door “allows” Wake to spy on him, then the page leaves the Dark Place, then someone has to find it to give it to Tim, for Door to snatch Tim away for him not to give up the manuscript too early, all this. It’s so overcomplicated, because Wake, as a true Alan is complicated. He gives powers right and left, making his “characters” immune to the story in the right moments or capable to decide when he can or cannot spy on them, when the mere name of any of them written on the page by his hand is already meaning he’s in control. Even Ahti has a mental breakdown because of Return, and he has the whole Dark Place in his bucket; the very Dark Place, which makes fiction, that torments him, come true.

I put the writer’s block here, because we have a similar case of Alan having a writer’s block in the middle of the story in 2010: when he tries to write something to give a ransom for Alice. Why both Wake and Alan have the same problem in the most important of times, only to have a spark of inspiration shortly after? Because they are in the story at those moments, if they will write a word, they might change the course of what was written.

Wake’s number. He doesn’t really have one, but everyone on this list were connected to a number, so I’ve decided why not? Wake is strongly associated with three: three drafts, three loops, three stories, three owls, three main players for Initiation, (only!) three costumes in the extra-menu… pardon me.

The Drowning

Time to explain myself, I guess. Let’s start with Tom Zane; he’s the first in the list and has a long history of being a suspect in the creation of Alan Wake. So, why do some think he wrote Alan and his story, when the Bright Presence on his behalf explicitly stated that he’s not the author of Alan’s story? Two things: the manuscript in the Well-Lit Room and he simply was first. Both might not be true.

With the manuscript in the Well-Lit Room, I assume, everything is quite clear; I explored the possible scenarios where Tom was the author in the section about Zane, but I will quickly recap it. Tom couldn’t write this manuscript without Alan writing him write it because Tom didn’t want the Dark Presence to return and the manuscript would be exactly that: writing the Dark Presence’s return. Tom also is content on his private isle in the Dark Place, as This House of Dreams states through the Bright Presence, so he has no business writing Alan’s Amazing Adventures in Bright Falls. This House of Dreams is twice canonised in Control and AWII and still is a valid source of information; Tom’s happy-ever-after is also confirmed by the boys of OGoA in Herald of Darkness. With this said, the whole first game is written by Alan, everything and everyone there is acting as he wrote them to act; therefore, the Bright Presence, being “Tom” in Alan’s mind, could produce the page, but the content of the page is what Alan wanted it to be. In other words, Alan, being an author of this story is an author of everything written by the characters of his story.

With Zane being first things get a bit more complicated. Let’s dive into the dark ocean of connections,time manipulations and other boring, mundane stuff. In the Zane section I pointed out how there are many things that connect Tom’s story with Alan’s story, I will recap them as well. Tom and Alan both are successful writers, have a muse for whom they are able to do unimaginable things, lost the muse to the Dark Presence in Cauldron Lake, were touched by the Dark Presence, wrote stories to defeat said Dark Presence, left behind a Number One Fan with a mission (who possesses the manuscript with a name of the “hero” for whom the manuscript is intended, and never reads it), a friend with traumatic memories, and townsfolk with PTSD and sensitivity to light. Now, this is surface connections, but if we dig deeper, we have more. Tor and Odin, after Alan is touched by the Dark Presence, recognise him as Tom; when Alan jumps into the lake, the Dark Presence literally pretends to be his muse and at the end of trying to coax him to go back to bed, slips up and calls him “Tom” as well. With all that Cynthia doesn’t recognise Alan as Tom’s double, and she would be most familiar with his features; as would be Hartman, who, as well, doesn’t see any similarities between Tom and Alan, aside from their reality changing powers. On the way to the cabin in the Dark Place, Alan hears a dialogue between Tom and Barbara, spoken with his and Alice’s voices. The lady on the photos in the Ordinary shoebox is fair-haired, instead of the Dark Presence’s dark-haired image. In The Writer when Rational Alan is on the bridge to the cabin, Dark Alan says ”it was even taking the people Wake knew, turning his friends against him,” yet in the battle the people against Alan are Barry (friend, check), Tor and Odin (???) and Hartman (Tom’s friend), which is very curious choice of people. I understand why Tor and Odin could be considered friends, but why Hartman? Why not Sarah, whom Alan bonded with? Now, if you choose to believe that AWAN ended with Alan and Alice going to the private isle in the Dark Place and live their happy ever after as did Tom and Barbara, even more connections emerge. The drowning cabin in AWAN is yet another hint, that the story was repeated. The question is: which story was actually first?

I already noted that Zane’s solution with cutting the heart out and diving into the lake sounds awfully like a messy first attempt to have somewhat happy ending. We learn about it during the week, that plays out according to the story Alan wrote: everything there comes from him, even the TV’s that he sees, even the shoebox he finds, and certainly the manuscripts we read. The very manuscripts, that describe what happened in the 70s: the narrative takes us back in time and we look at what happened there through the eyes of Tom Zane. That can answer the who wrote whom question. Does it matter whose story happened first now, if we know for sure that Alan’s works can change past as easily as present or future? With all the connections I mentioned, and the very presence of Tom in the theory that counts Alans we have in games, I think it’s obvious what I’m going for. Tom Zane is Alan from the first loops of Departure: he failed to save Alice then, but as his wont, left some breadcrumbs for his future self to learn. Later his story evolved and he got a new name and different, yet very vague background, turning into a plot device just like Noir-Casey in the second game: a character, who helps and gives Alan a torch and a gun. The books in the cabin were placed into a shoebox deliberately, the memorial for Tom and Cynthia’s articles weren’t erased, because they had to be found. In the beginning of the Final Draft Alan says “a fictional poet once wrote” before reciting Tom’s poetry; Alan is pretty capable of writing poetry, we can see it in This House of Dreams, and the poet, written by him, would be a fictional poet. The filmmaker, obviously could not create the poet, since his movie is based on Alan’s novel.

Another thing I want to address here is AWAN’s ending. Again, I believe Alan and Alice from AWAN did end up in their own baby-universe in the Dark Place; as I stated in the first part, in the manuscript Alan calls the film his salvation, their salvation. It’s important that it’s “his” not “hers,” because it’s not the answer to the grave danger Mr. Scratch poses to Alice (the very reason Alan scrapped the very first Return to write this Return), it’s the answer to Alan being separated from Alice. Those words are also followed by “our chance to be together,” which, again, has nothing to do with saving Alice from the evil double. If Alice’s film did create a safe place for them to be together, considering that AWAN takes place somewhere around This House of Dreams’ events, the story of Tom Zane could’ve been rewritten again; Tom and Barbara could’ve gotten the happy ending after Alan learned how to achieve it. It’s not the escape ending he wanted, but it is better than being trapped in the nightmare part of the Dark Place or possessed by the Presences. And This House of Dreams might be an extra that was designed to help us figure out what happened in the end of AWAN and answer all the questions that were left unsolved at the time: with the pictures that show suspiciously Alice-like lady, who is said to be “the diver’s girlfriend;” the story of the Last Poem; the nature of the Presences and the Dark Place; sets of poems that show Alan’s capability in this craft; and what exactly was the shiny-floaty thingie from the first game.

Which leads me to the explanation I promised: why didn’t I split Tom and the Bright Presence. There might’ve been no Bright Presence in the first game or it’s DLCs. We learn about the story of the Bright Presence after—it was not written in Departure, in Departure the floaty-shiny thingie was Zane; it might’ve changed in the DLCs, where the story was not written, but dreamed, it might’ve been written by the Master of Many Worlds Alan, who finally decided on what the Bright Presence is. Depends on how you want to interpret the line “but… I am not…” in The Writer: is it about the Bright Presence not being Zane, is it about the Bright Presence not writing the manuscript on his own volition, or is it about something else. Ultimately it doesn’t matter, the Bright Presence doubles down on the identity of Tom Zane shortly after, when he levitates the tree; therefore, I would assume he didn’t do anything Tom wouldn’t do.

The last things left to address here are the line in Herald of Darkness, that separates Alan and Tom: “he could write a new story like Tom Zane before him,” and how the boys talk about Tom in the first game, calling him “the other writer.” The argument might be made that if the boys see them as different entities, then they should be; as there is nothing more trustworthy than the Old God’s songs. Yet, if we read into it as if Tom were the character of Alan’s story, who ultimately won the happy ending by writing a new story, it’s not unimaginable to use—in a song—those words: Tom Zane, being a character in a story, was put into the same struggle before Alan and managed to make his way out of it. “The other writer” is not in a song, and can be taken with a grain of salt, as the boys didn’t recognise Alan as Tom when Odin asked him to put Coconut, they only recognised him after the Dark Presence’s touch. They also call Alan “boy” and “sonny” even after they recognised him as Tom, which is a tad sus, since if they would see him as their long-lost friend from the 70s, they wouldn’t have a habit to address him as their junior, they would be more or less same age. The boys were in their thirties at the time Tom’s ordeal took place, for them to see him as “sonny” material, he should’ve been what, ten?

How it all comes together. I want to repeat the most important part in taking in the first game’s events: we do not see neither first nor last loops of the story; we do not know how it started nor ended; we are thrown into the middle to end and see at best the penultimate loop, as it is partially confirmed, that something akin to the first game indeed happen in the reality of the second game. At any time in previous loops Alan could rewrite everything including how exactly the Wakes ended up in Bright Falls, moving his previous attempts to save Alice to 70s as a set of dos and don’ts. It works exactly as it does in the second game, and we see the remnants of his tries that are left behind: the boys remember him as Tom Zane, but also see him as their junior, calling him “boy” or “sonny”, being the only ones with powers to pierce the story a little bit; the cabin is still there at the start of the story, but disappears shortly after with a very questionable explanation; the plane, which carried people attracted to study the 70s eruption is crashed in 2010 inexplicably, with Alan witnessing it; and all the other little things that slipped through the cracks of changing the past so drastically. Could Tom become his own person in this mess of a spiral? He could’ve, not like we don’t have other examples of this happening; Barry and Casey do act like separate entities, and we have even more examples to discuss. Speaking of.

So, Tom Zane is Alan from the first loops of Departure, who ended up being a supporting character, and whose story was rewritten multiple times; who’s Tom Seine then? This is the moment where we step into the territory of the holy trinity of owls, which, as you could’ve guessed by now, is represented by Wake, Seine (665) and Scratch. I’ve pushed the idea of 665 being yet another Alan even before the NS DLC came out, but with it pointing out how they are indeed the same entity as Scratch and Alan are the same entity, there are just all the more evidence.

What do we have aside from the DLC? Ahti makes no difference between Tom Seine or Alan, in his eyes they are the same person, who at the same time is a filmmaker and has a photographer wife; he addresses Alan as Tom, but not Tom-the-poet. The film, that was created to free 665 and Alan from the Dark Place is the same film that allegedly won multiple awards in what? 60s? 50s? Obviously something here is not right, but what’s even less right is the Tom the Poet film, that was based on Alan’s novel. 665 also cannot be Tom Zane from the first game, or even an extension of him, since he’s lacking everything that made Tom Zane Tom Zane: he didn’t live in the cabin, wasn’t a diver, didn’t have a muse-girlfriend who was important for him even after decades in the Dark Place, wasn’t a poet. More importantly, we have the Control’s cutscene, that shows how the encounter in room 665 was somewhere in the beginning of the loops; Seine is a mirror image of Alan from the first game, but he’s already started to differentiate himself from yet-another-Wake, he has different voice and different attitude. And it’s not like we don’t have examples of this: Barry even looks differently, as does Casey; R!Alan has a completely different experience from D!Alan and his attitude is almost opposite; even the two Alans that interact in the second game look a tad different and have a completely different attitude. It all depends on the experience and what shaped them. The more 665 remembers from the loops, the more he is distancing himself from Alan: first the voice, the place, then he’s getting a make-over and turns against Alan completely. His connection still allows him to try to take the driver seat, to take control, and switch places with Alan. In this he’s not unlike Scratch, for some reason they both need to take the driver seat from Alan.

Were 665 his own man, why would he need to do that? Why is he acting like the Dark Presence that has to find a face to wear? Can he be yet another dark presence? Maybe? Considering how Scratch was born from Alan’s love for Alice and D!Alan was a result of desperation arguably everything that’s made from Alan’s feelings or experiences could be considered a dark presence if it acts accordingly; 665 is somewhere in between. Aside from the possession (or more like place-switching, which is not how Scratch does it or how Barbara’s Dark Presence did it in the past) and maybe his own Taken, he lacks every other characteristic of a dark presence: no dark clouds, no mystic powers, no jumpscares. Yet, 665 needs Alan’s… I’m not sure here, body? Realness? Both can do, I guess, since 665 wants to take Alan’s place. Why in the world, were he his own entity, he would need Alan’s place, seized in the Dark Place? With his likeness he could get out and take over Alan’s life as Mr. Scratch, who was his own entity, tried to do. But for some reason 665 needs to switch places before he attempts to escape.

This can be written off as his malice; he’s acting in a way that suggests that he doesn’t only wants to escape, he wants to trap Alan as well. Throughout all three drafts of Initiation 665 is the one to pull strings, to backseat and guide Alan into traps: one after another, the biggest of them being scaring him into haunting Alice and then pumping him up to kill Scratch without hesitation. 665 never shows that anything was done in Alan’s best interest, on the contrary, in everything he does, he comes off as manipulative and antagonistic. But malice alone is not enough, since 665 fails to achieve the most important of his goals—to actually escape.

Time to queue Scratch in. Between 665 and Scratch, and it might sound mad at first, Scratch is a good guy. And hear me out, he actually is. Obviously the dead give away being Scratch’s lines in the very end of the game, where it is clear what his goals are: Alice and world domination. Alright, the latter is quite questionable for a good guy, but, hey, a dark presence can dream, right? Jokes aside, Scratch doesn’t want anything Alan doesn’t want, more so, he wants to share it: he wants to be a successful writer, to reunite with Alice and do all this with Alan—after merging and becoming whole. Scratch doesn’t really go nicely about it, but we can see how he’s in many ways not the sharpest axe in the shed: he’s animalistic and abrasive, he sees the target and goes for it. With some exceptions his answer to anything is murder. And that’s what makes his role in the second game so fascinating. Let’s look at it from different perspective, shall we?

Scratch’s straightforwardness allows us to take his word: he wants Alan to “come home,” to reunite and become whole. He’s not against him, he’s actually team-Alan through and through. He shares goals and desires, yet lacks nuance to understand them fully. Scratch is literally a love-child, that is he was created from Alan’s love for Alice. He is going for the right things in the most wrong ways possible. With that said, if we look at his actions through the lens of what he said in the Wellness Centre, they might be not so antagonistic after all. First encounter with him allows Alan to snap out of his state of delusion, when he thinks he’s still in the real world and just doing a show before going home to Alice; in the metro he appears to remind Alan about the Dark Presence (and curiously destroying the cult altar); in the hotel he actually politely waits until after Alan finished watching another episode of Alex Casey before chasing him away from room 666. Was murder a good way to go about all those things? Not really. Was it necessary? Most likely, violence is something he believes in. In the first encounter everything is easy enough, Alan had to snap out of delusions to try and get out. In The Writer the Bright Presence makes it very clear: one must abandon all delusions to survive in the Dark Place, let alone to escape. In the subway Alan has to remember; his memory is a very important point in his hero’s journey. In the hotel… well, we need to talk about room 666.

Room 666 is obviously connected to Cynthia and her story of becoming Taken, and leads to Tom Seine. In his part I mentioned how we kinda don’t have a manuscript about him, and it’s partially true, we cannot be sure who “Tom” from Cynthia’s manuscript is, it might be 665, might be her imagination. What we do know is that some Taken can have two stories: Nightingale is killed in the Dark Place by cultists before he’s killed in the real world by cultists again; same goes for Cynthia, she’s killed (taken) in the bath in the real world by a mysterious man before she’s killed in the bath in the hotel by the Devil. Curiously, she spends some time in a “hotel in New York with Tom,” before she goes to deal with Tor, by pressing herself into the dark water, which she recognises as “Tom.” Everything here hints that the mysterious man in the bathroom in Valhalla and “Tom” from the hotel are the same person; but also is the Devil from the play. There is only one character, who fits all three of them: 665. He’s taken the identity of Tom Zane, he lives in the hotel in “New York” and he’s a cult leader. He’s also conveniently neighbouring room 666, where the Devil is located. So, why does Scratch allow Alan to see the vision before chasing him away? Why does he even chase Alan away in the first place? What if room 666 is yet another trap, where Alan is in more danger than he realises?

There is also the third draft of Initiation, where the Grand Master of the Cult of the Word makes an appearance and the most interesting Initiation 0, summarised for us by Mr. Door. The Grand Master and the whole cinema story-line are an ending of sorts to the whole cult ordeal in all the previous drafts; we get the Yoton Yo and the character-creator question to explain what was the deal with the Cult of the Word and what was their plan. It goes to show that even if all the drafts are separate attempts, they are also tightly connected. Which makes the Initiation 0 even more important: who’s the evil double, that torments the writer? If we are to look at this question without the knowledge of the previous games or Alan’s mad ramblings about Scratch and Mr. Scratch, the answer is evident: there is only one other character, who appears as Alan’s double and can be classified as “evil”—665. Scratch not only arguably not evil or against Alan, he’s also not a double, he has no body, he’s a presence, literally; Alan in the point of the story where he shoots himself from the past is surely not evil. Can Initiation 0 be this cheeky little hint, that the tormenting of Alan is not done by Scratch?

Alans are plenty, but let’s not forget, that the whole story of the games is a love story after all. And there is a last piece of evidence, that shows—we might not even come close to see all the Alans there is.

Alice. Love is strange. Even apart, we are still together in our memories. We put each other through hell to set us free. Again and again. Different versions of us. Alice helped me get there. Where I needed to be. It has taken so long. The process to change reality is so delicate, to be true in just the right way, and still find a way past our flaws. So many drafts. So many photographs. So many lives lived outside time, an eternity apart on this journey to finally arrive here. 

[fuckedupwizard]

here's my possibly-controversial take on qijiu babytrapping: it only works one way, and that is shen jiu forcing yue qingyuan to get him pregnant.

let me explain why i think so. yue qingyuan wouldn't, under any circumstances, babytrap shen jiu. this is because he cares for shen jiu's freedom and autonomy way too much to do something like sabotage his birth control. but if yqy is the one capable of getting pregnant this still applies, because he'd see making shen jiu father a child against his will to be a betrayal of his freedom too (as he should, because like. it is lol) and wouldn't want to settle for having a child that is just a part of xiao jiu. i think he'd see it as a weak imitation and, again, a betrayal to love and care for something that isn't shen jiu if shen jiu doesn't want him.

shen jiu wouldn't want to babytrap yqy by getting him pregnant against his will because shen jiu is very possessive and also has no self-esteem. he'd probably assume that yqy could/would just take the baby and leave because why would he want to raise it around a terrible influence like shen qingqiu? however, if shen jiu gets pregnant, yqy would feel honour-and-guilt-bound to stay and support him because he's such a stupid good noble person and he'd be chained to him forever. this would still make sj miserable bc he'd feel like yqy was Only staying for the child and not because he has any love for shen jiu himself. but i still think it's the only plausible way a qijiu babytrap would happen... even though shen jiu is Not very fond of kids in general and 'having a baby to save the marriage' never works, paradoxically, i feel like qijiu are the only ones it possibly could work for? maybe the child forces them to talk it out when they're old enough... sorry kid, this shouldn't be on you... or maybe yqy realises that sj did this On Purpose and it must mean that a part of him wants something from yqy, even if it's just the security of being provided for...?

[valewritessss]

Reasons why people hate Annabeth Chase and why I disagree. Warning: this a very long rant and some of these might be a little controversial

1. Annabeth didn’t have any trauma as a child compared to Percy she was only being dramatic.

Does being attacked by hundreds of spiders and waking up in webs every night sound pleasant to you? With nobody believing her because they would go away?

Whenever they say she didn’t suffer at home there are always some underlying tones of them thinking abuse isn’t abuse if it isn’t physical, and then translating that into Annabeth having a good childhood and making things up.

Why would she want to have a bad childhood is my question? And true it may seem like it wasn’t so bad since Percy even said it didn’t seem like it was as bad as she described it upon first meeting her parents, but I don’t even agree with Percy thinking that because why would he, of all people, not understand that people can hide behind nice faces? I honestly think that part was on Rick because he’s kind of gone back and forth with Annabeth’s home situation so it’s a little confusing.

But back to why would she want to have a bad childhood I think those people are the kind that compare trauma and thinkhaving more trauma=being better. But last time I checked, having a bad home situation/childhood isn’t really something people should want for themselves.

Annabeth may have not been physically abused but being accused of playing tricks to make webs appear on her skin instead of being comforted, being reprimanded for accidentally scaring her brothers even though she was the one being attacked, being blamed for attracting monsters even though she can’t control it, that doesn’t like like a happy time to me.

2. Annabeth is possessive of Percy too much she gets jealous way too easily.

Jealousy isn’t really a bad thing unless it is toxic, and I’ve seen no signs of Annabeth’s jealousy being toxic. Her haters, however, probably say otherwise.

The first time we see her get jealous is when Rachel shows up, and if I’m going to be completely honest why shouldn’t she be a little jealous? When she first sees Rachel it’s when Percy and her were supposed to go to the movies and she’s 14 years old so she’s going to act a little petty. Sorry, a traumatized 14 year old girl isn’t exactly going to handle her emotions like a mature adult. Annabeth has her little “was it hard?” moment and it was pretty obvious it was supposed to come off as funny and many people do think it was. If you didn’t think it was funny that’s fine and it’s also fine if you think it was wrong. But toxic? Really?

The next time we see her get jealous is when Percy comes back from Ogygia and she hugs him and storms off. Her best friends just died for two weeks but suddenly came back I think it’s understandable why she would be a little overwhelmed. Chiron says that she’s jealous because she knows where he was. She never really brings it up but she probably had some internal jealousy because why wouldn’t she be jealous when Percy could have chosen to live a peaceful life in Ogygia with Calypso, war-free. But he didn’t, and she didn’t bring it up(I think). Safe to say she was definitely not being toxic here.

The most prominent time she was jealous is when Percy says they need Rachel for the labyrinth and again, why wouldn’t she be jealous? It’s HER quest, and she was already insecure about Percy leaving her for Rachel so him telling her they need her for her quest is obviously going to make her mad. And she did act pettily towards Rachel and she did get ticked off very easily but let’s not forget where this all stems from.

Her entire life people have been abandoned her and left her for other people. Her dad, Thalia, Luke, and now she meets a mortal girl that has her best friend and crush’s attention which to her means she could potentially take Percy from her. Yeah, no shit she’s gonna be jealous. And it’s also a normal teenage emotion to be jealous of another person. So sorry, if a teenage girl doesn’t handle her emotions maturely.

Then, Percy reasonably spends his “last” summer away from camp and unfortunately for annabeth, with Rachel. This is not me saying Percy or Rachel did anything wrong but neither did Annabeth in being mad at him. It was mostly that she was just heartbroken because she was about to lose him, but he chose to spend his last moments being normal, something she could never be. She also spent most of her life being abandoned by someone so this was like it was happening all over again.

I’ve seen someone say she was jealous of Hazel and it was possessive because she automatically assumed Percy and her had something. Huh???? She thought of the possibility for 3 seconds and then was like, nah, she’s dating the other guy next to Percy. And it was a possibility because she saw Jason, who had lost his memories and didn’t know if he had someone waiting for him, get together with Piper so who’s to say it couldn’t have happened with Percy?

None of these seem toxic to me and it’s fine if you don’t like it for your relationship but clearly, Percy doesn’t think much about her jealousy afterwards once they got together. In fact, Percy gets jealous a lot too he’s just not as expressive about it.

3. She physically abused Percy.

This seems to be a popular one and people love to use it out of context. Annabeth and Percy both have sparring and fighting history together, so naturally they’re not going to be the gentlest of people with each other. They know how to punch, hit, and shove each other so that it doesn’t hurt since they train together. And while it is mostly annabeth that does it, Percy has never said it hurts or that he doesn’t like it. And last time I checked, he’s pretty good at calling people and gods out on their shit. If he had an issue with it he would say it.

An example of the abuse they are referring to is the judo flip. The context for this is that Percy went missing for months and Annabeth being overwhelmed, relieved, and just emotional decides to judo flip him upon reuniting with him. What a lot of people forget to mention is that right after, while he is being pinned down by Annabeth, he laughs. He laughs and they all move on. Judo flips, according to my research, are not supposed to hurt. They only hurt if they are done wrong. There is a chance my research is wrong so if anyone wants to correct me go ahead. But assuming it is right, the judo flip Annabeth did to Percy probably didn’t hurt nor was it meant to.

And Percy has experienced physical abuse before, and he hated the man that did it. He most likely would not get into a relationship with someone who does that. And he has called Annabeth out on things before, he had no trouble getting mad at her in botl, so if he seriously didn’t like it he would most likely say something.

Again, if you don’t want that in your relationship that’s great, YOU should set those boundaries with YOUR partner. But you can’t speak for a fictional character that clearly doesn’t have any issues with the way his partner treats him.

4. Annabeth makes jokes at the expense of Percy and makes him feel dumb.

There are some times when she does make jokes about Percy to his face, and he either laughs or doesn’t care. The books are from his pov, it’s not hard to see how it doesn’t bother him.

The nickname “Seaweed Brain” was her teasing him at first but it then became endearing for the both of them. This was the same for the nickname “Wise Girl”. Percy even likes the nickname and he has never said it makes him feel belittled or dumbed down.

I think where this stems from is people who think giving Annabeth credit is discrediting him. Someone mentions how she helped Percy with something and they will go on about how Percy isn't dumb and it's like we know he isn't dumb, no one said he is. Giving her credit isn’t taking credit away from him and many people need to hear that. Someone will mention how Annabeth will teach Percy something that he wouldn't have figured out on his own and oh my god people go feral. "Annabeth held up the sky" they translate that to Percy didn't do shit. Someone will say Annabeth is one of the smartest and they think that means they're saying Percy is stupid. Sorry that a girl being smart makes you insecure? Because that’s what I’m getting from that take. Percy is smart too but taking that away from Annabeth to give it to him isn’t exactly how that works. Life isn’t a competition, you don’t constantly have to be ranking people. There’s enough smartness for everyone. No one is taking anything away from Percy by admitting she is super smart or by giving her credit for stuff she did!!

You don’t hear people saying Annabeth can’t swim because Percy can control water, so why do people think people are saying Percy is dumb because Annabeth is incredibly smart? Annabeth knows she is smart, and she herself says Percy is smart TWICE, not that because she is smart that Percy is dumb. She is smart, and that takes nothing away from Percy and vice versa. They both think differently and do different things while in combat you just can’t compare those. Intelligence doesn’t just come in one form and admitting one is smart doesn’t make the other not smart. Say it with me, Annabeth is smart, Percy is smart, those things can both be true at the same time. Annabeth can be credited for things and that does not discredit Percy. For the people who say it makes Percy insecure that Annabeth shows her intelligence I promise you when Annabeth says something nerdy it doesn’t hurt Percy’s feelings.

It is true that Percy’s intelligence is overlooked, that is an issue. But you don’t have to bring someone else down to build him up okay there’s many great moments showing his intelligence use those instead. Also because if you have to bring someone else down to make your fav seem better you’re not doing your fav any favors it makes them look like someone needs to come down to their level and that’s not what’s happening with Percy. Don’t do him dirty like that he can be smart on his own you don’t have to mention Annabeth.

Sorry I kind of got off topic I just saw a chance to address an issue I’ve seen where people think giving Annabeth credit is taking away from Percy. This sometimes happens the other way around but it’s mostly the people who do this that hate her.

5. Annabeth defended Luke and it was inconsiderate of her since he tried to kill Percy.

She didn’t really defend him she just said there’s still good in him. And I mean this did make Percy mad. He was mad at her for even mentioning Luke because he was jealous, and because he didn’t understand how she could still think there’s good in him after all he did. And that’s valid. But that doesn’t mean it’s “a heartbreaking realization for a Percy that Annabeth chooses Luke over him” in the words of someone who used this argument, when she said there’s still good in him. Annabeth was betrayed by Luke too, and say what you want about her holding hope but it makes sense that she still sees good in him. I mean, that’s the guy who she views as a hero, who was a hero to her. And in the end her holding onto that hope is what broke Luke’s trance and he decided to stab himself. So if you found it annoying that she believed in him that makes sense, but don’t pretend you can’t understand why she did it.

6. Annabeth was a bitch to Rachel and is not a girls girl.

Honestly, was she nice to Rachel? No. Did Rachel deserve Annabeth’s comments? No. Is Annabeth valid? Yeah. I’m not justifying her behavior but I am justifying her reasoning because it is so obvious it went beyond jealousy.

Rachel not doing anything wrong and Annabeth being valid can co-exist. Seeing Annabeth’s perspective of this is so easy we just have to think about how the person she loves might pick someone normal over her since she can’t be normal. On his last summer too. This wasn’t just “jealous girl is mean to other girl” trope it was showing how deeply Annabeth cherishes Percy and how when she sees him picking someone else over her she is going to not be nice.

Should she have said those things to Rachel, um probably not. But she is a teenager also and it’s super normal for a teenager to get jealous and bratty when her crush and best friend spend time with a girl that also has a crush on him. It wasn’t Annabeth’s finest moment but it was entertaining and personally I thought it was funny. I swear a lot of people act as if she grabbed Rachel by her hair and smashed her against a wall but it was just some catty remarks. And a lot of people forget that Rachel and Annabeth are friends now, they like each other, they forgave each other.

And on her not being a girls girl? I think some people need to touch some grass because why should she have been a girls girl at that moment? Was she supposed to tell Rachel to go for it? I understand wanting her to just leave Rachel alone but after Rachel had to lead HER quest I’m not sure what they were expecting. She made up for it anyway when she saved Rachel from a helicopter despite still disliking her.

7. Annabeth got scared of Percy which made him feel like he deserved to die.

I’m pretty sure I’ve written about this before but I guess I’ll go over it again. Her boyfriend did something scary, that probably reminded her of Luke since they both went too far, so she got scared. God forbid scary things scare her.

And secondly, did Percy ever tell Annabeth he was having those thoughts? No. Stop blaming her for everything this time she is actually 110% innocent.

8. She is powerless and therefore she is useless.

She doesn’t have any unnatural powers but being crazy smart sounds pretty useful to me. Bonus points because she’s good at many kinds of combat too.

If they think they don’t need her fine, but they did in fact need her so we’re never gonna know the other possibility.

Even strength has to bow to wisdom sometimes.

This doesn’t mean the other demigods don’t have wisdom but like it’s Annabeth Chase wisdom is kind of her thing.

Anyways, I kind of got tired of writing this and I can’t think of anything else so I’m gonna end it here. I hope this doesn’t come off as hate to any other character, because it’s not, nor do I see how it could be but people will find a way so this is clarification. People can hate whatever character they want to hate but these reasons are not really much sense. And if they expect people to hate her for these reasons too even less sense. And people are allowed to hate her, but they love to talk about it so much it’s like an obsession.

And to those who told me to tag them I hope this wasn’t a waste of your time because I tried and it took me forever😅

@annabethmyfave

@illneverforget365

[megafaunatic]

I have intended to start Terry Pratchett's books, but I haven't yet. I know this is controversial, but where is your favorite place to start?

OOOH GOOD QUESTION... it definitely depends on your interests! i'm sure you've seen this graphic, or something similar:

for me, my route into discworld was 1. having read THE AMAZING MAURICE AND HIS EDUCATED RODENTS as a child (and again later) and 2. reading GOOD OMENS as a teen (and again later). GO obviously isn't a discworld book per se, but a discworldly Death makes an appearance there as well as in AMAZING MAURICE, and i 🕺 have a crush on discworld death LOL i think he's so dreamy 💀✨

so i read those two and then in college i read THE COLOUR OF MAGIC - this is the first discworld book pratchett wrote, and he always recommended that you NOT start there, but it was available from the library lol - and then the following year i had an extremely long summer where death felt extremely close and (related) i had no job and was going crazy. so i read all the Death-centric books.

right now i'm working my way through the watch books, and also i read WYRD SISTERS the other day bc i was waiting for the next watch book on libby, and i read MONSTROUS REGIMENT also bc it was available on libby. LOL

i'm on SNUFF right now, so almost at the end of the watch books! i haven't decided yet whether i want to keep reading the witches books next since i started that sequence already, or if i want to skip over to the industrial revolution books since they seem more closely related to the watch books...

ANYWAY THE UPSHOT IS my tried and true strat is to identify main characters you think you're going to have a crush on. and go from there LMAO

but also could be useful identifying some themes you'd be interested in reading about! having only read from some of the sequences, i'll say my take is:

the rincewind (unseen university) novels are going to be about magic, bureaucracy, cowardice, and fate

the watch novels are going to be about class; injustice; big problems vs small problems; war and the construction of statehood; race and gender

the witches novels are going to be about magic, fate, and gender (SORRY I KNOW THERES MORE IVE JSUT ONLY READ THE ONE)

the death novels are going to be about responsibility, childhood and senescence, and joy

ummmmm thats oll... don't know much about the ancient civilizations books...

the good news is there's really no wrong answer! even the worst ones are still really enjoyable imo

[n3felibata]

I made a post on Reddit titled "Hot take but I feel like many if not most Stolitz antis are either homophobic or just hypocrites" and I even had to clarify at the end that not all Stolitz antis are like that. Cue the replies harassing me, taking it as a personal attack on them and making baseless accusations about me. One of them even sarcastically said "Anyone who disagrees with me is wrong and bigoted" as a way to make fun of me. I never said anything remotely similar to that. I don't think they bothered to actually read past the title where I explained that Stolas and Blitzø meeting as children is compared to a bad fanfic when that never gets said about straight couples in media who met as children and that people who hate Stolitz for what it is now only tolerated it when it was just a running gag, as if they can't stand it when gay relationships are being taken seriously. I also mentioned that even non-homophobic Stolitz antis complain about how toxic it is and then turn around to ship Blitzker. (Blitzø x Striker)

I had a similar experience. It's so stupid because like, some of them aren't even subtle about it. Same for chaggie antis. I remember seeing a post talking about how much Charlie doesn't get enough dick, so she's unsatisfied and needs Alastor. Like... I'm sorry, what?

A lot of the arguments stolitz antis are literally inherently bigoted. Like how they want Stolas to be paired with Stella instead even though he's gay. And STILL hating him for "cheating" after The Circus even though he's a gay man being forced to marry an abusive woman? Idk, that's... a red flag 💀 The same people saying stolitz is one sided were the same ones saying that Stolas and Stella were in love not to long ago... sounds like heteronormativity...

And a lot of them are Stella defenders? Sorry that I came to the conclusion that the people doing mental gymnastics defending the cishet abuser calling the gay male abuse victim the abuser may be homophobic 😭

Like, it's not that different from female characters who get hate while the same people shitting on her praise fictional men who are worse or do the same shit. There are clear double standards here. These people turn around and praise cishet media with very similar writing, characters and tropes as Helluva Boss. And not only that, but it's not even just about their relationship specifically. Like, I have a theory that the whole controversy about Stolas being an "abusive" father is because of the stereotype that queer people can't be good parents. And the whole "child and parent have conflict but make up in the end" trope happens in fiction all time (example: Danny Tanner, Jeff Morales, Doofenshmirtz, ect.) Weird how it only became abuse and neglect with Stolas and Via.

Some people are blantly saying they wanted stolitz to "stay a joke", and it feels obvious to me that a lot of them just like queer characters who are queer in a goofy "dark humor" way and not an actual character with queer struggles and/or queer relationships.

People who say "but I disagree and I'm not homophobic!" Be expecting you to give them a pat on the back or something, I swear 💀 Like... good for you? Thanks for not being a bigot? Do you want a reward?

What I don't think people understand is that if they're not homophobic, then the post isn't about them. The fact that they're getting so defensive about posts directed at no one in particular is just weird because it looks worse than it would be if they just kept scrolling. Now it just kind of seems like Freudian Slip.

No one was looking at you until you said something

Of course they're not all the same, but I've seen people straight up call them the f slur

Sorry that happened to you. Just remember that Reddit is INFAMOUS for being toxic, so don't take what people on that app have to say to heart. Like, it's up there with Twitter and Tumblr...

And wouldn't you know it? Those are the 3 sites I see the most Stolas and Blitz hate.

Interesting