#sorry this was so long winded but i’m so

[misojunnie]

KEROSENE 𖣂

there’s a fine line between delusion and reality.

jake sim was your boyfriend. park sunghoon was your best friend. neither knew about each other. you weren’t sure where your heart belonged, and you watch as your life begins to tear in half from the secrecy and guilt. but just when you think you’ve got it all figured out, an earth-shattering secret changes everything.

pairing: bf!jake vs. bsf!sunghoon x fem!reader

genre: psychological thriller, horror, love triangle (kinda… you’ll see)

warnings: violence/death, heavily implied mental illness, very psychological, cheating (?) ig, kinda hoon focused….(sorry), enha’s personalities and backstories are not a reflection of reality, it’s just a story

featuring: enhypen

playlist: it was only a dream by joey quinones, S.D.O.S by alex g, back to black by amy winehouse, somebody that I used to know by gotye, I was only temporary by my head is empty, only you (and you alone) by the platters

word count: 9.9k

taglist ! @enhacolor @jwnghyuns @adoredbyjay @theothernads @firstclassjaylee @dollschan @enreveriee @surrik-i @jwonistic @laurradoesloveu @laylasbunbunny @tmtxtf @shixna606 @kumiwon @heeaxvhhoon

network tags: @kflixnet @k-vanity @k-radio @enhypennetwork

see the trailer.

a/n: hello yall! sorry these fics are taking so long,,,pls still look forward to more, I got a couple lined up! and p.s., look for foreshadowing in this one ;) there’s lots of hints leading up to the plot twist! <3

The flames burned bright, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the crackling fire. The yellow and orange flames flashed like rubies, licking the dark sky, illuminating the beach as you watched them burn. It was like a dance, the way the fire swayed in the wind.

“You okay?” a voice broke you out of your trance as Jake planted a kiss on your cheek. You snapped out of it, smiling up at him as he reached for your hand, clasping it gently in his. He sat down on the sand beside you.

Jake Sim. A year older than you, the sweetest boy you had met in your entire life. He had sparkling eyes full of youth, a smile that could make angels sing, and a calmer temperament than anyone you’d seen in your 20 years of age. You were lucky enough to call him your boyfriend.

You had always been a rather quiet person, but Jake was the opposite. Talkative and popular, he had a seemingly endless amount of friends, many of which threw parties like the one you were at tonight. You grew to enjoy the nights spent at bonfires, house parties, the various celebrations Jake invited you to.

Many people thought you were polar opposites, but that was what made you perfect for each other. You didn’t make friends easily, but he was happy to share his. He wasn’t very emotional, but you didn’t mind coaxing him into confessing what he was feeling. He helped you come out of your shell, you helped him learn to love the peaceful moments. After all, they say opposites attract. And that was certainly true for you.

You had only been dating for a year and a half, but all your friends told you he was the one. And you were beginning to really believe it.

“I’m good.” you replied sweetly. You and Jake’s friends were laughing and dancing boisterously, but you didn’t feel like joining in on the fun. The fire was giving you plenty of company, and an unsettling feeling was creeping into your heart. Maybe it was the Halloween season, or maybe your doubts went deeper than that.

“I’ll sit with you then.” Jake offered kindly, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, and you leaned into him gratefully.

You were in love with Jake, you knew that. He was the first thing you thought of in the morning and the last at night, the main topic of all your conversations. He was sweet, thoughtful, smart, funny, and had every quality you ever wanted from a boyfriend. He was perfect, yet somehow, this didn’t feel right. Six months later, and you were beginning to have doubts. You had doubts in all of your past relationships, but none of them were as good as this one. Despite that, something was off. You could feel it.

For now, you tried to put it behind you, letting the fire and Jake’s warm touch comfort you as you watched the dancing flames.

𖣂 𖣂 𖣂

It was Sunday morning. You were looking forward to a day of no classes, and some alone time. While you loved being with Jake, you had spent everyday together for the past two weeks, and you were craving a little time to yourself.

It was a bit of a drive, but you suddenly wanted to go to your favorite bakery, picking up a fresh baguette to bring home, plus a few pastries for yourself. After that, you visited a nearby park, sitting on a bench alone.

You let the fresh air revitalize you, your hair floating in the breeze. There was hardly anyone in the park, the locals deterred by the fog and biting cold, but you had always enjoyed gloomy weather. You took a croissant out of the ribbon wrapped box, taking a bite and relishing in the peaceful feeling of being alone.

You closed your eyes briefly, and when you opened them, you were put out to discover someone standing before you.

He was extraordinarily good looking; it was the first thing you noticed about him. With his kind eyes, tall stature, and silky dark hair, he looked like an angel appearing out of the fog. He was standing a couple of feet away from the bench you were sitting at, looking at you directly with a soft smile.

“Oh,” you said, startled. “Hi.” You weren’t sure if you were supposed to address him, but he was clearly waiting to say something to you.

“Hi,” he replied. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just liked your shirt.” You looked down at yourself, completely forgetting about your ripped tee. You noticed his neat grey sweater and ironed jeans, wearing a thin silver chain around his neck, and you grew suddenly embarrassed about your messy outfit. He smelled of lilies and fresh paper, the kind of scent that came from a cologne but seemed to be natural.

“You like Amy Winehouse?” you asked, and he nodded excitedly.

“Love her. Valerie was my top song for like, three years in a row.” He seemed eager to share his love of jazz music, and if you were a little more of a senseless person, you could’ve fallen in love right then and there.

“What are the odds?” you said, not sure how to respond. He smiled. Then he held out his hand.

“I’m Sunghoon.” You laughed at the odd gesture, shaking his hand. His grip was firm, and his hands were warm.

“Nice to meet you, Sunghoon. I’m y/n.”

“Beautiful name.” he said kindly, and you blushed, which you would never admit. You were hoping this nice stranger only had friendly intentions; if not, you’d have to tell him to go away, and you were beginning to enjoy his sudden company. “Do you go to the college down the road?”

“No, I actually live in the next town over.” you nodded in the direction you had come from. “I just drove here to visit.”

“Alone?” you looked away in embarrassment, and he gestured to the bench. “Can I sit with you?” It was an odd request, and this was a total stranger, but he seemed nice enough. So you accepted, nodding your head. “So, what's so appealing about this little old town that you’d come all the way here?”

“My favorite bakery, and some much needed alone time.” you admitted, and he raised a brow. “I don’t get much time to myself these days.”

“That’s unfortunate. I have the opposite problem.” he said jokingly, and you opened your box of pastries, removing another croissant.

“Well, you have a new friend now.” you handed it to him, and he looked at the offer in surprise, before accepting it with a wide smile.

“Thanks, y/n. I could use a friend right now.” You smiled in response.

It was shocking how easy it was to get along with Sunghoon. Most of the time, you were horribly averse to meeting strangers; you didn’t know how to act, what to say, what to do. But speaking with him was smooth, it felt as if you’d known each other for years. It was almost concerning how familiar he seemed.

At the end of your conversation, when your phone started flooding with texts from Jake, you took your leave. You offered your number to continue talking, but he told you with regret that he didn’t own a phone, a rare and oddly endearing quality. You accepted, standing to walk away.

“Y/n!” he called after you, just as you were about to leave. You turned around, and he waved at you with a smile, his dark hair blowing in the cold wind. “See you around, okay?” You smiled back, waving.

You didn’t know if you’d ever see this familiar stranger again, but you couldn’t help but hope you did. You had never felt a friendship bloom that quickly, and you didn’t want to let go of it. But you would have to leave it up to fate, hoping you would see Sunghoon again soon, wherever or whenever that may be.

You walked away in a significantly better mood, your box of pastries in your hand. As you got into your car, you noticed the ajar lid, reaching to close it, when your brows furrowed. You opened it, noticing that not a single croissant was missing. Not even the one you offered to him, the one you watched him eat as you chatted.

You blew it off, shutting the lid firmly and turning on your stereo, blasting Amy Winehouse as you drove home to your boyfriend.

𖣂 𖣂 𖣂

Jake was taking you on a date. Between your busy schedules and booming social lives, it was infrequent that you had time for an actual date. Most of the time, your nights would end in cuddling sessions at your shared house, watching a movie or playing your favorite board games. But today, he had a late lunch reservation for your favorite fancy restaurant, and he insisted that you both dress up in your nicest clothes. You wondered if you had forgotten about an anniversary or event, but he assured you he just wanted to celebrate your relationship.

Sometimes, you wondered how you could’ve gotten this lucky.

You put on Jake’s favorite dress of yours, a red silk dress that reached just below your knees. You hadn’t found an event that suited it in a while, and you were excited to bring it out of retirement.

“You look beautiful.” Jake said, holding your hand as you walked through the streets together. You garnered a lot of attention, a couple as beautiful as you were. Passersby stared, whispering with envy at your youth and glamor.

“You’re being so sweet today.” you giggled, your fingers clutching a single red rose that Jake had brough you, one that matched your dress perfectly.

“We don’t go on fancy dates often.” He kissed your knuckles. “I wanted to make today special.” Your heart filled up with fire as you smiled at him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Your lipstick lingered there, and you considered wiping it off for a moment, before deciding not to. You thought it suited him.

You were actually happy. Finding joy in relationships had always been hard for you; your brain decided to shut them down somehow. Whether going ghost, shutting down, even firing off a quick apathetic text, you found a way to escape your happiness. You weren’t sure why. But you were finally ready to retire from being a heartbreaker; Jake was really the only one you needed.

From behind your boyfriend, you caught a flash of something familiar. The scent of lilies, a grey sweater, silky black hair.

You craned your neck to get a better look, Jake watching you in confusion as you waited for him to turn towards you. He glanced at something, his face turning just a couple of inches, and it was indeed Sunghoon. His sharp nose, wide eyes, you’d recognize that face anywhere, it was the one you were hoping to see for days on end.

Jake followed your gaze, turning back to you in puzzlement.

“What are you looking at?” Upon his words, you shook yourself out of your trance, shaking your head with a smile.

“Oh, I just thought I saw someone I knew.” Jake nodded in relief, his grip on your hand growing a bit tighter as you continued to walk, Sunghoon left behind as the two of you fled the scene.

You wanted to reconnect with Sunghoon, but Jake was here, and he was more important to you. For now, you’d just have to hope that you’d see him again, in another time, another place.

As you walked away, Sunghoon turned around, his eyes following as you and Jake walked down the street, the red silk of your dress flashing under the afternoon sun.

𖣂 𖣂 𖣂

Jake was paying the bill for your meal. By now, the sun was beginning to set, fading slowly behind the horizon as the sky grew pink and orange. You had stepped out of the restaurant for a smoke break, waiting for him as you lit a burning cigarette. The flame of your lighter danced in the wind, swaying side to side before you put it out. Jake was trying to convince you to quit smoking, but old habits die hard, and you were craving a moment of peace.

Your eyes landed on the sidewalk, watching the fall wind sweep golden leaves across the pavement as you took another drag.

“You’re a smoker?” You startled at the sound of a sudden voice, but that surprise melted into delight when you saw who spoke to you.

“Oh, Sunghoon! I didn’t think I’d see you again.” He shrugged in response, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

“Must be my lucky day.” he replied, a smile on his face, one that you mirrored. You reached down to put out your cigarette, but he waved for you to stop. “No need to stop. I don’t mind.”

“Are you a smoker?” you asked, bringing it to your lips for another drag, and he watched you do so, seeming indifferent to your question.

“Not quite. But I don’t mind if you do it in front of me.”

“Most people hate it.” you chuckled, finishing your cigarette and putting it out on the sole of your heeled shoes. “I suppose the smell is a bit off putting.”

“I disgaree. I like the smell of smoke. It’s relaxing.” Sunghoon shrugged, and a smile grew on your face as you crossed your arms.

“I agree.” You found that it was, yet again, incredibly easy to talk to him. You’d only met twice, but you and Sunghoon already had a lot in common. Your taste in music, pastries, and your partiality to cigarette smoke were only a few of your many interests you’d discussed that seemed strikingly similar.

“So, what are you dressed up for?” he asked, and you were reluctant to answer. “Seems like a special occasion.”

“I suppose it is.” you said mysteriously, and he smiled. Glancing over your shoulder, you saw Jake’s dusty blond hair through the glass window as he collected his coat from the back of his chair. “I gotta go. But it was nice talking to you, again.” Both of you chuckled at that, and he stepped back to allow you room as you walked back to the door of the restaraunt.

“See you around.” he said, reminiscent of the first time you met, a grin on his face that almost looked childlike with eagerness. You smiled.

“See you around.”

And for the second time, you prayed that you would see your new friend again.

𖣂 𖣂 𖣂

After your recent encounter, you began seeing Sunghoon everywhere. In an empty aisle at the grocery store, the street behind your college, even in the area near where you lived. At first you considered that he might be following you, your meetings were so random and frequent, but he confessed at random that he didn’t live in the next town over after all. He lived in your town, not disclosing where, but telling you he was seemingly very close.

You began to enjoy your interactions with him more and more, your friendship growing stronger every day. You told him your genuine thoughts, and he gave you genuine advice. You didn’t often feel comfortable sharing things about yourself with people, but he weaseled his way into your mind almost concerningly easily. Other than Jake, he was the only person you felt like you could truly be yourself around. It was unheard of for you, knowing someone for only a month and feeling this comfortable around it. But you quickly transformed from strangers to the closest of friends.

Today was one of the lazy days where the two of you would lounge on the grass on your front lawn, sipping on coffee to warm yourselves in the cold. Well, you did; Sunghoon wasn’t fond of coffee. You had never invited him inside your house, it seemed too intimate of a line to cross while you had a boyfriend, who wasn’t home at the moment.

A boyfriend you still hadn’t told him about. But he hadn’t asked, so you assumed it wouldn’t be a problem.

“Are you worrying about something?” Sunghoon asked, laying on his back in the dewy grass. You were reading a book beside him while he stared at the gray sky.

“How did you know?” you asked, bemused, and he chuckled.

“I know everything going on in your head.” You nudged him in the shoulder, and he rolled over playfully, turning to his stomach.

“Maybe.” you replied vaguely, and he sat up on his elbows.

“What are you worrying about?” You didn’t respond.

You wanted to tell him about Jake, you really did. It’s not like you were embarrassed, or you wanted to hide him. You loved Jake, you’d be proud to tell anyone that. But you had this creeping feeling that it would affect your friendship, that Sunghoon wouldn’t be fond of knowing about him. Not in a romantic sense, no, you knew Sunghoon had no feelings for you, just as you had none for him. It was just a sinking dread.

“It doesn’t matter.” he said after a minute, rolling back onto his back, looking up at the sky as the clouds moved through the mist. “I bet I already know.”

“And why would you know?” you asked, your voice amused as you turned the page of your book. He grinned, but you didn’t see it.

“I told you. I know everything going on in your head.”

𖣂 𖣂 𖣂

You were acting differently, and Jake could tell from a mile away.

He knew you, and he knew your heart. He could tell when something was bothering you, when you were unusually excited, he detected every minor shift of emotion. But lately, he couldn’t put his finger on what was happening.

You were spending less time with him. You used to be one of those inseparable couples that spent all their time together, but now you were ditching him for study sessions, meetings with friends, excessive alone time. You barely shared things with him anymore; it was like your emotions were all dried up by the time you got home. You were affectionate, but it seemed thoughtless. Jake didn’t want to pry into your business, but he knew he had to find out the cause of your sudden change.

Because not only did Jake know when your emotions changed, he also knew when you were lying to him.

You had just left for a day to yourself, and Jake grabbed his keys from the coffee table, running to his car once he knew you had left for certain. He didn’t want to follow you, that was for certain, but he was terrified that the secret you were keeping from him was big. Maybe as big as infidelity.

His old car crept around the corner, slowly following you from the back of the empty street as you walked. Your headphones were in, and he prayed you wouldn’t turn back and recognize his car. The pit in his stomach grew enormously when you turned the corner, heading towards the busier streets. He followed.

Jake parked, watching with suspicion as you walked into a busy coffee shop. He leaned over the wheel from across the street, squinting his eyes to make you out from the crowd as you sat down at a small table, your coffee table.

He stayed there for nearly an hour, just watching. Waiting for someone to come meet you, a man, as he feared. But nobody came, just you alone at that small table, sipping your coffee.

He sighed, turning his car back on, a flood of relief and guilt consuming him as he pulled out of his spot, heading back home. Maybe you weren’t cheating, maybe you weren’t lying to him. He drove back home, his knuckles blanching as he gripped the wheel tightly, turning back onto your street.

But despite his relief, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

𖣂 𖣂 𖣂

It was day 365 of knowing Park Sunghoon. The year had gone by in a flash, but it seemed almost too short. To you, it felt like you had known Sunghoon your entire life.

You spent a lot of time together. Attempting to fit him and Jake into your schedule proportionately had proven to be hard, but Sunghoon always managed to show up when you least expected it, yet exactly when you were thinking about him. Sometimes you wondered if he could read your mind, he knew you so well.

365 days had passed, and he began feeling more like your best friend with every day.

Today, you were at the park you first met at. Coincidentally, you had happened to be craving your favorite croissants, and Sunghoon, who conveniently showed up to your dorm just beforehand, had come with you. Now, you were sitting on a park bench, croissants in hand, eating and chatting as the sun began to set.

Dozens of people walked by, but they didn’t seem to pay any attention to either of you. As you watched a pair of twenty-something girls walk past, you wondered why girls never noticed your exceptionally handsome best friend. Maybe getting a girlfriend would be good for him. You wanted him to experience the same happiness that you had with Jake, who you were realizing you hadn’t seen in a while.

“Why don’t girls ever notice you?” you said without thinking, and Sunghoon snorted, setting down his croissant.

“Gee, thanks.”

“That’s not how I meant it.” you said defensively, and he smiled in amusement. “I mean, you’re tall, handsome, sweet. Girls should be all over you.”

“Well, you’re not.”

“That’s different.” you said cynically. “I’m your best friend.” He looked at you seriously, and you shrugged. “What?”

“Nobody knows I exist except for you.” You met his serious gaze, before laughing, and he smiled in response.

“You’re so weird.”

“I’m totally serious. Nobody notices me but you.” It was a strange thing to hear, but it was seemingly true. When you were with Sunghoon, nobody really seemed to notice him, to even see him. He was enormously skilled at fading into the background, going unnoticed by passersby. As he had told you, you were the only friend he had, which only made him more endearing in your mind. You had always had issues making friends, and with your main company being your outgoing boyfriend, it was nice to know someone who went through the same struggle.

Sunghoon was Jake’s complete opposite; he was much more like you. His dark hair contrasted Jake’s dusty blond. He was calm and quiet with a strange sense of humor, not constantly joyous and amused like Jake. In moments when Jake would’ve laughed, he frowned. When Jake would’ve frowned, he laughed.

“And why is that?” you finally replied, and he smiled mysteriously.

“That’s for you to find out.” You snorted, shouldering your bag as you got to your feet, brushing off your pants. “Going somewhere?”

“Yeah, I should start heading home.” you said, checking the time on your watch and disappointed to see it was 7:45. You had plans with Jake at 7:30, and he wasn’t going to be pleased if you were any later than you already were. “Do you need a ride?” Sunghoon shook his head, leaning back against the bench as he looked up at you.

“No. I’ll make my way home.” You cocked your head at him, chuckling as you turned around, waving him goodbye.

“Suit yourself.” you said, and he waved at you as you walked down the street towards your parked car, a few blocks away, eager to get home to Jake before you miss more of your quality time. As you walked, you turned suddenly, gazing down the street at the park bench you had been just a moment before.

Sunghoon was gone.

𖣂 𖣂 𖣂

“You’re late.” Jake grumbled as you met him outside your home, a sheepish grin on your face. His hands were on his hips, but his disgruntled attitude faded when you pressed a chaste kiss to your cheek, and he rested his hands on your waist. “What took you so long.”

“I got caught up with a friend. I hope I’m not too late.” you said, and he smiled, taking your hand as he led you down the driveway onto the sidewalk.

“Better late than never. Ready to go?” you nodded, and you began to walk, heading towards your favorite diner. You both had cars, but you preferred to walk. It allowed for more talking, more eye contact, more intimacy. It felt more real.

“You look really handsome today.” you said, pressing a hand against Jake’s cheek as he immediately grew warm at your compliment. Two years after you’d started dating, and sometimes you still made him feel like a schoolboy with a crush. He smiled with lovesickness.

“Mm, really?”

“Really.” you said, and he pressed a kiss to your lips, your hands swinging together in unison as you held them all the way to the middle of town.

You knew you loved each other, more than anything in the world. And virtually nothing could make you doubt that, or doubt each other. But what you didn’t know was that someone was watching you.

Sunghoon stared unrelentingly as you and Jake walked together. He walked twenty paces behind or so, his footsteps silent, so soft that not even grass bent upon him stepping on it. He watched as you talked, laughed, kissed, reveled passionately in each other's love. It was enviable, he thought.

As you shifted onto busier streets, he followed. Not a single passerby or stranger turned to look at him, nobody noticed as he weaved intricately through the busy crowds, following you and Jake who stumbled through them clumsily. He went completely undetected by everyone, even by you and your boyfriend. He was right when he said nobody noticed him but you; outside of you, his existence meant absolutely nothing.

He watched from outside the diner as you and Jake sat by the windows, sharing a milkshake with two straws like the cliche you were. You assumed Sunghoon didn’t know about your boyfriend; in fact, you’d been purposefully keeping it from him. But of course he knew about your boyfriend, as well as his name, as well as everything else there was to know about him. Sunghoon knew everything about you, and that even included your cheesy, hopelessly romantic boyfriend. As you laughed at Jake’s milk mustache, you looked happier than you’d ever been. Sunghoon frowned.

He knew he had to shut down that happiness somehow, he just wasn’t sure how to. Yet.

He eventually grew tired of seeing you smiling at your boyfriend, sharing meals and stories as the two of you laughed. It began to rain, but the falling droplets never touched his head, and he turned around to walk back home, to wait for you.

To wait for the next time you called for him.

𖣂 𖣂 𖣂

Burn.

Burn.

Burn.

Let it all burn.

You awoke with a start, sweat matting your hair to your forehead. You sat up in bed, wiping the sweat off your face, looking beside you, flooded with relief when Jake was sleeping beside you peacefully.

You were having a nightmare. Your house was on fire and it was raging, the flames seemingly reaching the heavens as it slowly burned to a crisp. The fire was pulling you in, and for a moment you almost walked inside the burning building, until you heard Jake screaming. You snapped out of whatever trance you were in, running to the front of the house where the sound was coming from. In your front yard, Jake was bleeding, pools of blood surrounding him as he went still. And standing above him was Sunghoon, a bloody smile on his face as he slowly turned to you.

The image of his evil expression was burned into your memory, and you shook your head, carding a hand through your hair as you checked the time on the clock. It was 3:00 in the morning, but you knew you couldn’t go back to bed.

You crept out of bed as quietly as you could, careful not to wake your sleeping boyfriend as you pulled a sweater over your pajamas, walking down the stairs as they creaked, the sounds muffled underneath your slippers.

The cold morning breeze bit at you as you stepped out the front door, careful to lock it behind you. You were hoping a walk and a cigarette would help to clear your mind and calm you down.

You weren’t the type to be freaked out by nightmares, but this one felt hauntingly real. You could feel the warmth of the fire as your house went up in flames, the pure fear as Jake’s screams rang through the empty night. You tried to ignore it, lighting a cigarette and propping it in the corner of your mouth as you wandered the streets.

In your mindless wandering, you found yourself at a grassy park, ten or so streets down from your house. Nobody was here at this hour, and you walked through the trees and playgrounds until you reached a grassy hill that contained a familiar face.

You raised a brow in surprise as you watched Sunghoon sitting at the top of the hill, his back resting against a tree as he read a book, flipping the pages casually.

“What are you doing here? It’s 3 am.” you called to him, taking a drag when he turned to look at you and smiled.

“I don’t sleep.” he replied, his attention shifting back to his book. You climbed the hill slowly, your cigarette propped in your mouth as your slippers grew stained with the green dewy grass.

“What are you, a vampire?” you joked, sitting down beside him when you reached the top. You were hesitant to talk to him after your dream, but you did regardless, his hand reaching out to take a hit from your cigarette, his smile just as vivid as it was in your nightmare. You tried to brush it off. It was just a dream, after all.

“Not a vampire, no.”

“What are you reading?” you asked, and he shut the book, showing you the cover.

“One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” he replied, and you nodded at him, impressed as you took your cigarette back from his hands.

“Ken Kesey. Nice.” He shrugged.

“It’s interesting. The main character hallucinates all kinds of shit.” You snort.

“I’ve read it.” He smiled, tucking the book away behind him. That smile, which had once seemed so pure, seemed malicious through the lens of your dream.

“I know.” You both grow silent, the sound of burning ash and your breathing being the only sounds in the quiet morning. The two of you watched the grass sway in the wind, completely undisturbed by the presence of other people.

“We run into each other a lot.” you said finally, Sunghoon turning to look at you. You were pensive, your cigarette burning out in your hand until the ash reached your fingers, and you crumbled it in your hand. “Do you sometimes wonder if we can read each other’s minds?” Sunghoon leaned back, closing his eyes against the breeze.

“I’ve never wondered that. I’ve always known it.” You looked at him, your brows drawn as you nudged him with your elbow, him laughing in response.

“You’re pretty strange, you know.”

“You’re pretty strange too. That’s why we like each other.” You couldn’t argue with that, so you didn’t. You just leaned back against the trunk of the tree, your shoulders touching as you and Sunghoon sat in silence, watching the sun slowly rise in the horizon.

𖣂 𖣂 𖣂

Jake was saying something to you, but you weren’t listening. Lately, you’d been having a hard time focusing on just about anything.

Your nightmare was persisting, coming back to haunt you every night. Ever since that first dream, your mind had been preoccupied with the image of that fire. The fear you felt in your dream crept up on you in your waking hours, the image of Sunghoon’s face burned into your eyes every time you closed them. And it certainly didn’t help that he’d been showing up more than usual, taking more of your time away from things that mattered, like the man in front of you.

You found that you were thinking about Sunghoon more than often. For the past year, he had been your best friend and nothing more, but now, you weren’t sure. His silky hair and mysterious smile kept you up at night, and the gleaming blood on his face as he smiled woke you up in the morning. There was something about him; you couldn’t explain it, but he drew you in just as strongly as that fire in your dream. And the guilt you felt for thinking about him so often was doing nothing to improve your mood, or your relationship.

“Y/n? Are you listening?” Jake asked frustratedly, snapping in your face. You came out of your trance, startling awake as you dropped the tea bag you were holding, the one that had been steeping in your tea for more than a couple minutes now. You threw it into the trash, your angry boyfriend following you as you sat down at the dining table. “I swear you don’t even listen to me anymore.”

“I’m trying to, Jake.” you said, running a hand through your hair. You didn’t even remember what you had been talking about, why he was mad at you in the first place.

“For the past week, you’ve barely spoken to me,” he said. Jake was rarely angry, almost never, but you could hear the resentment in his voice. “You don’t even look at him half the time when we’re together.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” You felt hazy.

“Where are you going at dawn every morning?” Your gaze snapped to him, and his eyes were filled with a flurry of emotion; hurt, anger, sadness. “Every morning, you wake up at 3:00 and leave. You think I haven’t noticed?”

“I’ve been having nightmares. They wake me up.” you dismissed him, taking a sip of your tea and finding it had grown cold during your argument.

“You’re not cheating on me?”

“God, no, Jake.” you said, rubbing your forehead in frustration. “I’m just…I’m just confused right now.”

“Then please, tell me what’s going on!” he said, gesticulating in annoyance. “You won’t even speak to me lately. We used to talk all the time.” You considered telling him about Sunghoon, but this was not the time, nor place. It would only make him angrier, and you hated fighting with Jake more than anything.

“I can’t have this conversation right now.”

“Well, when are we going to have it? I mean, do you even love me anymore? You’ve been avoiding me nonstop.”

The past you would’ve fled, would’ve told yourself that this wasn’t worth the conflict and decided to run. You were used to running, but you were tired of it. The new you loved Jake, and you would get through whatever was stopping your relationship, regardless of how hard it was. And you knew you were the one to blame.

“Of course I love you. I’m sorry.” you said, standing up and abandoning your tea on the table. “I’m just going through a weird spot right now, and it’s hard to explain.” You placed a hand on Jake’s face, and he immediately softened. “Soon, I’ll tell you everything. I promise. I’m just in my own head right now.” He put his hand over yours, smiling tightly but accepting what you said, despite how much it hurt his heart to see you struggle in silence.

“Okay. Okay, that’s fine.” He pressed a kiss onto your hand. “And next time you have nightmares, please, wake me up. I’m happy to keep you company in the morning when you can’t sleep.” You smiled, kissing his cheek as you released him, grabbing your mug of tea and dumping it in the sink.

“How did I get so lucky?” Jake grinned at that, walking with you to the kitchen just to hold your hand, walking you to the living room as the two of you cuddled up on the couch together.

You tried to put it out of your head, but something was off. That little, self-sabotaging part of your brain was screaming, begging to be released, and you knew that somehow, it would manifest itself eventually.

𖣂 𖣂 𖣂

Burn.

Burn.

Let it all burn.

Flames were eating away at your bed, and you stood in the doorway as it burned. The fire consumed the walls, your house and all its belongings being consumed by golden flames licking the sky with their enormous size. You watched as your closet, then the bed sheets, then the clock on your nightstand table reading 3:00 am. The fire spread until your room was consumed whole. The house was burning down. And there was nothing you could do to stop it.

“Wake up!” a voice screamed, and you recognized it to be Jake’s through your trance. “Y/n, wake up!” You were confused, turning around to see him behind you, tugging at you, shaking your shoulders with vigor. There was desperation in his eyes, his eyebrows drawn as he shouted at you, desperately pulling, but you wouldn’t budge.

Shouldn’t he be dead by now? This wasn’t how the dream was supposed to go.

“Y/n, wake up!”

Something snapped, and suddenly you were awake, but the house kept burning. Wrathful fire ate away at the furniture and your bed, the walls beginning to collapse in on themself as the house moaned with the effort of keeping itself upright. The house shook, the walls caving in, Jake standing behind you in his pajamas, shocked awake, desperately trying to pull you away.

“Please, we have to get out! Now!”

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.” you murmured, still in a sleepy haze. “Am I dreaming?” But it didn’t seem like a dream, no, it was all too real. Your house was on fire, and you began to cry, tears streaming down your face as you stared at your burning bedroom, paralyzed with grief.

Jake pulled violently on your arm, leading you out of the bedroom and through the house. It was full of fire, your staircase burning the bottoms of your feet as you both ran to the front door, flames licking your skin until you finally made it outside.

“What just happened?” you asked, your voice trembling as you both watched your house burn down, the framework being the only thing left. The fire let out a roar, the roof creaking before it crashed in on itself, the walls crumpling to the floor. The flames ate at the grass, igniting your yard and everything around, the ravenous fire slowly spreading across the ground. Somehow, only your house was the one ignited. Nothing else. “How…how did this happen?”

“I don’t know.” Jake replied mournfully, and you began to cry, your shoulders shaking as sobs wracked through your body, and Jake held you close, tears running down his cheeks as well.

You both watched the house you had so dutifully loved, and the relationship you’d made inside of it, burn to the ground, turned to ash and dust. It was all lost. And you knew it had something to do with you, the dreams you’d been having.

Somehow, you had this creeping feeling that the man with the bloody smile, the man who haunted your dreams, was at fault.

𖣂 𖣂 𖣂

The police said the fire was likely due to a pilot light and an excess of gas, some logical, reasonable explanation, but you weren’t listening. Jake was nodding along to their long-winded speech, but you were staring off into the distance, eyes zoned out on the wall of the police station where you sat.

You felt Jake grasp your hand, his thumb rubbing circles on your skin, but you were too enraged to even feel it. Sunghoon was at fault for this. You knew it. Your brain had been warning you, sending you fire-filled nightmares until they finally became reality. It was his fault. It was his fault.

And you were going to find him.

“Smoke break.” you muttered when your boyfriend and the police looked at you questioning, standing up in the middle of their explanation with your fists tightly clenched. You strode out, Jake covering for you, telling the police you were a smoker, you were stressed, all the things they wanted to hear. Their voices went silent as the door closed behind you and you walked right out of the station, not sure where you were going but knowing you’d run into him somewhere. You always did.

“Are you looking for me?” Sunghoon said, and you shrieked at the sound of his voice, startled. You had walked nearly five streets away, to that empty park you had seen him in just a couple of days previously, and there he was, sitting against the same tree at the top of the hill. You slowly walked up to him.

“Sunghoon.” your voice trembled as you spoke, with anger or fear, you weren’t sure. “Was it your fault?” He cocked his head at you, shutting his book.

“Was what my fault?” You shook your head at him.

“You know what I’m talking about. You always know. So tell me, was the fire your fault?” For a minute he didn’t respond, until his lips spread into a crooked grin, and you felt a shiver of fright run down your spine. You had never been scared of Sunghoon, not since you met him that day on the street, but now you felt pure fear when you looked into his eyes. That haunting smile had come to life, from your dreams into your reality, and although there was no blood, you could feel it in the way he looked at you.

“You ruined everything.” you said quietly, your shoulders trembling. “My house is gone. Burned to the ground.”

“C’mon, don’t tell me you actually cared about that house.” He stood, and you backed away from him, stumbling down the hill as he pressed towards you. “Or is it Jake that you’re really worried about?”

“What?”

“Don’t play games. I know about your boyfriend, I’ve known since the day we met.” You never told him about Jake, you were certain you had never slipped up.

“Have you been following me?” you asked, confused and frightened, and he smiled again, that same bloody smile.

“I don’t need to. I told you, I know everything about you.”

“I’m done with this. You’re crazy.” you said with finality, dizzy with rage and fear as you turned and walked away from him, your slow pace turning into a run as you sought to be as far from him as possible.

“No, I’m not. You are.” he called after you, but you didn’t hear it, running against the wind as the sun just began to come up, peeking over the cloudy horizon.

𖣂 𖣂 𖣂

You didn’t see Sunghoon for a while after that. You and Jake rented a studio apartment at the edge of town, it being the only thing you could afford after you lost all the money that was tied up in the house. You were both depressed, but at least you were together.

Sunghoon’s actions weighed heavy on your mind. You didn’t tell Jake that he was the one to blame for the fire, you were afraid of how he would react. If you revealed you had been keeping Sunghoon a secret for this long, he might blame you for the house burning down, and where would you go from there? You had already lost your best friend, and you weren’t willing to lose your boyfriend too.

“There’s something you’re not telling me.” Jake said quietly. He was sitting on the couch, head in his hands, as he usually did when he had nothing to distract him. “You’re keeping something from me.” You didn’t respond, because you knew he was right. You were keeping something from him, something enormous, and it was eating away at you. “You won’t talk, you’re smoking more than usual, you’re withdrawn-”

“My house just burnt down, Jake.”

“It was my house too.” he said sharply, and you didn’t reply. You could feel a distance growing between you and Jake, getting wider with every day, and you didn’t know how to fix it. You were desperate to resolve this issue, but how could you tell him that you were to blame for the fire being lit?

“Tell me about your nightmares.”

“What?’ you said, your brows lifting in surprise. He looked up at you, his eyes pleading with you for any kind of response, something he could work with.

“You said you were having nightmares. Tell me about them.”

You didn’t want to, not at all, it would make you have to explain everything to him. But you owed him that, so you sat beside him. And you told him.

“Our house burnt down in your dream? Every night?” he asked, in shock that you could’ve predicted what happened. “And I died?”

You swallowed down your guilt. You kept out the part where Sunghoon was the one to kill him, just saying he had died somehow, but lying to him out loud felt much more horrible than just keeping things from him.

“Yeah. I don’t know why, it just happened.” You expected him to yell, to blame you, to say anything, but he didn’t. He just nodded, like he understood, and you heaved a breath of relief.

“Okay. Okay, I get it.” He abruptly stood, grabbing his keys, and you looked at him with confusion. “I’m going on a drive to clear my head. I’ll be back.”

As he said it, he walked out the door, and you prayed that he was right, that he really was going to come back.

After all the occasions of lying to him, it was Jake’s turn to lie to you. He attemped to keep the wheel steady as he searched for a psychologist, anyone who might be able to give him an answer about what was going on with you. He felt guilty, but that guilt began to slowly disappear as he pulled into the garage of a towering building, walking into the lobby and attempting to find someone who could help him. The secretary led him into a white room, a man sitting at a desk who smiled at him warmly, a kind gesture he was happy to receive.

“Jake? Sit down.” the man said, and Jake sat. “I’m Dr. Yang, but you can call me Jungwon if that makes you more comfortable.”

Jake nodded nervously, looking around the room, scared of the stale, white appearance. It was frightening, an unfamiliar territory that felt foreign to him. He felt like he was selling you out, like he was putting your fate into the hands of another person, but he couldn’t help it. He knew he had to do something.

“So,” Dr. Yang said, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his chair. Jake gulped with anticipation, a mix of fear and guilt running through his veins as the psychologist’s judging eyes landed on him, narrowed. “Tell me about your girlfriend.”

𖣂 𖣂 𖣂

You were wandering around town, as you had often been doing. It’s not like you had anything better to do, with Jake busy and your mind distracting you from getting any work done. There was a flurry of thoughts running through your head, a synthetic blur of fire, blood, and everything you wanted to suppress. It was overwhelming you.

You were on an empty street. You found that lately you wanted to avoid running into other people. You didn’t want to hear their conversations, see their judging eyes, no, you wanted to be alone.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” Sunghoon said, and you nearly jumped in fright. His ability to seemingly come out of nowhere was jarring, and it was beginning to frighten you. Not only did he appear whenever you wanted to see him the least, he always knew exactly where you were. Every minute of the day, down to the exact location. How was that possible?

When you recognized him, you narrowed your eyes, turning away and walking as fast as you could. With long strides, he easily caught up to you.

“What? Are you ignoring me?

“I don’t want to see you ever again.” you spat back at him, and he seemed amused by your vitriolity, eyes crinkingly up into humorous crescents.

“Oh, don’t you get it?” he smiled, and you felt that same fear run up your spine, the fear you felt when you first confronted him about lighting the fire. With every day, he was becoming more like the man you saw in your dream and less like your best friend. “You can’t get rid of me.”

“Please, just go away.” you said, your angry voice tinged with desperation, pleading with him to leave you alone so you could return to the peaceful life you used to have, and for a moment, it looked like he almost pitied you.

“Why? Did I cause problems between you and Jake?” You whipped around, furious that he was still able to read your mind in moments like this.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“So I was right. I am causing issues between the two of you.” he seemed happy at the prospect of his meddling, and that only made you more concerned, watching the way his smile grew. “Exactly as I expected.”

“Stay away from him.”

“I can’t guarantee that.” He was the exact vision you saw in your dream, smiling with malice and hatred like you had never seen in a human face. You feared for Jake’s life. If Sunghoon had managed to make your fiery nightmare come to life, who was to say he wouldn’t kill Jake as well? Maybe your mind was trying to warn you about him, to tell you what he was going to do next.

“Please, don’t hurt him.”

“Don’t worry. If he dies, it won’t be me that kills him.” You didn’t understand what he was saying and you didn’t want to, so you walked away, refusing to speak as tears began running down your face. Luckily, this time he didn’t follow. You turned to see him staring at you, that smile on his face.

Maybe you were to blame, for blindly trusting a stranger. Sunghoon had managed to worm his way into your brain. He knew you inside out; your behavior, your thoughts, he almost knew you better than you knew yourself. He was living inside your mind. He had infected every part of your life, even your dreams, and you were suddenly wishing that you had never let him sit down next to you on that bench a year ago.

When you looked back at him again, he was gone.

You ran back to your apartment as quickly as you could, praying that Jake was back from his drive. You were relieved to see him safe and sound, sitting on the couch. But something was off; he was staring at the wall, completely silent, his eyes glazed as he clutched a half-empty beer in his hand.

“Jake?” He turned to the sound of your voice. “Is everything alright?” He didn’t respond for a minute, like his brain was processing your question.

“I’m fine.” he said after a moment, turning back to the wall, staring at the peeling wallpaper with rigor. Unable to turn his attention to you.

That night, you went to bed with a heavy heart and a buzzing brain. You were grateful to see that Jake had climbed into bed next to you as usual, but you were much too scared to sleep, no, you were afraid to even close your eyes. You watched the new clock beside your bed as the hours flew by, and suddenly it was 2:30 am. You still hadn’t fallen asleep.

You buried yourself further under the covers, Jake’s light snoring comforting you as you tried desperately to get to sleep. But your mind was racing. It was a flurry of images, most of them Sunghoon. You rolled over towards your bedside table, reaching for the bottle of sleeping pills your boyfriend had bought you in hopes of easing your vivid nightmares. You popped one in your mouth, swallowing it dry before you closed your eyes, praying for the sweet feeling of sleep.

As you drifted off, you stared into the image of Sunghoon’s bloody face carved into the back of your eyelids.

𖣂 𖣂 𖣂

You awoke with a start. The house was completely silent, no evidence of anything that could’ve woken you from your sleep, but you were on high alert. Your heart raced as you looked around the room, falling on the empty space next to you in bed. You immediately sat up in bed, searching the room with your eyes.

“Jake?” you whispered, and heard no response. You slowly got up, your feet padding softly across the floor as you came around the bed. As you stepped forward, you felt your skin grow wet. When you looked down, you were horrified to see the source.

Blood. Red and thick streaks of it running across the floor, leading from your bed to the door to your bedroom, which was slightly ajar. The door you remembered firmly shutting before you went to sleep.

Your heart felt like it was burning in your chest, buzzing with fear as you followed the trail of blood, a sob escaping you when you saw it ran down the staircase, and you clapped a hand over your mouth.

“Jake?” you said again, calling out for him, your voice breaking as it rang empty in the night. He didn’t reply. You dialled 119 on your phone, your hands shaking as it rang. “Hello?”

“119, what’s your emergency?” a voice answered on the other side, and you trembled, slowly descending the blood soaked stairs.

“There’s blood all over my house. I…I think someone killed my boyfriend.” you said, your voice cracking as you broke into a sob, clapping a hand over your mouth to silence yourself. “Please, please hurry.” You followed the blood further, a horrible, debilitating sense of deja vu striking you as it led to the front yard. You prayed this wasn’t true, that it was just another cruel dream, but it felt as real as anything.

“We’re sending units to your location. Stay where you are, we’ll be there soon.” You wanted to listen, to follow instructions, but you dropped your phone, the call ending when you saw what was waiting for you in the front yard.

The closer you got, the more you could see that it was Jake, laying in the grass, his mouth and eyes open in a silent plea. His right fist was clenched shut, and he was covered in blood, and you abandoned all caution to run to him, collapsing onto the ground, blood wetting your dress and your hands as you cradled him in your arms.

This couldn’t be true. You’d had this dream over and over, night after night, but you never thought it would become your reality. You felt like your entire world was shattering. You had lost Jake, you had lost him permanently, and it was all your fault, for welcoming a stranger.

“I told you.” Sunghoon said, his voice quiet as he stood behind you, watching you hold Jake’s body as you sobbed. You could barely address him, too concerned with grief. “I told you he’d die.”

“This is all your fault.” you said, your voice shaking with fear, anger, grief, all the emotions you could imagine were running through you at one time. “I never should’ve befriended you.”

“Oh, you didn’t have a choice.” Sunghoon said, kneeling next to you, his hands resting on his knees. The sound of sirens began to ring through the air, blue and red light shining across the street as cop cars pulled up in front of your house. “We didn’t meet that day. I’ve always been with you.”

“What are you talking about?” you asked, but he didn’t respond.

He got to his feet, his eyes dark and filled with pity as police officers ran out of their cars and towards you, straight past Sunghoon. You pointed to him, eyes wild as they looked at you, then the direction of your finger.

“That’s him! He killed my boyfriend!”

“Ma’am, we’re going to need you to let go of the body.” They ignored you, prying Jake out of your hands. Sunghoon watched as they dragged you away from Jake, inspecting his body while you screamed at them, pleading with them to catch the killer, to arrest him for what he had done to your boyfriend. You still didn’t understand. It was almost pitiful.

You were still screaming and pleading when an officer approached you, a note in his hand, almost illegible through the sheen of blood that covered it.

“Are you y/n?” he asked, and you only cried harder, which seemed to confirm his question. He raised the note, displaying it to you, and you attempted to read it through your tears, your eyes going dry when you processed it.

Y/n killed me.

It was Jake’s handwriting, you knew it. After two years, you’d recognize his handwriting anywhere, the distinctive scribble, the way the letter y looped at the tail. Your heart felt like it would stop in your chest as the officer stared at you scrutinizingly.

“You’re under arrest.”

“What? No, you don’t understand.” you said desperately, struggling against the rough hands of the officer as he attempted to cuff you, wriggling desperately. “I didn’t kill him, Sunghoon did! He killed him!” you screamed, pointing at the dark haired man standing in the shadows, watching.

The more you looked at him, the more you realized that you didn’t know anything about him. Sunghoon always had the ability to read your mind, but you couldn’t name a single thing about him apart from what you had in common. Where did he live? What was his last name? What was his family like? Where did he go to school, where did he work? You couldn’t recall anything, and your eyes widened in terror as he stared at you from the sidewalk, casting no shadow on the pavement.

Then, he smiled, that bloody, horrible smile, the one that haunted you in every sleeping and waking moment.

“Sunghoon killed him!” you cried desperately, the officer staring in confusion at the empty space you were pointing to, the only thing in the silent night being the trees and bloody sidewalks. He turned back to you, and the next three words he spoke made you feel like you could die on the spot, you were so filled with dread and fear.

“Who is Sunghoon?”

𖣂 𖣂 𖣂

back to the masterlist.

[jeongguksu]

heartbreak

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: angst

warnings: just a lot angst, reader is deeply insecure!

You thought you were okay.

Maybe things have been slow, but isn’t that what heartbreak is all about? Picking up the pieces of your heart one by one until it is whole again. Tedious, but inevitable. And it hasn’t been that long, right?

Wrong. Maybe not for you, but it has been long enough for him.

Because, for the first time in seven months, you’re standing in the middle of the drinks aisle of the grocery store, contemplating about which to get between a bottle of Pepsi or Sprite, and you see him.

Jungkook.

And, just like that, all the pieces you have picked up until now have already shattered once more on the ground.

The moment you notice him is almost surreal, as he edges into your field of vision from the left. He looks well. Memories rush back in your head. All the shared times together you have tried so hard to suppress in the last couple of months. They come back so fast, and there’s a pang on the left side of your chest. It hurts like a dagger. Stabbing your already broken heart as you revisit your failed relationship. Revisiting a part of you that should not see the light of the day ever again.

Because he’s got a girl next to him.

You don’t know her, you haven’t seen her around, but she’s pretty. She’s got those bridal hair waves that you always wanted to have, a childlike smile that could charm any guy who sees it. The white off-shoulder dress flatters her body and waist, making her look like a princess out of a Disney movie.

Taller, prettier, skinnier than you. And Jungkook’s looking at her with that bunny smile on his face. One that he would only make when he was with you.

Was.

But you stare for far too long, and his eyes break away from her beautiful face, slowly creeping towards you.

No, no, no. He cannot see me like this.

Your back is already facing the couple, shrinking into your black hoodie. The drink has long been forgotten, and you step away.

“Y/N?”

Your name slips out of his lips like a melody—gosh, you have missed the sound of his voice—but it only makes you stride away faster. And faster.

Fast enough that, in a flash, you are already outside of the store, taking in the cold wind hitting you like a slap in the face. The growing ache in your chest is suffocating you that you don’t even notice the tears streaming down your face.

Because all you can really remember is the pain spread across his face when you ended things.

“But… why?” His voice breaks, and you can feel your composure unraveling.

“I– I don’t– it’s not…” the words come undone. “It’s not you, it’s me.”

And he almost cries. “That’s not a fucking—! If you’regoing to throw away two years of us, you should at least be able to tell me why!”

Because you’re too good for me. Because I can’t offer what you want. Because I’m not the person you deserve to be with. “Because… because…”

Your mouth opens to speak, but you’re paralyzed. Out of fear. Out of selfishness. Out of love.

“Nevermind,” Jungkook utters, the sound of defeat, “keep the words to yourself.”

author’s note i forgot i even wrote this but sorry idk what i was going through cuz this is angsty as hell lmao

[ghostbite0]

AGH! People putting Shinobu as a mother figure to Giyu makes me so angry and sad! When I first watched demon slayer I didn’t like her because she was cruel to Giyu! Watching it again (and reading the manga) I realize it’s more harmless teasing than anything, and they more have a brother-sister relationship than anything??? Especially being a part of the gacha community you see it so badly. Like—yes, she cares about him. But she doesn’t baby him at all? They both get annoyed with each other and drive each other up the wall. She’s like a nagging little sibling more than a mom. Whose mom asked their son if they’re going to go on a long winded story? Are you people okay? 🤨

With Giyu and Mitsuri; I love the idea of them being friends, but the idea of him seing her as his late sister has always frustrated me; “oh, these two female characters both have braids! They’re so similar!” It puts a deep anger in me because it’s basically saying Giyu doesn’t see Mitsuri as her own person, but rather just a reflection of someone he once cared for. Canon Giyu would NEVER! He so obviously is a generalized person—with all the hashira—who think he’s an emotionless piece of stone. Or at least they treat him like one sometimes. It just frustrates me so badly, and I’m glad someone FINALLY mentioned it. Too many people turn him into an uwu depressed baby; in reality he is a gross, sarcastic, ADULT MAN who avoids socializing like the plague. He only started treating Tanjiro and Nezuko as people to care for when Tanjiro bothered him for a whole episode. Now he’s just a grumpy, tired dad who doesn’t need to be babied because he is an adult.

Sorry for going on a tangent; as I said, this frustrates me deeply. It invalidates their whole character and rewrites their whole personality.

"...it’s basically saying Giyu doesn’t see Mitsuri as her own person, but rather just a reflection of someone he once cared for" AND HE WOULD NEVER!!!!!!!!! be free... go off... bars

"in reality he is a gross, sarcastic, ADULT MAN who avoids socializing like the plague. He only started treating Tanjiro and Nezuko as people to care for when Tanjiro bothered him for a whole episode" THIS!!!

fantastic points all around! thank you anon :D

[emmg]

Hello love Can I ask for Raphael x reader where Raph actually shows love, buuut in his own twisted way? One of my fam members had autism and he never ever said those three words, but showed it in acts of service and paying attention to what you say/do aaand i was thinking about Raphael who tries to show how much he loves her(or them) but well he's not very good at this. Tav reading book- he will read it too, because he cares...just to tell her how much it sucks. She's bleeding after a fight? Throws her into his healing pool and tell her how stupid she is for the whole time he's with her and how she wastes his time, but won't leave her alone, because what if this dumb mortal drowns herself? A guy said something to her and she felt like sh*t or he touched her to make her uncomfortable? He would give her a very fancy box with big bow and smiles innocently at her ; 'Come on little mouse..open it' just for her to see somebodys hand or head 'oh..this? its this creep from yesterday' Tav wears something cheap? oh boy he would tell her everythink he thinks about this rag. She thinks he wants her to wear only expensive things, because how she looks=his reputation but the truth is he thinks she deserves only the most lavish things in her life and he wont allow her to live below HIS standards And his fav way of showing love is giving her mortal who hurt her in any way already beaten so they wont demage his precious possesion, but conscious enough so she can enjoy torturing them (for sure he does it for his own amusement more than hers)

What a fun prompt! Although, to be fair, I can't exactly make it totally healthy because Raphael isn't an emotionally healthy person to be in a relationship with so this is still a little bit dark, though definitely not awful haha.

ETA: ah crap I missed the part about x reader. So sorry about that. In my defence, I truly cannot write from second person point of view. I’m very, very sorry anon. I’ve tried before and it feels awkward to me and everything comes out… bad.

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

Sometimes she feels hollowed out, as if something essential has been scooped clean from within her. She’s not sure why she stays—or even if she’s staying at all. Maybe he’s holding her here, maybe she has no choice, maybe she lost that freedom long ago. Because you don’t walk away when Raphael is speaking; you don’t walk away when he’s watching you. And his eyes are always on her, always, always, always following.

That gaze—it leaves her feeling half trapped, half sanctified, as though caught in some dreadful, holy spell. He doesn’t look at others this way, she knows that, but that knowledge only tightens the hold, winds the snare around her. It’s nothing, she tells herself—this attention, his careful watch—yet it feels like everything, a binding without words, a noose drawing tighter, a claw sinking deeper. Time twists strangely when he’s near, spiraling into something she can’t name, and she can’t help but wonder: will his interest wane, fade away to nothing? Or will it sharpen, tighten, until it consumes her, leaving her breathless, until there’s no space left at all? 

If it does—if he closes around her entirely, if his grip becomes her world, pressing in until there’s no air, no light, only him—what will she be then?

And she’s not even sure if he cares. He holds her there, yes, but it feels like watching a game; his own personal mousetrap, an exquisite little experiment to see how far she'll reach for the cheese. She wonders if he’s simply taking what he can, drawing her deeper until he tires of her, only to discard her when he does, laughing at her fascination with him. She can almost see it—him spitting in her face, turning her out with a sneer, then pulling her back in just as quickly. He'd fuck her, taunt her, pull her close only to watch her shatter, then laugh, invite her back with a gift, something golden, expensive, dripping with indulgent mockery. 

But then there are the other things he does, things that somehow feel worse—things that make the walls seem as though they’re closing in, or maybe as if he’s drawing her into some embrace she can’t escape from. She’s not sure which would be more terrifying. 

Sometimes, when they’re in Avernus together, she finds the portals dead, the way back to her world—a world of soft light and mortal trivialities, the Gate and its grime—suddenly blocked, cut off. And it's always the same dance. She demands an answer, asks why she can’t pass through, why she’s stuck here in this burning place with him, unable to flee back to the familiar. And he only waves her off, barely looking up, irritation flickering in his gaze. He says he hasn’t the time to bother with “simple magic,” that she can wait. 

But he knows, he knows damn it, that she can barely summon a spark, let alone force open a gateway on her own. He knows she’s trapped, helpless as a moth in a bottle, wings beating frantically against glass she can’t see. And he watches her, almost bored, as she paces, her panic ripening, sinking roots in her chest. Because he knows she won’t leave, can’t leave, and he’ll let her struggle just long enough to make her feel it—the helplessness, the claustrophobia, the bitter thrill of his control, closing around her, almost gentle, almost loving.

And then, only then, he flicks his fingers, and the portals blaze open, bright and mocking, as if they’d never gone dead at all. 

She's interrupting him, Raphael says, a nuisance he has no time for. Important matters, contracts to seal, souls to collect—real work to do, and here she is, lingering in his shadow, hovering as if she belongs, asking him to breathe life into a stupid portal. He snaps at her to leave, to stop her pestering, to get out of his sight. And so she does, shrinking back, biting her lip, retreating into her quiet corner.

But then, later—always, somehow, later—he comes to her, waking her from half-sleep as he climbs over her, pressing down with a heat that seems to burn straight through her skin. He murmurs his need, his lust, his rough, clumsy want, lips grazing her ear with words that are half-whispered, half-demanded. And she lets him, wraps her arms around his back, holds him, breathes through the rush of his hands, the awkward rhythm of his taking. 

She feels the weight of him, the feverish heat, and she sighs into it, into him, because in the Hells, everything is unbearably hot. His skin burns against hers, more furnace than flesh, and though she knows he’s hasty, heedless, that she’s just an outlet, a brief relief, she takes it. She lets herself be consumed by it, that pressing heat because here, with him, it’s as close to comfort as she’ll ever get.  

But sometimes there are moments that make her think he might care, moments she savors, drinks in slowly, wondering if they're real or merely the product of his boredom. She can never quite tell, but she doesn’t mind; she lingers on these glimmers of gentleness, holds them in her memory far longer than she should. 

Like when she’s soaking in his absurdly large bath, reclining in the steaming water with her arms folded along the edge, her head resting on cool stone, hair spilling loose behind her. She’s doing nothing at all, simply breathing in the warmth, letting the steam curl around her. And then he appears, slipping into the room, extending those long legs of his, rolling up his sleeves as he settles by her side. He doesn’t join her in the water; instead, he simply sits, a book resting in his hands, the very one she finished days ago. 

She watches, amused, as he leafs through it, the prominent wrinkle between his brows deepening with each page he turns. His expression is one of studied distaste, the kind that would be comical on anyone else. But on him, it’s strangely captivating. 

“Unhinged drivel,” Raphael mutters finally, his tone ripe with disdain. 

“Hm,” she echoes, half-lidded, watching him through the steam. 

“Why do you read this?” he questions. “I have half a mind to burn it. The sheer embarrassment of sharing the same air with it—I hardly want it in my library.” 

She smiles, faintly, eyes closing as she stretches a little deeper into the warmth. “I’m done with it,” she replies, lazily. “Do what you wish.” 

He taps two fingers against the spine. “The Duke is an absolute cretin, I must say.” 

“Oh?” she murmurs, her voice barely a breath above the water’s surface. 

“Utterly insipid,” he continues. "Such posturing, such shallow arrogance. I wouldn’t offer him a contract if he were the last soul on the proverbial platter.” 

She laughs then, quietly, letting the sound ripple through the steam. She knows Raphael is just indulging in his own particular brand of superiority, delighting in the verbal dissection, and maybe he doesn’t care for her company at all. But still, he stays, perched beside her, weaving disdainful monologues that settle like warm coals in her chest. And for a moment—just a moment—she lets herself pretend that he’s here for her. 

He continues, eyes fixed on the offending book as if it’s a particularly irksome insect. “The Duke’s speech in chapter five...” he says. “So very witless, wouldn't you say? Who professes undying love with such clumsy metaphors? And in the garden, no less, like a character in a tragic farce. ‘You are my sun and moon,’” he scoffs, his voice rising to a mock-romantic lilt. “‘My stars, my breath, my—’” 

He pauses, catching her wide-eyed, incredulous look. A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, and there’s a glimmer of something—mischief?—in his gaze. “Oh, little mouse, don’t look at me like that. Surely you didn’t think I’d stoop to reading this… for enjoyment?”

She raises an eyebrow, half-laughing, half incredulous. “You read it?”

“Of course I read it,” he replies, with all the haughtiness of a scholar who’s just suffered through a poorly constructed essay. “I couldn’t very well leave such intellectual refuse lying about in my library without inspecting it first.” 

“Just inspecting it? Raphael, you just quoted chapter five.” 

He waves his hand dismissively. “A tragic misfortune. I assure you, it was purely incidental. I only skimmed enough to confirm my suspicions about its total lack of merit.” 

“Right,” she says, rolling her eyes, watching as he flips another page with painstaking precision. “Is that why you’re carrying it around?” 

He raises an eyebrow, looking at her over the book with that familiar, aristocratic arch of his brow. “Little mouse,” he drawls, his tone both affectionate and condescending, “you really must learn what jests are. I can’t go about explaining them every time, you know.” 

The novel is set aside.

His hand slips below the water, and she knows, he’s done talking, at least about her books. His fingers graze her skin, tracing erratic patterns. She feels his hand leave her only to hear the soft rustle of fabric, and then he’s there, sliding into the water, slipping behind her. 

His arms wrap around her even as he pushes her against the cool stone of the bath’s edge. She feels his impatience in the way his hands move—roaming, relentless, almost rough, his fingers pressing into her skin, biting, digging between the ribs, as if he can’t bear to be gentle.  

One hand cups her shoulder, anchoring her as his other hand travels down her side. It moves in a slow sweep, now a caress, almost reverent, then shifting, tracing a path with no pattern, simply moving, as if he’s learning her contours anew. His grip tightens, loosens, a rhythm that speaks of need and very little restraint. 

He dips his head, face buried in her hair, and she feels the weight of his breath, the moist heat of it on the exhale. There’s a hunger in his closeness, an intensity that borders on obsession. He’s quiet now, all the long-winded, self-important monologues silenced, his usual need to fill the space with words abandoned. 

She feels him pressing against her back, the hard, insistent weight of him, the subtle rock of his hips, and she sighs, her body folding further against the edge of the bath, yielding to him. The warmth in her chest spills out, dissipating into something intangible, and once again, she wonders: Was this all just a performance for her, or something he needs for himself? Was that little, half-sweet conversation meant to soften her, make her more pliant? Or, against all logic, did he truly want to speak to her, to share in that strange, fleeting intimacy? 

She wonders if he cares, even a little, if those sarcastic, needlessly elaborate jests of his are meant to coax a smile from her, to make her laugh. Or is it all calculated, a ploy to keep her engaged, to ensure that when he fucks her, she meets him with something more than passive resignation? She feels his fingers tighten on her waist, his breath hitch, and for a moment, just a moment, she allows herself to believe there’s something deeper beneath his touch, something that holds her in place as much as his arms do. 

There are other moments too, moments that sink into her like a sickness, twisting her stomach, filling her with a dread so deep it almost makes her want to flee, to scrub herself clean, to be rid of him. And yet, those same moments leave her feeling strangely exhilarated, a little unhinged, as though some part of her is thrilled by the horror of it all. 

Take the merchant, for instance. A two-penny swindler, trying to pass off cheap fabric as something exquisite. She spots his scam instantly—anyone with half a brain would—but he’s audacious, leaning in, voice low and greasy as he sells his lie. She calls him out, unimpressed, and he snaps, calling her a cunt. She flips him off without a second thought and moves on, thinking nothing more of it. She’s heard worse, so much worse, and just because she looks the part of a noblewoman at Raphael’s insistence doesn’t mean she’s forgotten the dirt and sweat of her own past. She knows the cheap tricks—how cloth is dyed in back alleys, stained with whatever can be found, how insect paste and a dash of alchemical solution turn cotton into “silk” for gullible morons. She’s done it all herself, seen the worst of it, and this pathetic attempt to cheat her hardly scratches the surface. 

She forgets the encounter entirely—until the next day. Raphael barely glances up from his writing, absorbed in the ink-stained pages of yet another infernal contract, when he pushes a small, ornate box across the table toward her. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even acknowledge it beyond a faint, almost bored gesture. She blinks, glancing from the box to him, and then back, curious but wary, wondering if this is another one of his games. 

She takes it, hesitates, then lifts the lid. 

Inside, nestled against dark velvet, is a finger. Blue, bloated, stiff with the grip of death. Her stomach turns, nausea creeping up her throat as she stares at it, bile rising as the realization settles—this isn’t just some random, expensive trinket. It’s a message, as clear and cold as the dead flesh before her. 

“Oh,” she whispers, voice strangled, unable to look away from the pale digit lying in the box, rigor mortis locking it in a ghastly curl. Her hands are trembling, fingers itching to drop the box, to shove it away, to wipe away the memory of this grotesque gift. 

She looks up at him, horrified, and finds his gaze resting on her, idle, yet somehow amused. 

She stares some more, her mind spinning as she tries to process what she’s holding, what this grotesque little gift is meant to convey. A part of her wants to retch, to bolt from the room, while another, unhinged part of her feels an inexplicable pull, an urge to draw closer to him, to be entangled in whatever madness constantly hangs off his sleeve. 

But she doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, she lets out a half-laugh, shaky and weak. “That’s… not what usually comes in jewelry boxes.” 

Raphael arches a brow. “I’ve given you plenty of jewelry, little mouse. Rings, bracelets, earrings—a whole collection of baubles you hardly deign to wear. Lavaliers, circlets, gems so fine even the simpering nobles of Waterdeep would weep for them. And yet, here you sit, determined to remain a rube.” He tsks, rolling his eyes with theatrical annoyance. “Mayhaps, I thought, just mayhaps, you might appreciate something different to suit that plebeian palate of yours.”

“Whose is it?” she asks, though she already knows. She feels the answer in the pit of her stomach, in the memory of yesterday’s insults and her dismissive walk away. 

He only shrugs, dipping his quill in ink. “I’m told he was a merchant.” He pauses, as if to savor the uncertainty flickering across her face. “Or was it a dockhand? Perhaps a barkeep. Truly, who can keep track of such insignificant lives?” 

She watches, spellbound in a way she can’t quite understand, as he sprinkles pounce over the wet ink, the tiny white particles catching the dim light. He lifts the paper, blowing the pounce off with a sharp exhale that sends the fine dust scattering into the air, drifting toward her. She coughs, swatting it away, a moment of reflexive frustration breaking through her discomfort. 

“So many names,” Raphael murmurs, almost to himself. “So many lives, so many inconsequential little people. It’s hard to keep them all straight, isn’t it?” 

She stares at him, a blend of revulsion and fascination churning within her. His words hang in the air, so careless, so detached, as if snuffing out a life meant nothing more to him than discarding an old, forgotten knickknack. And yet, he looks at her now, watching, as if expecting her reaction, waiting to see if she’ll recoil or lean closer. 

She leans closer, letting the moment pull her in, and he gives a satisfied little hum, returning to his writing with an air of contentment, as if the world is exactly as it should be. She watches the steady flow of his hand, the way his quill glides across the page in elegant, looping strokes, his cursive rising and falling. Her mind, however, catches on another thought, one that wraps around her and refuses to let go. 

He cares, she thinks, or at least he acts as though he does. This is how he responds to insults aimed at her, as if her offense is his to avenge. But another thought lingers, darker and heavier. He knows—that’s what unsettles her. If he knows, that means he saw, or had someone watch on his behalf, and that means she’s never truly alone, even when he isn’t there. She wonders how far that gaze extends, if he’s tracking her every step, every word, if he’s marked her movements like pinpoints on a map, an invisible tether she’s unknowingly bound herself to. 

Her hand drifts to her throat, almost absently, fingers brushing the skin there as if she might feel some hidden collar, a leash she’s been wearing all along without realizing it. But of course, there’s nothing—just bare skin and the faint, lingering warmth of her own touch. Still, the thought unsettles her, sends a flutter of anxiety mixed with something else, something uncomfortably close to… warmth. A warmth that spreads through her chest, that holds her in place despite the quiet urge in her feet to stand, to move, to walk as far as she can. 

But she doesn’t. Instead, she stays there, leaning close, just watching him as he writes, utterly absorbed in whatever Infernal text he’s crafting. And as she watches, that warmth in her chest grows, mingling with her apprehension, a mix of dread and fascination that knots itself around her, binding her there as securely as any leash he might conjure. 

Another day, another reckoning. 

She’s a mess of bruises, skin mottled and darkened so thoroughly she resembles a patchwork quilt rather than a woman. There had been a brawl, Astarion may or may not have thrown punches he couldn’t back, and they both may or may not have drunk too much. Korrilla may or may not have been at the Caress at the same time, her wicked laughter mingling with the chaos, and now her nose is a crimson fountain, dripping ceaselessly. Even the potion Korrilla forced down her throat did nothing to blunt the ache, the slight sneer on Korrilla’s face as she half-carried her back to the House of Hope making it clear she didn’t particularly want to be back tonight. 

When she stumbles in, Haarlep just laughs, calling her a “bloody, battered fool” and waving her off in disgust when she starts peeling off her clothes. With a muttered “Ew,” he disappears as she limps toward the restoration pool, her one salvation tonight. She knows it’s usually reserved for soothing injuries from far more… pleasurable encounters, but she hardly cares as she sinks into it, wincing as the water starts working its magic, stitching up minor cuts and scrapes as she closes her eyes and lets her head fall back. 

She drifts, the water lapping around her, letting the throbbing recede—until a sharp yank at her scalp rips her back to the present, her head wrenched above the water. She chokes, sputtering out bloody droplets as her eyes snap open, and she finds herself staring at Raphael’s livid face, exasperation etched in every line. His hand is tangled in her hair, and her scalp stings from his tight grip. He glances down at his dripping sleeves, soaked from pulling her up, and curses. 

“What a stupid way to die,” he hisses. “Drowning in my boudoir because you’re too idiotic to stay awake.” His fingers tighten in her hair, and there’s no mercy in his eyes. “Take a deep breath now.” 

She barely has a second to react before he shoves her head under the water, his hand pressing down with unrelenting force. Her body jerks, and she inhales raggedly before he drags her up again, just long enough for her to gasp for air and catch his sharp, appraising look before he shoves her down once more, holding her under like a misbehaving dog in need of punishment. Water floods her nose, stinging as she chokes, her hands scrabbling for purchase against the pool’s edge. 

Up again, another cursory glance, and then he plunges her under once more, his grip firm, a rhythm of punishment and cleansing, as though he’s scrubbing the night’s sins from her with each forced dunk. She claws at his wrist, nails scraping against his skin, and he finally releases her, leaving her gasping and hacking as she collapses against the pool’s edge, water pouring from her lungs in a desperate, wheezing cough. 

She realizes then, as she shudders and coughs, that the blood is gone; her nose, once a mess of numb throbbing, now feels raw but whole. She clutches the pool’s edge, head bowed, catching her breath as the water stills around her. Raphael just stands there, dripping, sleeves ruined, as he observes her. 

“Well,” he mutters, flicking water from his fingers with a faint sneer, “at least you’re less of a mess now.” 

He hauls her from the water, pulling her sodden form from the boudoir and away from the rumpled heap of her clothes. His eyes drift over them—the plain tunic, the uninspired trousers, the scuffed leather boots—with a look of disdain so pointed it almost makes her wince. 

“An offense to beauty itself,” he murmurs, almost to himself, though the words slap her just the same. “These… things.” His lip curls. “They will burn. They’re an affront to my eyes, and my patience is wearing thin.” 

His gaze slides back to her face, catching on her bruised nose, and he tilts her head with the care one might give a very expensive artifact. His fingers are unhurried, methodical, as he surveys her battered skin. “I don’t keep unsightly things, you know,” he says. “I like my things beautiful. It’s why I collect them—why I keep them close.” 

Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, his tone shifts to something almost conversational, a careless elegance in his words that sets her nerves alight. “Tell me, little mouse,” he begins, fingers tapping idly on his thigh, “shall I lock the door?” 

She feels a shiver run through her, her voice faltering. “Which… one?” 

He tilts his head in mock contemplation. “Why not all of them?” 

“Raphael…” she starts, but she isn’t even sure what she wants to say, or if there’s anything to be said at all. 

Unhurriedly, he begins to strip off his clothes, each gesture carried out with an almost ritualistic elegance. He slips out of his doublet, casting it aside with a look of mild annoyance. “Your doing,” he sighs, smoothing an imaginary crease before discarding it. “This fabric—fine enough to silence even the heavens—ruined by your negligence. It cost more than you could dream, more than most would spend in a lifetime.” 

She watches, stuck somewhere between disbelief and fascination, unsure if he’s preparing to fuck her or simply indulging in the strange meticulousness of his undressing. Each cufflink is unfastened with almost absurd care, each tie released with the same flawless precision she knows so well. The clothes fold neatly under his hands, smoothed and arranged as if they were sacred relics, and though part of her wants to laugh at the absurdity, she knows better than to test his patience now. 

Raphael pauses, shirt open just enough to reveal the line of his throat, his collarbone stark against tan skin. His eyes pin hers and his voice takes on a melodic, almost regretful tone. “Perhaps if I lock you in,” he murmurs, “you might refrain from throwing yourself into every pit of squalor in the Gate, seeking out any hand willing to smash that face of yours.” 

“No one seeks that, Raphael,” she says, her voice sounding distant. “It just… happens.” 

He snaps his fingers with a sharp, final click. “Yes, yes,” he echoes, almost as if humoring a child. “And doors just… lock themselves.” 

[beanlot]

butterfly knife

a tlou canon love story, a collection of ellie's memories, and a butterfly knife.

wc: 4k (fluff + major angst, brief vanilla smut segment)

reader referred to as ‘pretty’ and ‘ma’am’, major character death, mutual masturbation. just a sappy story.

─── ⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰ ───

“how long have you been collecting all this?”

she was astonished, gawking at the collection of daggers, folded knives, dual blades. your first knife, a typical switchblade, laid there neglected and rusty - you refuse to use it, she doesn’t ask why. “since i was.. twelve, maybe.” you answer, your singular karambit swinging back and forth between your fingers. “still waiting for my first butterfly knife.”

“butterfly? yeah.. good luck..” she scoffs, inspecting one of the daggers closely, her fingers gliding alongside the handle’s delicate intricacies. some are brand new, handcrafted with glory.

it was hard enough finding a serrated piece of metal that wasn’t blunt and rusted to shit, never mind a functional butterfly.

its habit, the way the karambit spins in your fingers; you’d spent years collecting knives, learning them until mastery. she watches as the metal swirls around your thumb, hypnotised under its beauty, she’d never seen one in person.

“which knife did you use first.. y’know, for your tricks..?” 

“mm. this one. it’s pretty basic, but.. it’s a good starter knife.” you tap one of the combat knives, and when you do, ellie observes the rugged scars on your hands from practising over the years; the side of your hand littered with slices and morbid consistency.

“been going through infecteds’ pockets and everything.” you mumble, and she releases a breathy laugh under the impression you’re bantering - when she looks up and sees the earnestness in your gaze, her laugh falls flat. “oh.. you’re being serious..” she gawks.

she admired you. the tangible things, from the bruises on your shoulder blades to the indented scar on your collarbone; the intangible things, like how willing you were to clear a corner first incase you needed to bite a bullet, or how you made her stomach ripple whenever you returned a witty remark.

“look at you being a little garden gnome.” you hear her approach from behind. your arms are sunburnt and itchy under the blistering wyoming sun. and so you snap at her, a sour “not in the mood.” through the dehydration and empty stomach. “it’s boiling hot, i can’t breathe in this fucking greenhouse, and there’s spiders everywhere.”

“want me to come join? i can do the cabba-“

”even fucking worse. get out my face.” 

she knew it was your relationship friendship. it was her ‘tsk’ing you teasingly, understanding the sarcastic dynamic between you both. you were partners in crime, rum and cola, two broken people who found comfort in eachother.

winter was nice though. she’d amble into her little cubby in jackson, hanging up her jacket with a spirited hey you when she’d notice your curled figure stirring under a blanket. the ground outside is crunchy with thick snow, the wind whipping against the windows and the wispy air barbaric against your skin.

she’d slide a vhs tape into the tv, gather some more sheets from her bed and cove herself behind you. body warmth intermingling as your back presses against her chest, her arm settling around your collarbone.

she’ll inspect your face, alarmed by the brutish graze on your cheek, fingertips impulsively feathering against the wound. “holy fuck. what’s this?”

“ow! don’t touch it!” you flinch, rolling on your back.

“sorry.. sorry..” she’d whisper yell, before you feel her wintry touch along your jawline, framing the abraded skin. you hear her tut, her verdant globes darting along your cheeks,

down to your lips,

and then to your eyes.

“your pretty face.. all ruined..” she sighs. she’s not sure what she’s doing, how to initiate; all courage in her stomach rotting to doubt when she sees your eyes nailing into her. you look confused, so she decides to play it off. “i’m joking. you’re not even that pretty.”

“ellie.”

“that was also a joke. you are that pretty.”

“ellie.”

“hm?”

“just stop talking, or i’m gonna beat your ass.”

“.. yes ma’am.”

it’s silent for half an hour, the occasional rubbing your legs against eachother like crickets or her fingers tracing circles on your arm. she wishes she could settle her hand on your waist, or your hip. but she struggles with establishing boundaries, the mere handshake or high-five is too awkward for her.

“have you ever liked someone?” you hear her murmur, her breath fluttering against your neck. you think for a little, eyes glued to the tv screen. “i guess.”

“did you ever tell them?” her nails are delicately feathering against your bicep, soothing patterns that heat your stomach with vim. you tell her a simple no, rolling to your back and maintaining eye contact with her.

she studies you, much like you study her. her cheeks are florid, peppered with subtle freckles that could be counted up close, pupils dilated and pooled with something you could only describe as adoration. “same..” she whispers, eyes mesmerised when they scan your lips. “sometimes, i wonder if i should’ve said something.”

you’re not stupid. and she knows you’re not stupid. you’re piecing the puzzle together, analysing the way her gaze softens with vulnerability, a sweetness which is such a stark contrast to her usual hostility.

“ellie..” you clear your throat, breaking her trance. it’s like she’s asking you, wanting your guidance, your permission. “if you want to kiss me, then do it. stop being such a pus-“ you’re interrupted as she leans in, tilting her head and swallowing your words.

her lips are weightless against yours, a years-in-the-making kiss, longing yet patient with you. her hands hold her up, one by your head and the other beside your waist; she parts her lips again, inviting you to connect with her, deepening it experimentally.

she wants to dart her tongue out and taste you, but the unknown boundaries of.. whatever this is.. is suspenseful and terrifying to her. so she’ll let you take initiative, her lips only smooching at yours with yearning, tilting her head to ease into it.

when you do part, her eyes are brimming with intimacy, as if she’s savouring you in this moment. you rub your lips together, and tastes like coffee, which makes sense. considering it has been all she’d been drinking this morning.

“.. ew..” you whisper, your hands cupping her jaw. she rolls her eyes, and she’s about to say something, but you pull her down towards you; your lips brushing together, feather-light and exploratory, before she kisses at the corner of your lips.

“m sorry-“ peck. “you’re just-“ peck. “too fucking-“ peck. “pretty-“

her kisses dot around your jaw, mindful of your tormented cheek, spreading to your neck. she was nurturing, taking your hand in hers, bringing it to her graceful lips and kissing each knuckle; each scar, each rugged slice.

the verdant shade in her eyes reminds you of the outside, the earth, the soil and the overgrowth; her pupils dilate as you maintain eye contact, bleaching that infected overgrowth with adoration. “can i..?” she whispers, fingers tracing the dips of your hips, dusting your stomach in circular motions.

“no. those are places you can’t touch.” you whisper, jokingly. but when she looks at you with soft brows and convincing eyes, you feel like siren bait.

“places i can’t touch.. yet?” she whispers back, genuine softness in her voice that seeps out like caring silk.

she’s a little bit of a loser. but it’s okay, because you’re wanting it just as much when you look down and see her slender fingers, admiring veins around her knuckles.

your legs subconsciously part at it, accepting her, inviting her. she takes the hint, manipulative fingers dipping under the fabric of your torn sweatpants.

it was essentially lovemaking, her obsessively pecking at your lips as your hands are nested into eachother’s underwear, mutually masturbating. you provided for eachother, blossoming pleasure when you feel her finger tease your swollen clit.

“feel good, baby?” she’d whisper against your cheek, lips lazily grazing your skin, breath hitching when you’d circle her clit.

at first, it was being careful around the edges, tracing each other precisely; then it was hips rutting against each other’s hands messily, the silent room filled with your heavy breaths and your thighs walloping sloppily against her hand as she’d fuck you with her fingers.

“fuck, more up. more up.” you’d whimper, core tightening as her dilated pupils look at you.

you wish you could make sense to her, but the stimulation is forcing your words to melt into difficult blether. “more up? like this?” she whispers, and you feel her fingers curl more, your clit pulsing with its own heartbeat as she does so.

“holy shit, you’re so good.. so fucking good, ellie.” your head would fall back, legs quivering as her fingers would twine inside and rock into you how she learnt you like it.

“that.. that was-fuck, you.. you’re incredible..” she’d swallow, trying to regulate her breathing, feeling your clit throbbing under her palm; your tight core and clenched hips relaxing post-orgasm. “you-you came so quick..” you hum, your hand gliding out from between her legs, her cum glossing your fingers seductively.

“can you blame me? you’re in my ear going mmph.. mm-mhm, mmphm..” she would mimic your whines, because your relationship friendship situationship was teasing. you’d roll your eyes, nudging her shoulder from embarrassment.

she loved you, to pieces.

but those pieces started to crumble after joel.

“didn’t mean to wake you..” you hear her mumble as she zips her bag up, consumed by grief. she’d been packing as you slept, which wasn’t totally out of character - ellie’s always been sneaky. “what are you doing?” you sit up, scanning the puce bruise under her eye through your blurry vision, framing her bloodshot and revenge-driven pupils.

she’s silent for a little, as you rub your eyes and try to regain consciousness from your heavy sleep. she’s wondering if she should tell you this truth, but she knows you’re not stupid.

“i have to find her..”

she seems cold, distant, too numb to remember everything you had both built. it’s hard to see her go down this route, this isn’t your ellie.

“so.. you were gonna.. what? sneak out?” you slowly rise to your feet, tilting your head in challenging. “you were gonna leave me here? i’ll be waiting here for months.. when i could just go with you?”

i think this was the first time where ellie found something she hated about you. your ambition, your selflessness, your urges to wrap her in cotton wool. she wished you could just.. listen.. please listen. even though she knew you were so capable, you took charge of the ground you were on, domesticated it.

but her gut feeling told her something was off. you can’t come with her.

“i just.. no offence, but.. you haven’t exactly been the most helpful recently.” she mumbles, and she hopes you don’t hear. she can’t bear to look at you, your narrowed eyes hammering into her relentlessly. “what are you saying?” you contest, “you think everything revolves around you, ellie.”

and it was a spiteful comment from you, you know that. but it gives ellie some courage to look back at you, eyes of conflict. “you’re not like me, you don’t have to do all this shit. you have nobody.”

you bite back your malicious words, eyes shutting to adjust your temper. “i’ve done this, ellie. i was just asking to go wi-“

“i don’t want you with me.” she interrupts, and it’s then that you find something you hate about her. ellie’s always blinded by rage, she likes getting her point across, cutting you off. “it’s just gonna slow everything down, i’ll be here qu-“

“slow you down? me?”

“fuck me. this is the thing, you think you’re something special because you’ve done this and that-“

“woah, i do not think i’m-“

“yes, you do! i see through all of..” she gestures to your body, and you look down at the scars on your arms, the slices on your hands. “all of that. you think it’s made you all strong and mighty, you aren’t shit.”

“ellie, respectively, you’d struggle making it there alone even if you had five hands and six legs.”

and when the insults bounced back and forth, you decided to sit out on the porch. it’s quiet, an owl hooting amongst the stifled streets of jackson, snowflakes settling on the ground.

after half an hour, you hear the door open, her bag shuffling against the wooden floor as she sits beside you. she’s not good with apologies, and you’d find it cute if she hadn’t annihilated your self-esteem just now.

her eyes are fixed to an invisible point in the floor, and she’s testing the waters, her breath misty with every exhale. you feel her reluctant eyes on you, as she bites her lip out of newfound anxiety. “i wanted to say sorry.. i said some nasty things..” she mumbles, looking ahead at the streetlights and the hushed streets of jackson. “you deserve the world. i wish.. i could give it to you..”

you look at her, feeling your insides marshmallow up inside with her endearing and sincere words. her eyes are overflowing with apology, and you nod at her, grateful. “i’m sorry, too. i didn’t.. mean anything i said.”

she processes your words, eyebrows peaked, as if she’s melting with your apology. “i know..” she whispers, shuffling beside you and her lips planting a remorseful kiss on your shoulder. “i love you..”

you feel sedated under her touch, your lids low as she brings her lips from your shoulder to your forehead, pecking it fondly. and so you whisper back that you love her too. it feels like home to her, confirmation that the relationship between you is okay.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

idaho falls was stop number one. it’s hard to believe tommy had made his way through it alone.

ellie was focused on eastlake, that was the golden ticket. although she was affectionate enough to put her hand on your waist on horseback, or send you quick reassuring nods, she was rather inanimate. you can’t blame her, you’d be the same.

“bastard things..” you huff, trudging through the disarray of infected corpses, trying to retrieve your knife, lodged deep inside a clicker’s shroomy neck.

you’re both blood-soaked, heavy breathing from the ambush. you’d gotten used to shivving through large groups like this, but it was game over when you’d set off nail bombs. it was as if the whole town had came alive and started sprinting at you, screeching and cackling.

“what are you doing?” ellie mumbles when she sees you look through a dusty bag that had seemingly fused into the clicker. “there’s no way you’re actually looking.” she releases a breathy laugh, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

“you never know, it’s how i found one of my daggers.” you look at her defensively, fingers carefully diving into the bag, only to find a crumpled letter and a lighter. “i mean.. these guys used to be people, ellie. with hobbies, and memories and people who cared about them.” you mumble under your breath, “if someone ever found me like this, they’d have a fucking field day going through my pockets.”

“don’t say that.” she sighs, eyes softening as you rise to your feet. she’s trying not to imagine it. “besides, remember your whole i don’t die talk yesterday? if anything, it’s your ego that’ll get you killed.” she smirks, and you’re a little surprised. because it’s the first time in a while ellie’s taking intuition to lighten the mood with some playful banter between you.

you return a subtle smile when you remember the conversation from yesterday, wiping your knife clean against your shirt, watching the muddy blood smear the fabric.

e: “if you die, i’m gonna be so fucking furious with yo-“

“i don’t die.”

e: “whatever, fine. don’t disappear on me then.”

“yeah, i don’t disappear either.”

fuck, she loved you so bad. even the cockiness, the snark, the things that made you such a smartass. but as she watches you wipe the blood off the knife, her smile just.. suddenly drops. her usual barbaric eyes are blank and cluelessly staring at you all of a sudden.

you think she’s daydreaming, or maybe thought of a bad memory.

“what’s with you?” she thinks she’s seeing wrong, because it’s not possible. there’s no way.

denial.

“ellie..? what is it..?” you watch as her eyes start brimming, a glassy reflection of sorrow pinned to your hands. she approaches reluctantly, before she takes it in hers, and tilts it. whilst she’s used to seeing your usual scars and slashes, she’s not used to the fresh bite mark, fungal teeth that have torn your skin.

you stare, your hand piping hot and starting to tremor. because there’s not much for her to imagine anymore, it’s reality.

it’s nobody’s fault. you didn’t feel it, the adrenaline helped block it out. you hadn’t even realised one had gotten that close to you. “i didn’t.. but i didn’t feel it..” you blink in refusal, trying to remember if you’d felt it, when you’d felt it.

“i told you. i fucking told you to stay. and you just, don’t fucking listen.” her voice cracks, hands clenching into wrathful fists. she can’t believe you’ve been bulletproof all these years, untouchable, survived wounds from the neck; the head, every limb. yet a measly bite was all it took.

anger.

maybe you’re immune, you’re like her. maybe it’s a mistake, you didn’t get bitten at all. maybe if she’d fucking knocked you unconscious and left before you had woken up, you’d be okay.

bargaining.

“ellie. listen.. it’s not your fault.” you state bluntly to her, cupping her face in your hands. she struggles to hear through the stressful ringing in her ears, it’s as if she’s already screaming on the inside. “ellie.. can you hear me?” you ask when you notice her eyes go blank for a second, eyebrows furrowing with confusion. it feels as if she’s exiting her body, pretending it’s not real.

“ellie.. listen. i don’t know when this shit is gonna kick in, but when it does. i need you to think straight.. okay..” you explain to her, noticing the life in her eyes revive only slightly as she reads your lips. “you need to think straight, because i won’t be.”

and she slowly nods, blinking through the tears.

she decided to wait it out with you, she’s not sure why, it’s not like you were going to get better. by the second hour, your vision was pixelated, violet blurs that you try to blink away as you look at the sculptures around you.

it’s a museum, and you smile slightly.

“always wanted to visit one of these.” you slump into the leather chair, head aching and eyes feeling as though they’re being hammered from the inside. ellie kept her distance for the first hour, regretful eyes that scan you - your skin is glistening with sweat, and she doesn’t think you notice how your limbs keep twitching.

you look at her, eyebrows arched as you spin your karambit between your fingers. “talk to me.. please, ellie..” you plead quietly, noticing she hasn’t said a single word. she’s void, a mourning shell.

she ambles towards you, hands out as she delicately takes your arm, tilting your hand to inspect the wound. “let me look..” she whispers, as if she’s still trying to convince herself it isn’t real. but how can she, when your hand is ice cold, stripped of its usual warmth?

by the third hour, ellie could tell you were really struggling. really struggling. you had kept asking her to repeat what she said, when she hadn’t said anything - you’re hallucinating, it feels like you’re going crazy.

“baby..” you hear her murmur through the deafening ring in your ears. “please.. please tell me it’s a joke.. you’re fucking with me..?” she clears her throat, releasing a breathy laugh. “please.. i’m fucking begging you, say you’re just messing with me..”

her fingers intertwined with yours as she kneels infront of you, on her knees, helpless. “i.. don’t make me do this.. i can’t.” she can’t see through the puddles in her eyes, it feels like she’s talking to herself.

because she knows she has to stop this, your misery, your suffering. she has to walk away and make peace with the fact she did it for you.

“you’re gonna be fine, ellie. people like you always are..” you whisper breathlessly, your lungs feel useless, paralysed by something growing inside.

“ellie..” your lids are low, eyes morbidly rolling to her, feeling heavy and strenuous. you’re so fatigued, seeing ellie’s bloodshot eyes and her cheeks raw and worn from the constant rubbing of her tears. she maintains eye contact, shuffling closer until her forehead presses against yours.

her lashes are dark and thick, and she closes her bleary eyes. you used to cup her face when she’d press her forehead against yours, but you’re so cold, and limp, and lifeless.

“give those bastards hell.”

and it took until the fifth hour - until you were unresponsive, until you’d start begging her with pained tears to end it - that she’d muster up the courage to let go of your hands, give you a graceful kiss on the forehead,

“i love you..” she’d choke back a sob, lips against your forehead, “you.. you are.. the most magnificent person.. i have ever met..”

and shakily aim at your head, pistol quivering in her hand as her finger rests along the trigger.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

jackson, wyoming. blissful summer, two years later, the grass dehydrated.

she’d be kicking at the dry ground, scraping her converse against the cracked mud simmering under the heat. she needed air, time to think, to dilute her thoughts. she’d cut her hair recently, it hurt. you fucking loved the half-up half-down, and she knew it.

it feels like she’s erasing you, which aggravates her. it wasn’t just the hair, or the sound the scissors made when she cut the tiny ponytail off, or watching the strands streamline down the sink. it was dina’s confession, and constantly taking out the roll bag you kept your knives in when she felt strong enough, only to quickly roll it back up and hide it in her drawers when she realised she wasn’t.

but she’s done well recently, she’s sleeping more, dreaming less; eating bigger portions, and she’s able to look people in the eyes. her dead rabbit lays beside the stream, bow slung over her lanky shoulders.

she kicks against something solid, slowly kneeling when she realises it’s caved in the ruptures of the ground. there’s a metallic glint as she tilts her head, digging into the parched earth and slowly dragging it out.

“still waiting for my first butterfly knife.”

“butterfly? yeah.. good luck..”

it clicks in her hand, her fingers trying to rub off stains of mud, and she sighs. she sees your face, pretty lashes fanning your cheeks, the echo of your laughter when she’d kiss at the ticklish areas of your body.

“so.. how does this work?” she looks at you, knife in hand.

“you see that red thing right there? you throw the knife at it.” you point at the target on the wall, crossing your arms as you inspect her.

“wow.. so helpful, baby..” she murmurs under her breath, before she adjusts her shot, and throws the knife at the wall. it lands beside the red bullseye, a decent throw.

“wow. that was..” you start, eyebrows arched as if you’re impressed. she feels a gratified smile pull her cheeks upwards as you walk towards the wall, clutching at the knife’s handle before pulling it out. “ass. go again.”

you were beautiful. she’ll never love like that again.

and so she slowly tucks the knife back into the ground, respectively concealing it in the soil, it feels as if she’s burying you within these meadows - letting go of you a final time.

acceptance.

[ginxyy]

True Love

But I hate you, I really hate you

So much I think it must be

True love, true love

The sun began its lazy descent, casting an amber glow throughout your living room. You sat curled up on the couch, your fingers nervously combing through your hair. This wasn’t just another day in your life as a singer; today, it felt like the world was closing in, overshadowed by the weight of your first real fight with Woozi. It stung like a slice of ice against your heart.

Moments ago, youthful laughter had filled your apartment, but that faded into the distance as harsh words were exchanged. In a whirlwind of misunderstandings, you argued over something that felt monumental in the moment but insignificant in hindsight. The silence now felt heavier, echoing with memories of the joy you shared. You couldn’t believe you had let a miscommunication turn into this.

As you pondered over the remnants of your fleeting happiness, a thought struck you: music. Your solace. Your escape. You rose from the couch, walked over to your keyboard, and let the familiar keys guide your fingers. After some time, the melody of “True Love” by Pink began to dance in your ears. You poured your heart and soul into the song, embodying every word with raw emotion, thinking of Woozi with every note that filled the room.

With every lyric you sang, memories of joyful moments flashed before your eyes late-night giggles, soft whispers under a blanket of stars, and the way Woozi's smile had made your heart flutter. You felt tear stains track down your cheeks as the words resonated deeper, striking chords that stirred within you. As the final note lingered in the air, you realized you needed to share this. You needed to reach out, to show him through your art you still loved him, no matter the storm that had passed.

After recording the cover, you hesitated for a moment before pressing ‘post’ on Instagram. “This is for you, Woozi,” you whispered, hoping the universe would somehow carry your message to him. With bated breath, you watched the views climb with each passing second, hoping he would recognize your plea.

Just when you thought despair would settle over you like a thick fog, you heard it—the soft tap of footsteps outside your door. Your heart raced with anticipation. Could it be him? Holding your breath, you opened the door, and there he was. Woozi stood on the threshold, a small smile forming amidst the hazy aftermath of the day’s discord.

“Hey,” he murmured softly, his voice wrapping around you, steadying your racing heartbeat. His eyes searched yours, reflecting a mixture of trepidation and longing. The words spun around like dandelion seeds caught in the wind, evading both of you until finally, you broke the silence.

“I’m sorry for what happened,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, remembering the music you shared and the love that came before the fight. “I didn’t mean for it to escalate like that.”

He stepped closer, his warmth washing over you as he took your hands in his. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” he confessed. “I should have listened better. I never want to hurt you.”

Just then, you caught a glimpse of your phone screen, your cover of “True Love” still playing back. He tilted his head slightly, his attention drawn to the soft melody flowing from the speakers. His eyes glimmered as he listened, and for a moment, time stood still just the two of you caught in a cocoon of sound and sincerity.

When the song faded, Woozi pulled you into a gentle embrace, his warmth enveloping you completely, flickering like a flame in the encompassing shadows. “I love you,” he breathed, and those three words held more magic than any song you could ever sing. Your heart flitted, caught in a whirlwind of emotions.

You looked up at him, your cheeks tinged with warmth. “I love you too,” you confessed, your voice steadier now. It felt like the words had been etched into your very being, meant to escape your lips when the moment was right.

Without another word, he leaned down, his lips brushing against yours with a tenderness that left you breathless. The world faded away, leaving only the sweetness of his kiss. Apologies, love, and trust wove into the fabric of the moment. You felt as if you could conquer anything, hand in hand, heart and soul, with Woozi by your side.

As the sun set beyond the horizon, you knew this was just the beginning, a mere chapter in the story of you two imperfect, messy, and true. Each note of love, every moment shared, would only make the symphony of your lives even richer.

[queerwritersingerdramaqueen]

Oh. My. Fucking. GODS BITCHES.

There is so much fucking hurt coming this way. 

But! You all know the drill! SPOILERS FOR THE VENGEANCE SAGA PAST THIS POINT. IF YOU HAVE NOT LISTENED TO IT, DON’T SPOIL IT FOR YOURSELF IT’S FUCKING INSANE AND THE SURPRISE FACTOR MAKES IT SO MUCH BETTER. 

FIRST OF ALL, HOLY FUCK SHIT WENT SIDEWAYS SO FUCKING QUICK. BETWEEN THE WIND BAG AND THE SIX HUNDRED STRIKE. I’M QUAKING IN MY BOOTS.

This saga is the long awaited conclusion to the Mycroft vs William debacle and it requires a LOT of backstory so bear with me. 

So, at some point before the Vengeance saga (can be in between then and the wisdom saga, or even earlier than that) Mycroft and Albert hooked up. This very funny idea is brought to you by Steven Rodriguez’s “Like You Mean It” and “The Devil Wears Lace” and it’s basically brought up by a very drunk Karaoke session and one thing leads to another. Anyway, the short relationship doesn’t end well since Mycroft has a bit of a “Fuck, I slept with the enemy” moment (he’s still very much on the defense when it comes to Sherlock) AND IT GETS A LITTLE MESSY. Mycroft doesn’t completely ghost Albert but he does sort of step back when Albert starts showing genuine affection for him (oh boy, I’ve never written Alcroft angst centred around Mycroft before, Albert is usually the one who needs to get his shit together). Regardless, William is now doubly pissed at Mycroft, Albert’s sad and Sherlock is just shaking his head in disappointment because if he’s the only one who pulled his head out of his ass, then they're all doomed. The OTHER really big thing to remember during this saga is that Mycroft didn’t know ANYTHING about Sherlock and William leading up to the performance. He and Sherlock (especially since the Ruthlessness fiasco) haven’t talked heaps and Mycroft hasn’t been on set since then either. Sherlock does appreciate his brother looking out for him; he does NOT appreciate Mycroft threatening him through song. 

Most of the rest of the cast are kind of just chilling watching this all go down on the side with a bucket of popcorn. They know better than to get involved with the Lord of Crime and the Government when they’re fighting. 

So this saga summed up: the in-laws are FIGHTING

But without further ado, let's get into it

The Vengeance Saga: 

Not Sorry for Loving you - I’m going to preface this one that I am entirely open to any kind of criticisms that may be had about my approach to this song. I’ve never been in that kind of situation and I’m interpreting the song as sung by someone who hasn’t actively kept their “partner” prisoner for seven years. When I listen to “Not Sorry for Loving You” and put it in the perspective of Albert, it sounds much less like an abusers half-assed apology (when it comes from Calypso, then I can hear the bullshit). So with that in mind, feel free to make suggestions and criticisms, I’m completely open to that. Hell, I even ewncourage them because I don't want to be an asshole here.

So, Albert’s rendition of this song obviously doesn’t come from a place of (romantic) love for William but he’s projecting onto him big time. To further emphasise this point, Albert’s not looking at him throughout the song. He could be doing that fourth-wall break again but this time with trying to make the audience sympathetic (god, outside of the AU, that would be such an interesting way of doing Calypso, with her always trying to present herself as a loving, poor girl trapped on an island, making even those who know how wrong she is sympathetic). That first part where he says “That you’re not mine to save” ties in really fucking well to that chapter where Albert blames himself for being the reason William fell. I also can’t believe I managed to kind of catch that in the wisdom saga during Love in Paradise. The thing I’m trying to go for here is letting Albert get some of his frustration out, because he hasn’t had the best luck with family or dating and even friends, so when he meets Mycroft and he finds all those things in him, it’s amazing. This probably would not come across in the actual performance (he does still have a role to play) but counteractive to Calypso deflecting her actions during the Pre-chorus, Albert is owning up to his faults, even when they’re not actually that bad. Mycroft’s guilt over the whole Sherlock/William thing is to blame, not Albert; but he blames himself anyway. A very large portion of this would rely on the writer’s (AKA. my own) ability to get that message across and I totally understand if I haven’t made it make sense. During the bridge part, “I’m angry and tired and restless and sad” the frustration hits a peak and Albert’s venting a little bit on wanting Mycroft to let go of his little (kinda petty) feud with William (and maybe still being kind of pissed at William for doing what he did (Albert and Sherlock are besties and you can fight me on that, you won’t win)). William’s “I love you/but not in the way you want me too” is less about being the object of Albert’s anger/affection and more like “This song isn’t for me, but I do love you brother and you’ll get through this.” And the damn kind of just breaks from there as Albert watches William “sail” away. 

Dangerous - THE BOY IS BACK!!!!! HERMESSSSSSS! JAMESSSSSSSS! You don’t understand how actually HYPED I am that James is back in this AU! Dangerous is such a fucking bop :D But before I get into it, production is a thing and it sucks to work out. Maybe Von Herder really should be just a guy out back cause I need his help figuring out how to do the raft?! For now, I’d assume it’s just on wheels and maybe actors in those dark jumpsuits are pushing it around (Like with the Cyclops puppet and what will eventually happen with Charybdis). IF they’re already on stage that's probably good too, they can pretend to be the monsters along the way and it’ll be an easy transition. AND A COUPLE OF THEM CAN BE WINIONS So plot wise, James is trying to reel William in because this man is gonna lose his shit on Mycroft in a second. The whiplash of how disco-esque Dangerous is helps in being a sort of calming factor (until the “NO” that is) for James to help William take a breath. The wind bag, once more, serves its purpose of being all the bottled up shit William (and even Mycroft to some extent, since it’s HIS storm after all) is holding onto. Most of this song is kind of just a dance break but once we get to the windbag, we get some more plot. This is William’s chance to prove he won’t let anything get in the way of him and Sherlock, his last chance to prove to Mycroft that he won’t hurt his baby brother again (and trust me, William absolutely recognises the GALL of it coming from Mycroft). It’s also his chance to show how he’s “healed,” though that’s more implied through the metaphor of the wind bag. If he has to be ruthless and give Mycroft the what for, he’s gonna do it. I’m also going to make another disclaimer that YES, I know Mycroft now sounds like an asshole. If this were a properly written fic where I could dive into nuance, I could explain the intricacies of both William and Mycroft in a probably more understanding way. As stands however *bangs pots over my head* THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION, ANY ACTIONS WITHIN ARE NOT TO BE TAKEN WITH THE SERIOUSNESS OF REAL LIFE. 

(also, the “I’m not the one who fought for you” knowing it was Sherlock/Athena who fought with William through most of the hardship is fucking amazing)

Charybdis - This number requires us to look less at what’s on the stage and what’s happening backstage. Musical wise, we’ve got big puppet Charybdis. I think that style of the dragon dance would be a good way of doing it, or with the long poles to make it go really high. This piece would need some serious production work because I don’t know quite enough about that side of theatre. I’m just good at the literary stuff (in case it wasn’t obvious). We could even simulate waves with fabric being fwiped around by actors. But back on the plot stuff, William is determined. Mycroft sees this and is like, “oh we are both fucked here.” The actual emotional things happening are weird. Mycroft knows that he’s not much better than William (Though he was absolutely more direct with Albert, his reasoning was a little bullshit even to Sherlock, the guy he was doing it for). He’s feeling guilty and sad for giving up what he had and angry at William because he understands on an even more personal level how the whole situation hurts someone else. But Mycroft is seeing this determination and is deeply conflicted on how he should feel (Albert’s crying in the corner after his number and Sherlock’s stealing popcorn waiting for his boyfriend and brother to duke it out because there is no way in hell he’s defending either of them, they can work out their own shit and grovel at his feet afterwards). When William “reaches Ithaca” and is dragged back (that “NO” fucking hurt man) it’s Mycroft being like, “alright fucker, prove it” (which was the original story idea until I heard all of the vengeance saga and proceeded to lose my marbles with a subplot)

(I feel like this is a good juncture to clarify and remind everyone what actually happened. William and Sherlock had a fight because William wasn’t taking care of himself. They go through a sort of “soft-lock” breakup where they consider it all done but they never actually talk about it, so when Sherlock tries to make amends and either fix or end the relationship, William ghosts him and it’s not until the Ocean Saga that he realises how badly that hurt Sherlock. After those events (when Mycroft isn’t around to witness), William chooses to get help and he and Sherlock are slowly trying to at least repair their friendship. This is a mutual choice that they both want. Mycroft and Albert go through something different. It eventually dawns on Mycroft that Albert is in fact William’s brother and he feels like he might be betraying Sherlock by having a connection with the Moriarty’s at all. Because he’s only been in the musical for one instant, he doesn’t know about them and the developments they've made. He and Albert are not quite in an established relationship and more like sleeping together and sticking around to cuddle afterward. *bangs the pot again* FICTION PEOPLE, FEEL THE FLUFF, DROP THE STUFF. DON’T DO THIS IN REAL LIFE, LIVE VICARIOUSLY THROUGH THEM WORKING OUT THEIR ISSUES.)

Get in the Water - WHEN I TELL YOU I HAD BEEN WAITING FOR THIS MOMENT I’ve been actually fucking obsessed with how this would go and it’s the “I can’t…” that inspired a lot of what’s about to happen. So, the original plot, as mentioned above, was going to be just William getting his resolve tested by Mycroft, a test to see if he’d actually built up the courage and strength to stick with Sherlock. Now it’s a looooot more with the sub plot. “Get in the water” is now less about William not bending on getting what he wants, and more about Mycroft just wanting William to go away so 1) Sherlock can’t be hurt again (he’s clueless, remember?) and 2) so he can stop feeling guilt about pushing Albert away. He is also warring with himself somewhat and somewhere inside him he really wants William to prove him wrong. They are also playing parts so please keep that in mind with some of what they’re saying; it’s the intent and emotion behind how they're singing it that implies what they're really trying to say to each other. I also think that, while having the trident is really cool, I like the way this one animatic portrays a stage adaptation with him using long pieces of fabric coloured like the sea to throw him around a bit, tied with the other actors throwing “water” at him. The aerials are also still an option I’d like to use for the gods and the dead, and they’ll play in really well later.  William does extend an olive branch at one point, he’s not beyond the point of forgiveness yet. Maybe they can forgive each other and themselves for hurting those closest to them. That “I can’t…” though takes. Me. out. Mycroft forgiving William means forgiving himself and trying to make things right between him and Albert. He wants too but he’s fucking STUBBORN. So we get the “Ruthlessness is Mercy Upon Ourselves” bit thrown back at him again, because he truly believes that he has to be a bit self-destructive and let Albert move on without him, that he has to protect Sherlock from William. Pair that with the fact that (at least the way I write them) they never do truly “like” each other and he’s just really fucking angry at himself and William. (weird segue but I genuinely do think that, in canon post-timeskip, Mycroft wouldn’t like William for being the reason Sherlock jumped off the bridge and disappeared for three years, for making him dance in his hand, or completely overtaking his life with these cases to the point that Sherlock killed someone just to cut the strings. Kind of like the Louis/Sherlock situation, but with just an ounce more respect towards the other party, because Mycroft does understand it was still Sherlock’s choice. So in my writing at least, they usually don’t like each other all that much but they stay out of it.) Now, the last breath. I came to the really sad realisation the other day that Anticlea, Eurylochus and Polities actually make up the three original group members we meet at the start of the manga, so I’m just going to go *sobs really fucking loudly around the corner.* You don’t understand how badly this fucks me up, that this whole time, I’ve unintentionally had Fred, Moran and Louis, the first three of the crime gang to enact the plan, also be the voices he remembers whenever he’s in a tough spot. So please picture for me, William on his knees in blue light, arms raised like he’s drowning, then Fred pops up, then Moran (They make up this saga! YAY! :D), then Louis and they’re sort of cradling him until the “Ohh wahh ohoh, Odysseus” where the crew of Odysseus’ ship (portraying the majority that were drowned) lift him up off the stage and into the air (he looks like he has drowned by this point, limp and everything), showing how they will support him through this too. Then the good shit happens after the lights go out.

Six Hundred Strike - Obviously, Mycroft didn’t drown six hundred men, nor would he talk shit about William to his friends. That part is all for show so please keep that in mind. 

BUT IMAGINE PLEASE, RED SPOTLIGHT ON WHERE THEY’RE ALL LIFTING WILLIAM UP, THE WINDBAG GLOWING BLUE AS IT TRAVELS ACROSS THE CROWD TO HIM AND WHEN HE GETS A HOLD OF IT AND RELEASES IT, HE GRABS AN AERIAL ROPE AND GETS TO FLY BECAUSE HE IS USING THE POWER OF THE GODS, ER GO, HE IS FLYING LIKE THE GODS DO. PLEASE TELL ME YOU SEE THE SYMBOLISM???

All the men crowd around the stage while Mycroft and William are overhead doing some cool aerial tricks and circling each other, light now turned gold. Once shatter the ocean is dispelled, I’m tossing up if they come back down onto the stage so the men can attack or if they remain in the air and William attacks while the men goad him on. If they come back down and the men rush him, they can get backstage fairly easily, but we’d lose that sense of Odysseus using god powers. Thoughts welcome on that. After the attack, they “fal”l back onto the stage, the middle portion is raised (if you’ve ever seen & Juliet, the stage during “de Bois Bands back” is what I’m going for.) and there are white lights pointing upwards, so you can see William and Mycroft’s silhouettes. “You released my storm” is kind of Mycroft (in all his emotionally repressed idiocy) owning up that they both just lost their shit and proved they’re not “great” people.  And William, in all his “I’ve been to therapy for the last several months what the fuck do you mean I’m a bad person for feeling emotions?” decides that maybe he should just let Mycroft have it so he finally understands a thing or two. The silhouettes are important because William will be stabby for like a whole minute (speaking of that, does anyone else feel like this is the most violent and real it’s gotten since just a man? Like, yes there has been violence but it’s been a sort of mythical violence, the cyclops, the storms and the god games have been sort of disconnected from real, human malice. Little Wolf had like a taste of it but just the act of Odysseus stabbing the shit out of Poseidon, while he’s down nonetheless, just feels so much more horrifying than anything that’s already happened. It’s terrifyingly human). Also, there would be no way of making it look like he’s bleeding on stage unless he had like, fake blood packs under his clothes and I don’t know how he’d keep them there. The act of putting it in shadow, much like Gwendy’s animatic from the livestream, makes it more sinister. You can’t see it but you can definitely hear it. 

“How does it feel to be helpless? How does it feel to know pain?” Because William, during everything that had happened, had been in pain. He’d been hurting for a long time, long before the musical even started production, long before he even met Sherlock or lost his eye. “I watched my men die in Horror - Calling their captain in vain.” He’ll make Mycroft understand that he’s seen some horrible things. “Look what you turned me into, look what we’ve become.” Mycroft made this angry side in him come out, and now they’re fighting over something that could be so fixable, because if William/Odysseus had to get over his pride to move on, then Mycroft/Posieden is gonna learn the same fucking lesson. “All of the pain that I’ve been through, haven’t I suffered enough?!” When will Mycroft realise that William learnt this lesson, it’s now him who needs to get off his high horse and see what ruthlessness can do to a person? “You didn’t stop when I begged you, told me to close my heart. You said the world was dark,” William knows that what he did was wrong and he cannot make up for it, that it’ll probably scar for a while. He does not need to keep being told that, doesn’t need to be continuously told that he can’t make amends, especially when Sherlock wants him to. “Didn’t you say that ruthlessness is mercy upon our-” See what his ruthlessness bred? See what William choosing to be ruthless and telling Mycroft everything did? The stabbing stops. William goes to walk away backstage when Mycroft gives that final question. William answers truthfully, then walks away, leaving Mycroft to ruminate on his own attitude towards everything that’s happened. 

AND THAT’S IT, THAT'S THE VENGEANCE SAGA!!! These two have gotten ALL their pent up aggression out, they’ve gotten to have a little fight and whatnot, and now, they can have a proper adult conversation after the show about what’s happened and Mycroft can make up with Albert already because fucking hell, Albert’s been waiting for weeks for Mycroft to realise (or be told by Sherlock literal minutes before the show) that he’s making a lot of assumptions of the situation. 

At this juncture, I think it’s a good time to bring up Moran and William’s reconciliation because it can play really nicely into the olive branch moment. It’s probably a pretty simple moment, Moran apologises for getting angry and William apologises for not being as readily available. I think that moment where he’s trying to connect with Mycroft is a moment a bit like that, where they can acknowledge each other’s mistakes and make an attempt for peace (Mycroft just wasn’t ready to accept that forgiveness).

Again, some of the things that happen in this particular sketch of the narrative may make it seem like Mycroft and William are just assholes to each other but there is supposed to be nuance to their relationship and the relationships they have to each other’s brother. Mycroft needs to learn that he can’t be getting all up in Sherlock’s business and, though his protectiveness is appreciated and was at one point nice, fighting battles for him that he wasn’t even having. William, though being “rightfully” judged in this scenario, is still the bigger person until Mycroft pushes him enough. These two will be having a long and thoughtful talk (with Sherlock and Albert sitting in to make sure they hit all the targets, Louis on the side to make sure neither of them start fighting again) in which they will explain themselves and get over it all like adults. They will probably never truly like each other but they can be civil. 

I’d also like to point out, on some character development traits, Mycroft never talks shit about William, never insults his character to anyone (except maybe to Sherlock when they first break up and he’s humouring his tirades). Where he has to interact with the rest of the cast, William’s friends included, he is polite and tolerates any William talk until he can steer the topic in a different direction. It might be the fact that he had to hold in that anger that makes this outburst so bad. William, as well, doesn’t think Mycroft is a bad person for being a protective older brother (he’d be the Hypocrite then), nor is he upset that Albert and Mycroft were ever having a fling. It is the sheer similarities in their situations and the uncanny repeating of history that really drives William up the wall because he knows how you can fix or prevent this. 

The TL;DR: Louis is so fucking done with all their shit. 

I feel as though this AU may be slightly spiralling out of my control, so any thoughts on if I should reel it in or if the sub-plot is in a bit of a weird spot or even if I just have to add more on the sub-plot in the other sagas, all those thoughts would be greatly appreciated. I do feel like I might be giving these two a bit to much wiggle room for their mistakes but that could just be me. I am trying to be careful. Adding all I did definitely pleases the brainworms but the writer in me is questioning if I threw a bit too much in here.

This is a massive story at this point and I’m going to have to construct some sort of timeline or synopsis to get all my bases hit on where I am. 

As always, thank you to @aka-no-ken for listening to my ramblings and having something super helpful to say or just fangirling with me about someone’s voice. You’re a great friend!

TUMBLR, I WILL MAKE YOU POST THIS

PREVIEW: 

AKA-NO-KEN YOU ACTUAL PHSCHIC HOW THE FUCK DID YOU GUESS ALL MY GOD CASTINGS CORRECTLY???

AGAIN, WISDOM SAGA SPOILERS SO READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. ALSO MAYBE A TRIGGER WARNING FOR LOVE IN PARADISE CAUSE THAT WAS MORE THAN I WAS FUCKING EXPECTING.

THIS IS SHERLOCK AND BILL'S FUCKING SAGA NOW BITCHES BROS AND NON-BINARY HOES. AND AGAIN, I'M FANGIRLING AS I GO.

So, with where we left off, William's having a minor relapse in his mental state but it won't become too much of a plot point/serious thing. He and Moran are on funky terms but if there is no "reconciliation" in later sagas then We'll figure that out when we get there. Anyway, this saga ain't about him.

(ALSO, I MISSED A FUCKING OPPOURTUNITY

VON HERDER AS TIRESIAS, IM A FOOL)

Anyway, lets get started.

The Wisdom Saga:

Legendary - BILL IS HERE FUCKERS. SHERLIAM'S ADPOTED SON IS GONNA BE LEGENDARY. I really like how this parallels with Canon when Bill only knew William as a genius professor and Sherlock's actually the one who introduces them in a way. It'll set up nicely for when we get to "I can't help but wonder" and Telemachus/Bill has to toss up with the fact that his Dad just removed the twenty year problem but he did also kill a bunch of people (you know, like in canon.). So this starts out with the lights slowly coming in and Bill's "room" has a chair and a few other easily moveable props. This is a very dancey number I'm finding so these props are probably gonna get taken off stage so there can be actors milling around for Telemachus to interact with, I think he'd be mostly weaving between them trying to avoid them while they keep swiping at him. The majority of suitors can be off the stage but Antinous and a few others are up there ready for the "Whatcha gonna do about it, champ?" The lights would change on Boy to a red colour. It would be so cute seeing Billy fight for Sherlock's Honour. I think something really cool that could happen is when Telemachus sings "somebody help me" the lights flash blue for a second like Athena has heard his plea. and at the very end of the song, he punches Milverton square on the nose (in the fake way of course).

Little Wolf - My big idea for this that would absolutely not transfer over to a regular production of Epic the musical would be that Antinous/Milverton is not the one fighting Telemachus/Bill. I cannot really see Milverton fighting for himself and would definitely have lackey's doing it for him; but outside of this AU Antinous absolutely fights for himself. But yeah, Milverton mocks the shit out of Bill while he's fighting somebody. The lights stay red while the suitors and Milverton are doing their thing. When Athena appears the lights turn blue like fighting of the panic of being in a fight. I think this is one of those moments where its so fun having Sherlock as Athena and Penelope cause it's like "Don't worry baby, Mama's here to help." But, onto the super cool crossover intertexuality talk I can't seem to do right now, Sherlock as Athena fits very nicely cause he, alongside William, helps Bill get into the university; so Sherlock being the one helping in this fight reminds me of that. And Athena's "I've no respect for bullies" reminds me of his disdain for Milverton and his methods of blackmail. ALSO, HER PIANO IN THAT PART IS SO FUCKING GOOD I FUCKING ASCENDED. PAIRING IT WITHT HE DRUMS THAT WAY, WHO DOES JORGE THINK HE IS. In a way, this is like showing how Penelope would like to react to her suitors beating up her son (it just popped into my head but kind of like a batman meme, Penelope dressing up as the goddess of wisdom to fuck up her son's bullies). Athena's whole solo there sounds a lot like Sherlock when he was talking to Irene. And when the fight ends and Antinous says Penelope needs to pick a suitor, Athena/Sherlock is very disturbed before he helps Bill up.

We'll be Fine - The thing I love the absolute most about this musical is exploring Sherlock's side of this whole fiasco they were in and giving him a chance to vent some of this frustrations. Because it wasn't easy on him either and he might blame himself a little bit for not being able to help more. Bill knows a little bit about it from gossip and rumour and being a part of the Epic cast for a little while, not too much but between the two of them, Bill understands that Sherlock is letting out a bit of his frustration with the previous problem and the repeat that seems to be occurring, because he's super smart like that (I say seems because in real life, it won't last that long and William is probably gonna be ok and reconciled with Moran by the time we get there. It'll hopefully make sense once we get to the next saga but I just can't keep knocking this dude over he needs to start healing and giving him a less self-jeopardising problem to fight). Even though he and William have worked through a fair bit of what happened and their still going really strong, Sherlock is still worried. Sherlock's super soft on Bill because he's so similar to William. Bill, while sticking to the script, is just subtly reassuring him that it's ok, they'll get through this rough patch and they'll be fine. Sherlock doesn't need to be the first responder. A little bit of it probably comes out as Bill saying "William wouldn't want you to beat yourself up over this," especially when he mentions Athena's friend (William and Bill are also probably really close friends at this point, don't tell me William wouldn't take him under his wing immediately after they're introduced). When Athena calls him a good kid, Sherlock ruffles his hair and then Bill makes a move like someone's calling him and runs off, leaving him for the next part.

ALRIGHT I'M HAVING FUCKING ISSUES WITH TUMBLR RIGHT NOW SO STAY TUNED FOR PART TWO BECAUSE ANYTHING LONGER THAN THIS WONT FUCKING POST OR SAVE AS A DRAFT.

@aka-no-ken I'M COMING SWEETIE AND I'M BRINGING MY WORK WITH ME JUST BEAR WITH ME

[quirefeast]

Please give the fish man food 🙏

Depends!! Do you want sweet?

Or spicy?

Choose wisely >:0

[sleepyy-27]

@dreamy-wolfy it’s the coco chain! :D

Close ups under the cut

[moraent-keys]

So how do you draw hair? It’s literally so freaking pretty and smooth how you draw it and personally I wanna draw hair like that because I draw boring hair🫶

Before we start- Friendly Reminder: Pretty much all of my art/style, including hair, is inspired by Buxbo!

Other kinds of hair I’ve done

Things I forgot to mention:

Use references!! I use both real life and cartoons

I personally draw hair having a lot of volume and being very thick so it appears more fluffy, I just use really big shapes and draw the hair a little detached from the circle base sketch

I use a mix of stiff and loose lines (as seen w/ macaque) but usually I lean more towards loose

Coloring hair is a whole separate conversation that I’m still trying to figure out myself

My style is constantly changing, especially lately, and I just recently got the hang of doing hair like this! (It took me a year) I’m literally just doing whatever lol

[woodsie]

Shadow Yosuke’s Symbolism

I recently got a friend to play Persona 4 and we were talking about the symbolism of each of the character’s shadow selves, when we came to the realisation that neither of us really knew what Yosuke’s was meant to represent.

Chie’s represented her relationship with Yukiko. Yukiko’s her desire for freedom but lack of action in taking it. Yosuke has… a ninja frog…?

So I’ve done some digging.

Official Statements

The first thing I did was look at the official concept art sheet for shadow Yosuke. This primarily detailed that as the first of the shadows, they wanted it to be very obvious that their shadow’s and persona’s were the same thing.

This is done quite well and tells players subtly that they are the same without being obvious.

Jiraiya does look a lot like shadow Yosuke. The main body’s colour is inverted from black (evil) to white (good), the frogs eyes are added to Jiraiya’s head and the frog’s mouth becomes a chest piece, with the frog’s skin pattern carried over to the cuffs of Jiraiya’s clothes.

Jiraiya is easily the most similar persona to shadow. Important for early game. This idea is also helped by Tomoe looking very similar to shadow Chie, and allows the idea of persona’s and shadow’s being the same to be cemented into the players minds before they meet shadow Yukiko who is visually very different to Konohana-Sakuya.

Jiraiya In Folklore

My next step was to look for any symbolism between Yosuke and the story of Jiraiya himself. Granted, as a white woman™️ my knowledge of Japanese folklore is limited but I will summarise my findings and compare them to Yosuke’s story directly.

[Sorry for the weird formatting, I’m working around the 10 image post limit]

Both stories open with a character from an influential background and moving to a new area.

Jiraiya’s stance as a robber could be in reference to the fact that Junes is taking business away from local businesses and their families.

Saki could be taking the place of the woman in the house. Regardless of if she actually likes him, she is kind to him when others are not. This is something Yosuke admires greatly but it still doesn’t prevent Junes from ruining the Konishi’s business.

His shadow self is then a reference to the old man/magic frog. It recognises him from who he is, and although the shadow is hostile its intention is to teach Yosuke about the parts of himself he is trying to hide so he can reconcile with those feelings. This is what allows him to gain his persona, or in other words “teaching him magic”

Gaining his persona is what helps set Yosuke’s resolve and desire to avenge Saki and the others who have suffered due to the killer. He shows a distinct intelligence and is often the one to piece together vital information. Without him insisting they investigate Saki’s murder, the Investigation Team might not have ever existed. In that sense you could consider him a hero.

A good portion of his social link is devoted to him coming to terms with his situation, both around the murders and his place within Inaba. He frequently talks about feelings of loneliness and a desire to be valued, and he finds comfort in having his persona and being able to do something about what’s going on, it gives him some control over his life which he lost by coming to Inaba in the first place. Overtime though he does come to love Inaba as a whole and recognises that it’s the people around you that really make a place special. He’s not alone anymore and he’s far happier for it.

Other Potential Inspirations

In my attempts at seeing what others online think about potential symbolism for Yosuke’s shadow, I found that most people also did not understand what his shadow was meant to represent. However, I did come across a few older threads of people sharing possible ideas.

One of which was of a Chinese story about a frog in a well. The story related to narrow mindedness and limited perspective as the frog is unaware of life beyond the well and is amazed by it when told what it has to offer. This could be a potential reference to his dismissal of country life and him growing to love the town.

[ayoarticulate]

we all need to get together and collectively say “thank you danai gurira” because she did michonne a beautiful justice in this episode

in all the episodes, truly, but especially this one

in the mothership, michonne was incredibly strictly the “badass” character. she was always on go, ready to do the next thing, very rarely did she have vulnerability and softness to her character

this is so so SO common for black women in tv, especially darkskin black women. in this episode, we truly get to breakdown all the shit she went through, especially during her pregnancy, and see her be sad and hurt and all these “soft” emotions about it.

in the main show, it was instantly shown as “oh this thing made michonne into a hardass and she was super strict and mean,” but we never got to her feel any other way about it, or literally any trauma of hers in the show.

in this episode she gets to be open about those events, as well as verbally express the hurt she’s experiencing from rick by him pushing her away like it’s nothing. that is, hands down, my favorite part of this episode.

michonne becomes a full fledged character in this episode, to me. she cries, she gets mad, shes understanding, shes understood, she’s funny, she’s protective, she’s vulnerable, she’s in love, she’s openly loved in returned. she is shown as a real person. and that? that is more beautiful than any scene i’ve ever watched in the entirety of the walking dead.

[soft-persephone]

I read ur tags on the video abt drake and Kendrick “not caring about women” in the middle of the rap beef and I totally agree about Kendrick btw. It reminded me of someone i saw on Tik tok who made a video defending Kendrick from the “but he didn’t want r Kelly’s music removed from streaming platforms!” thing and what it turns out it ACTUALLY was about was that Spotify was going to put up a “moral and behavior” policy where they would remove the complete discography of any artist who they found out had a criminal record, which is incredibly discriminatory against all convicted people, no matter what they’re convicted for, and infringes on their 1st amendment rights and just the very human right to make art and have that art be preserved. So it was less about “I love r kelly so much im gonna threaten to take all my music off Spotify if they remove his” and more “this policy is actually infringing on artists’ rights and discriminatory against people with a criminal record.” I’m not saying Kendrick is our feminist messiah but like cmon yall he does not hate women and he’s not just calling out drake for clout

A lot of what Kendrick gets reduced to certain narratives because their are a lot of negative things that come with hip hop, and it does do more harm than good especially in the case with “fake woke” rappers.

I don’t believe in putting celebrities on a pedestal and no person is perfect. Him putting Kodak Black on Mr. Morale did rub me the wrong way. Him dead naming some of his family members rightfully upset some people.

I can’t speak for that, so I won’t because it’s not my place, so I just listen and support those that can.

But all I can really say is, the process of growing and wanting to be better person isn’t pretty. Watching someone unlearn racism fatphobia, transphobia, and etc is never without mistakes.

If we are really advocating for people to be better on all fronts, the response is always anger when we they don’t get it right the first time or show they don’t have a full understanding of it.

What do we really want fork people? We tell them to grow and do better? But if you’ve actually walked someone through that or seen it, why are we getting so mad when they make a mistake along the way.

No it’s not our place to teach them. But if they are making a genuine effort, why not make a quick comment and move on. How does him doing these two things and “fumbling” the narrative for black growth as a man in America by including Kodak black and trying to show him stepping away from transphobia in a more problematic than not way, absolve everything he’s ever done or thinks and do thereafter?

I am not saying these thingsto be derivative. I am asking from a genuine place.

That said, it doesn’t make those things right.

I think he said some quiet parts out loud that he shouldn’t have, but at the end of the day he has to be held accountable. 🤷🏾‍♀️

I don’t think Kendrick has ever said anything in song he doesn’t fully believe. He’s very intentional, that might be the place where people are angry with him because it’s clear these things were done on purpose.

I can’t speak for him as I am just a fan. I may be biased as well, so that may be effecting how I think about this, so I try to be mindful and address that as well.

I try to be responsible and try not to deflect other peoples thoughts, feelings, and opinions on some of these things because they hurt some people and affect more people more than they ever would me and it wouldn’t be right.

But, we don’t know him and we never do, so all we can do is speculate, and some more than others like to choose the worst over any benefit of the doubt because in a man driven world when have they never not have that.

I don’t want to be an enabler to that system.

[uglygirlstatus]

TOMORROW....ITLL ALL BE OVER :(

I’m very genuinely not okay about it. I started Riverdale when it first came out (buzz was huge in my high school during my gr 12 year because classmates were having public Cole Sprouse sightings in the city) but I dropped it at some point during s2. I didn’t like it at first (my teenhood was spent raised on Steven Universe discourse so the show was needlessly edgy and sexy and ‘problematic’ in my eyes) to the point where I got in an argument with my friend who was telling me it was good writing and I was telling her she was objectively incorrect. (Years later I messaged my friend to formally apologize and admit that I was wrong. She replied back to say she didn’t remember the argument and also didn’t care because she stopped watching after s1 and also that that was the first time in our 10 year friendship that she ever heard me admit I was wrong)

I started watching again in 2020 when Netflix dropped the 1.5x speed feature bc I thought that would be a fun way to experience the show and I started it from the beginning again w my sister and mom with a renewed mindset. We rang in 2021 with a three hour Riverdale watch session running over the midnight fireworks outside. We eventually had to banish our mom from watching with us because she didn’t Get It. Asked too many questions. Called it Stupid too often. We weren’t there for that anymore. We were along for the ride. My sister moved out and then so did I (not because of the Riverdale hate. To be clear.) but as season 5 and 6 and 7 aired we watched the new episodes every week together on facetime. Eventually we dropped the 1.5x speed thing in order to properly savour and enjoy it. I talked to all my middle aged coworkers about it against their will. I witnessed literally anything anywhere and thought to myself “just like Riverdale”. Fresh off a nervous breakdown and still trying to cope with the ongoing Covid isolation of 2021, the weekly Riverdale watch sessions were literally the highlight of basically every week for me. and even as life started sucking less over time, Riverdale was still there brightening every week and I loved it and it was Television and it was everything. The last of its kind. I will miss it forever. Probably just never gonna watch tv ever again

[fulltransmetalgenderist]

starting testosterone and having a cute guy to top has made me very interested in butch identities. i'm getting real cool and comfy with my masculinity. however, i'm struggling to learn and navigate my butchness when all the content i see is like "no men >:( lesbians only". im a dude and i love a guy and we both have complicated queer trans identities

I agree with you, the idea that butchness only belongs to lesbianism, and that lesbianism is only the absence of men, both lack nuance and don’t hold up when confronted with trans identities.

When I first knew I wanted to start testosterone and to pass as a guy in public, I had a huge crisis about my sexuality. I love women. so much. and I know, deep in my bones, that I don’t love women the same way that a cishet man loves women. but I was worried that if I start to pass and live as a man, then I would be excluded from lesbianism, because of this assumption that lesbianism is when no men. I felt lost and isolated from both lesbians and trans people. But then I read Stone Butch Blues. And then i found more books. And I read more words written by our queer elders and ancestors, who laid the groundwork for all of the lovely flavors of queer we have today. and I talked to the other queer people around me. and eventually I began to understand lesbianism not as the exclusion of men, but about the active inclusion and centering of women and other gender minorities. This new definition of lesbianism completely changed how I saw my own queer landscape. defining terms by what they are not, isn’t very useful to me anymore, I like defining queer terms by what they do, what they accomplish in a queer community.

So when it comes to being butch: think about the actions a person does that makes them butch. For me, I feel most butch when I can step up and help/protect those around me. I feel like a butch when I can give someone good directions in my city, or when I make sure me and all my friends are taking the right train going in the right direction so all they have to do is chat and be tipsy together and not worry about getting lost. I feel butch when I carry my chihuahua over puddles she can’t jump over and she wags her tail when i bend down to pick her up. I feel butch when I hold my partner in my arms and tell them it’s going to be okay. My feeling of butchness arises when my masculinity can be tender and loving and healing. By rooting my butchness in my own actions, I no longer worry about other people’s definition or conception of butch, because I know that I am actively, every day, doing butch things.

also! lesbians aren’t the only ones who use the term butch, gay men use it too. I love how in love with masculinity queers are, and I love that both lesbians and gay men know that cishet men don’t have a monopoly on masculinity, and that queer masculinity is special and unique and deserving of it’s own wonderful word.

and one last little note: as a leftist I am opposed to all nations, states, and borders. when we queers try making hard and fast boundaries between identities, I fear that we are accidentally making our own nation states that require border patrol and enforcement. and I hate border patrol with every cell of my body. we don’t need that shit in our queer communities. abolish borders. they’re so bad for you.

[lindseybots]

SO YOU MEAN WE CAN COME HERE TO TALK ABOUT THE BLORBOS IN YOUR AU??

Ahem, so you mentioned something about trying to find a good balance between Wind and Zelda and what Wind will do during the events of ST... I know you're probably still figuring stuff out but I really wanted to let you know that I'm very excited to see how it will end up as! There's so many options and possibilities for WW Link and ST Zelda's relationship (both my beloveds) and it's making me go dsaiuahkadsakb

The dynamic of a trio is so interesting to explore! Petting your AU and tucking it into bed gently rn...

OF COURSE YOU CAN COME HERE TO TALK ABOUT THE BLORBOS!! I EVEN ENCOURAGE IT!! PLEASE DO!!

Also thank you so much for the kind words! omg that means the world to me!! I will do my best as I explore this AU further!

I’m very excited to explore the trio, so I am very happy you’re looking forward to it too! I think it’s really interesting that Wind is very experienced when it comes to adventuring while Zelda has no experience in that regard. In fact, they make it pretty apparent in the game that she doesn’t really leave the castle AT ALL. In terms of navigation or even some basic life skills, she has no experience.

Zelda and Wind are opposites in that regard, but in other areas I think they get along really well. They’re both very sassy, spunky, and even a bit stubborn. At the end of the day though, they both want to look out for each other and ST Link as best they can.

ST Link is in a bit of a middle ground. He has probably traveled a few places while as an apprentice to Alfonzo, as such he has some experience in terms of talking with people, navigating, and of course his train expertise. I always headcanoned that ST Link is a bit of an inventor too, or, at the very least knowledgeable about machinery. Just pulling into a station in the game can fix your train’s health, even if the location has no other characters. That definitely implies that Link is the one making any repairs.

On top of all of that, Wind was one of the people who raised him. Wind would definitely teach him some skills that he learned. He has no doubt heard all the stories about Wind’s adventures, if not from Wind himself then from Niko. If faced with an enemy that Wind has fought before, he’d be able to have some knowledge on a good way to approach it.

Still, this will be his first time actually on an adventure to save the world. He still has stuff to learn.

This is the perfect excuse for me to give a quick little update on some things I’ve been thinking about. This is already really long, so i’m gonna put it under a break. If you’re interested, keep reading.

I will eventually talk about this again later, as the stuff I’m going to mention is still being worked on. Still, here is some progress on things.

For ST Link’s nicknames, a few I have been debating are:

Little Spirit / Spirit

Specks (for his freckles and because it’s probably pretty common to find specks of dirt or oil or something on him.)

Engineer / Engine / Eng

I feel like using a mix of these might be good, not just sticking to one. Like how Wind’s primary nickname is Wind, but he is sometimes also referred to as Sailor, or something along those lines. None of these are really set yet and are all subject to change. Let me know your thoughts.

In terms of Wind’s involvement in the events of ST, one thing i’ve been debating is him being the one handling the train’s cannon. I feel like because it’s the “Spirit” Train, I can get away with the excuse that spirits or ghosts have a little more ability when in contact with it. Wind knows his way around a cannon. It’s one of the ways I think he could help. Plus, it would allow ST Link to focus fully on driving.

I also feel like Wind can summon any of his belongings for himself. He can’t give them to anyone else to use. They’re more like spiritual / ghostly copies of the real things, and if it’s something like his sword or bow and arrows, they wouldn’t be able to ACTUALLY hit anything. Still, it would allow him to summon things to help teach ST Link through demonstration.

The Tower of Spirits is really the trickiest part for me. I, honestly, don’t want him possessing phantoms. I feel like that’s something that should be reserved for Zelda.

I want Wind and Zelda to have different things that they can do. At least one thing exclusive to each while in the Tower. The excuse I’m going with is that she still has a tie to the living, even if it’s hanging by a thread. Wind, on the other hand, is fully a spirit. As such, the things they can do are different.