#watchman on the wall

[futurefatum]

WW3 visions, Iran nukes, & strategic deception—prophets call us to pray. 2025–2027 will shift history. #PropheticWord #WW3 #EndTimes

[hellgram]

also with all the damage the show did to jon's reputation as a good northern lad and wildling i hope germ comes out with like. yeah he's rhaegar and lyanna's son and the name she gave him while bleeding out on the birthing bed alone but for her big brother holding her hand in a tower with no way to know that baby aegon had been murdered leaving the title of Egg 6 up for grabs was like. howland.

[jclovely]

FOR THOSE THAT HAVE EARS TO HEAR, EYES TO SEE 👁️👀👂🦻📯👑📯

LISTEN AS THE TRUTH IS BEING TOLD HERE:

Clearly,

False light masquerading as true light.

Golden Age is from the New Age therefore demonic.

MAGA is the top chief of warlocks therefore demonic.

Revelation Chapter 13 is being produced and pastors, evangelists, teachers are blinded.

1 billion children are vaccinated with mRNA vaccines. Atrocious.

New malaria vaccine created at Oxford changing the world.

RFKjr remaking is image to serve Trump, antivaccine no more.

AI is the genesis of all that is demonic.

Big Pharma is clearly evil create the sickness and come up with a cure with relentless side effects. Sounds familiar. MRNA COVID vaccines created huge amounts of cancers now using AI to create a vaccine against cancer.

SOLUTION THE GOOD NEWS:

Redemption through the Lord Jesus Christ, admitting we are sinners and believe in Him, His finished work at the Cross and His Resurrection.

📯👑📯

🇮🇱👑🙏

🙏💖🌺🦋🕎✝️👑🇮🇱🕊️📯

[stumbling-towards-the-light]

Headcanon: Mance Raydar's given name came from his mother mishearing the word lance, and wishing it it would make her son appear more southern and thus worthy of being guarded by the Wall.

His last name came from the word raider, a taunt shouted at him when he was a child. When he defected, he added the "y" to appear more properly free folk.

[hailthedragonmaster]

local tech critter finds more things at thrift store heehoo

i gotta see if the watchman works cause the power testing strips they had don't work and i don't have the batteries it needs but for now it simply Looks Cool

[gothsoyl]

vampire!rio vidal x reader

✧. ┊ rio has been a vampire for hundreds of years, if not thousands. she has seen nations rise to the top and burn down in search of their own greatness. she has seen the deaths of billions of people, with the blood of millions on her hands. she stopped being surprised by anything, but... then you appeared.

✧. ┊ initially, rio didn't think too much – you were just another victim, just a piece of meat for her. she killed so many young girls that she stopped feeling anything, but there was something strange about you. probably your desire to serve.

✧. ┊ you joined the rio’s household as a maid – her palace was huge, but it was so empty and cold that you felt uneasy at first, and memories of all the horrors that people told in the streets, when it came to the vidal estate, began to pop up in your head.

✧. ┊ you needed money and a roof over your head, so you weren't picky. the manor was gloomy, except for the fireplace in the living room, and the furniture was covered with dust. of the inhabitants of the house, there were only two old women, servants, and an equally old watchman.

✧. ┊ you saw the owner of the estate, rio vidal herself, only after a week of your stay here. she was pale and tired – it seemed a little more and she would collapse from dehydration. you immediately approached her with a desire to help, but instead she pinned you against the wall and clung to your neck with sharp fangs. you wanted to scream, and tears immediately sprang from your eyes, but not a single sound left your lips. you froze, and then completely lost consciousness.

✧. ┊ you woke up in the living room. head was buzzing and body was in pain. you couldn't really move your neck, but you noticed her right away – lady vidal was sitting in a chair opposite you, lazily turning the pages of a book. she no longer looked so painfully pale, and there was a sly smile on her lips.

✧. ┊ “you don't have to get up – I'm going to have a second dinner now,” her voice sounds like honey and you don’t argue. just lay there and stare at her as if fascinated. she's threatening to kill you, so why not try to escape?

“do you rarely eat?” you don't know why you asked, but you've clearly attracted attention to yourself. lady vidal immediately looks at you, and her eyebrows knitted, “I can help.”

“why do I need your help, child?” a logical question. the woman slowly gets up from her chair and takes a few steps towards you, stopping only in front of the sofa on which you’re lying.

“you’re starving. give me a day and I'll find food for you,” your voice sounds even quieter than before, and your neck hurts unpleasantly from any sound.

“and what do you want in return?” bingo. lady vidal is interested, or is having a dialogue with her dinner out of boredom.

“a place to stay”

✧. ┊ you kept your promise – once every couple of days you started bringing a human to the estate, listened for ten minutes as they kicked under the onslaught of rio and entered the room to clean up the mess. you helped kill people, so why didn't it bother you in any way?

✧. ┊ but it also happened that rio invited you to her place, and you didn't hesitate – you gave her a taste of your blood. it still hurt, but rio found a way out. her hands slide over your bare body, her lips press against your neck, and soft moans escape from your mouth. her fingers persistently stroke your crotch before entering inside, pushing the warm walls apart with a squishing sound. and only when your breath catches from the sensations of her finger, which moves so rhythmically inside, she bites your neck. your back arches and you hug her, scratching her back and exposing her neck even more. she growls back, burying her fingers deeper.

✦✧✦✧ it's worth helping with the murders for that ✦✧✦✧

[ladykailitha]

Spellbound Part 7

Boom, baby! We are back!! This is my new schedule for fics here! Be sure to check it out so you don't miss your favorites!

Since it's been awhile I recommend re-reading part 6 here or from the beginning here.

MAJOR CLIFFHANGER WARNING IN AFFECT! PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!!

In this we Max's familiar and we meet a new magic user. He's fun!

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

~

Robin blinked up at the house when she returned from her errands. Bav had a second storey when she was pretty sure it hadn’t before when she left the house this morning.

Bav swung open the door and Robin walked right in. She instantly spotted the reason for change and she sighed.

“I was wondering if he was going to get around his rule that way,” she muttered darkly to Max who was sitting there eating clotted cream and bread with Steve, who at least had the decency to look embarrassed.

“Hello, roommate!” Max said cheerily. “We both have rooms upstairs now. Steve said it was because Bav likes you best and wanted to give you the best room.”

Robin blinked at Max for a moment and then wandered up the stairs. Steve started to countdown from five.

Then suddenly the walls of the house turned bright pink.

“Wow,” Max said blinking from the sudden change. “I don’t think I’ve seen Bav turn that color before.”

“I have,” Steve said shaking his head fondly. “Bav has a crush on Robin.”

“How does a house have a crush?” Max asked, tilting her head to the side.

The walls suddenly turned a dark grey and seemed to slump.

Suddenly Max was waving her hands. “It wasn’t a criticism! I promise! I just don’t know how that works!”

Bav turned a warm yellow and Steve burst out laughing. “You’re forgiven. She’s sentient in the way a dog or cat might be. Limited intelligence and understanding, but with her own personality and moods.”

“Oh, I understand now!” Max said. “Well, I like my room too. Thank you, Bav.”

The yellow walls took on a soft pink to them. Max smiled and shook her. “That’s definitely going to take getting use to. Not accidentally offending the house.”

“Just wait until you learn to talk to her,” Steve replied with a grin. “I’ve been teaching Robin, but she’s having trouble guessing her moods.”

Robin come thundering down the stairs. “That’s because I understand French, Italian, Russian, and Spanish. She speaks some form of archaic German. It’s trickier.”

Max’s eyes nearly bulged out of her head. ��She speaks what now?”

“Of course she speaks German,” Steve said tilting his head to the side in confusion. “She’s made from white fir trees from the Black Forest.” He looked at them like this was common knowledge.

“Did you know that?” Robin asked Max, who shook her head.

“What are you asking me for?” Max huffed. “Aren’t you the apprentice witch? I’ve only known this stuff for about an hour.”

Steve frowned. “That’s not witchy knowledge. That’s just common sense. When I apprenticed with my mother in the nearby city, everyone knew that a witch’s house was made of white fir from Germany.”

Max and Robin shared a confused glance. “We’ve never heard any of this stuff before.”

“First the Hendersons with the brownie, then Head Watchman Hopper not knowing what a red cap is,” Steve said putting his hands on his hips, “and now you two not knowing about witches’ houses. What in the nine hells is wrong with this town?!”

Robin furrowed her brows as she got a very serious expression on her face. “I can’t be absolutely certain, but the Carvers aren’t originally from this town. Mayor Carver’s father came to town when he was a young man about thirty years ago.”

Steve’s aura took on a darkness to it. It whirled around him like storms gathering over the marsh. The energy in the room cackled with lightning.

Max tilted her head to the side. “Have I always been able to see clouds around people or is that new?”

Steve’s aura suddenly went from black to shocked baby pink. “You can see auras?” he asked blinking at her. “Every person is born with an innate ability. A little magic of their own. It’s like someone making the best cup of tea you’ve every had, but when someone else does it the exact same way, it doesn’t taste the same. Train them as a witch and you get a potion master.”

Robin raised her hand excitedly. “Like me! My nana always preferred it when I made her soothing tea because she always felt better afterwards. Then when I came here, Steve told me I would be a great potion and medicine maker.”

“So what’s your ability?” Max asked leaning forward, eyes wide with interest.

Steve shrugged. “Don’t know. My mom said I was decent at a lot of things, so she figured I was just a hedgewitch, good at everything.”

“That’s boring.”

Robin laughed. “It is a bit,” she said holding her finger and thumb close together.

“It’s probably because of the centennial sorcerer thing,” Steve said, putting his hands on his hips. “I’m good at everything because I’m supposed to be the ultimate witch or whatever.”

Both girls opened their mouths to form an “O” and then nodded.

“That make sense,” Max said, “plus it’s not boring that way, too.”

Steve bowed dramatically and said haughtily, “I live to serve.” The he said in all seriousness, “No really, that’s the life of a witch. Serving the community of the town you chose to set up shop in.”

Max lip trembled. “Does that mean that Robin is going to leave us?”

Steve pulled her to her feet and gave her a big hug. Robin came over and wrapped her arms around them both.

“Of course it doesn’t,” Robin murmured. “Me and Stevie are a team. Platonic soulmates and we won’t be separated at any price. Plus, I’d have to get my own house and I love Bav.”

The house turned the walls a deep plum as she beamed in pride. Max turned her head to the side. “Wait, Bav’s moods match the auras!”

Steve pushed her back at arms length and looked at her in surprise. “Do you know how long it took full blown witches to figure that out? And have had Bav and auras for less than a half hour and you got it.”

Max grinned up at him ferally. “I just need to know what all the colors mean and I won’t have to speak with her in German. I mean I’ll still learn it because having two ways of communicating with her is better than one, but point me in the right direction.”

Steve cocked his head to the side. “That I can do.”

He walked over to the bookshelf and pulled out two books for her. “This is all about witches’ houses and this is all about auras.”

Max clutched the book to her chest. “But I don’t know how to read...”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Robin said brightly. “I’m going to teach you how to read using the auras book so that you’re learning both things at the same time.”

Max brightened considerably and followed Robin back over to the table, where Robin started showing her the different letters and the sounds they made.

Steve walked over to the front door and patted the frame. “You did good today, Bav.” He kissed the frame and the house turned pink.

~

Eddie picked up the letter from his dad and sighed. It was the second letter after he didn’t answer the first. It spoke of enterprise and adventure, of ships and booze, of sex and opium. It spoke of freedom, of throwing caution to the wind and living life.

He closed his eyes and tried to list all the reasons for staying.

Uncle Wayne. With his arthritis he needed help and as he got older, the less the medicine he used would be effective. Even the witch confirmed that. He could up the dosage in a year or so, but once that stopped easing Wayne’s pain, all that could be done was make him comfortable.

Chrissy. He really shouldn’t be friends with her after what happened with Jason and the witch’s house. But he found her funny and bright. She always brought with her gossip and laughter. She was worth sticking around for.

The kids that the witch used as runners. Dustin, Mike, Lucas, and Will. They always stopped by his house on purpose, chatting with him about the people on their routes. They were almost better than Chrissy with gossip. All of them bright and willing to help.

The girls. They were separate from the boys, though they all ran around together. But they were a special class. A witch apprentice, a changeling, and Erica Sinclair, who was a class all her own. Max and Elinor would come over in the evenings and listen to him play. They always said his stories came to life when he played.

And yes, fine. Steve. The witch. As grumpy as Eddie was about people assuming he was the witch, Steve never tried to make him change or degrade his choices. He spent time out of his day to talk to Wayne. Something Eddie knew full well he didn’t have to do.

There was a lot keeping him here, but was it really worth the pain of never meeting his soulmate? Because he doubted that in this uptight town there would be a man who, according to his childish wish, love Eddie for all his messy parts.

Suddenly there was a strange scratching noise at the window and Eddie brightened.

Oh yeah!

He opened the window and in skittered a black and tan little masked bandit. Eddie dove under his bed and pulled out a little bowl of chicken hearts and gullets. He set it down next to the ferret who instantly went to town.

“How could I forget you, Gawain?” he murmured, petting the long soft body of the animal. “You are definitely a reason to stay. I might not be able to talk to you the way that witch can talk to his birds, but you and I have something special, don’t we?”

Gawain nuzzled Eddie’s hand, careful to not get his snack all over it. Once he was done and Eddie had cleaned him up, the ferret had gone the way he came.

He would pass on the whole adventure thing. He had enough to keep him occupied here.

~

“The first thing you learn after learning what your magical skill is,” Steve said proudly, “is your familiar.”

“Like Circe and Merlin,” Max said with a nod. “Make sense. But what do familiars do? I mean besides argue with their witches?”

Robin giggle snorted. “They help harness your powers and act as messengers to other witches.”

“They do a lot more than that,” Steve said, putting his hands on his hips. “Familiars carry with them a part of your magic so that you can’t burn yourself up. I’ve had Circe for ten years and she has helped me many a time with my spells or potions by letting me borrow some of her magic. They act as companions, too. Most witches tend to live in the woods away from other people and need the company or they’ll go mad.”

“So what I’m hearing is that familiars are awesome,” Max said wide-eyed, “got it.”

Steve chuckled. “They are indeed.”

“And how do I get one?” she asked, cocking her head to the side. “Like is there a spell or something I need to know?”

“No,” Steve murmured. “They come to you when your power starts to awaken. I’m honestly surprised that yours hasn’t turned up yet. Which is why I wanted to bring it up.”

Then there was a scratching on the front door.

He frowned. It was unusual for Bav to not just let the person in if she knew them. So it must have been someone new. He went to the door and there was the most beautiful kit fox he’d ever seen. Its fur was a soft blend of red, grey and tan. Its ears were pert and twitching. Its eyes were glossy, but intelligent.

“Oh, hello.” Steve stared down at the fox in confusion.

“Oh my god!” Robin said, jumping up and down with excitement. “A fox! Of course you have a fox as your familiar! He’s gorgeous!”

The fox slipped past Steve to be welcomed by Max and Robin. They both squealed in delight as they gave him pets and scritches. Steve put his hands on his hips and tilted his head, glaring at the fox. The fox yipped happily.

“So what are you going to name him?” Robin asked, getting her hands under the scruff on the back of his neck.

“His name is Argyle,” Steve growled and the fox yipped again, this time disapprovingly.

Robin tilted her head to the side. “I didn’t know familiars could name themselves. I got to name Merlin and you told me about naming Circe.”

The fox yipped at Steve and he wagged his finger back. “You can talk in that form, don’t play cute. Jonathan might think you’re adorable when you yip instead of talk, but you’re about to make Max sad, and that is unforgivable.”

The fox’s ears flattened. “Sorry, man. You know I just love a good ear scratching in this form, especially having come such a long way.”

“What the hell?” Robin said as Max cried, “Cool!”

“Meet Argyle Foxspirit,” Steve said waving his hand at the fox. “He’s a shapeshifter from out West. His people have magic, but not in the way witches do.”

Argyle raised his paw to wave it at the girls. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t change back. One, it’s exhausting, and two, my clothes don’t shift with me.”

Max tilted her head for a moment.

Steve pinched his the bridge of his nose. “It means I’ll have a completely naked Native in my sitting room if he shifts back.”

“Oh!”

Just then Circe came through the window and cawed at Steve. He shook his head.

“Of course he did,” he said with a sigh. “Anything to make this more complicated. Can you bring her familiar here?”

Circe cawed and then another bird fluttered to land on the windowsill next to her. It was a beautiful bird of prey, with a bronze head and cream chest, speckled with more bronze. The bird cried out and Steve laughed.

“Oh!” Max said again. “I can understand him!”

“That is the indication of a familiar, my lady,” Argyle said, cocking his head to the side. “When Jonathan said this place was anti-magic, I didn’t realize how deep the rot went.”

Robin and Max shared a glance at each other.

“Jonathan as in Will’s older brother?” Robin asked. “I didn’t know he was a witch.”

Steve went to the cupboard and got out a bowl of water and set down for Argyle to drink. “My first apprentice, actually. He can talk to animals and not just familiars, like his Jadis.”

“I love Jadis!” Argyle said brightly. “The first lizard familiar I’d ever seen. She’s very pretty. She’s a blue crested lizard and is a sea green color.”

The hawk cried again.

“My apologies, dear sir!” Argyle said airily. “I did not mean to steal your thunder, but you did go to the wrong house, so...”

The hawk cried out again.

“I’m going to call him Zoomer,” Max said wistfully. “Because hawks are wicked fast.”

The hawk tilted his head in consideration. He cried again.

“It appears he likes it,” Steve said. “Huzzah.”

Then Robin and Max were properly cooing over the right familiar and how Merlin was going to be upset that there was another bird in the house that he couldn’t eat.

“Argyle,” Steve said after a moment or two, “I don’t mind you coming to visit but is there a reason you trekked all the way out here from Jonathan’s?”

“Oh yeah!” Argyle said and then buried his head in his paw, to show his shame. “Will never made it to Jonathan’s. He’s missing.”

~

Part 8

Tag List: CLOSED

1- @itsall-taken @watermelonmite @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @cryptid-system @kultiras @kimsnooks

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

9- @wheneverfeasible @micheledawn1975 @gloomysoup @dotdot-wierdlife @tartarusknight

10- @ollyxar @yesdangerpls @two-vampires-kissing @themoonagainstmers @estrellami-1

[deithe]

jon at the top of the wall, looking out into the night: oh gods. honour and duty against love. but what of free folk? are they not people too? do I not a duty to them, even if it goes against my duty as a watchman? may the gods strike me down for what I do. And what of my siblings? Do I not have a duty to them? But, aye, it is love that drives me away from my Honour™, and so may the gods strike me down for ever wanting what is not rightfully mine (having a family)

Everyone Else at the Wall: god i can't wait to eat this boar.

[neoneun-au]

ARRIVAL; C.SC

―PAIRING: choi seungcheol x reader ―GENRE: angst, romance, floaty in between sort of fic, lite!farmer au ―WORD COUNT: 2.3k ―WARNINGS: rewritten from my old blog for svt.

The old house comes into view over the horizon. The weathered white boards of the house’s exterior are bathed in the soft pink-gold of dusk as it sits as a proud sentinel on the hill overlooking the expansive fields and orchards before it. Gnarled apple trees, trunks twisted with time, heaving their bounties towards the home; sun dappled honey wheat fields rippling with the wind but always sighing towards the white watchman above. And you, similarly facing, steady gaze directed like a ship to a lighthouse.

It looked the same as it did the day you left, all those years ago. Watching it fade into the quiet mist of the morning as you left it behind to walk forward into the unknown. And now it sits still, unchanged, if a little more weatherbeaten, watching as you walk back into view–travel-worn suitcase clutched tightly in your grip. 

Gravel crunches underfoot as you make your way down the path towards the house–nervous anticipation fluttering in your chest with each step. Hope and fear intermingle in the hollow of your stomach–dancing together like two birds. 

You hadn’t planned your return. Not really. 

When you set out to find yourself in the world beyond the village, you left without a plan in mind. Simply answering a call to your soul. You couldn’t say how long you would be gone or even what it was you were setting out in search of,  but somewhere inside you knew the day would come–whether it be the next day, year, or decade–when you would hear a similar call to return. Back to the fields, back to the house, back to the boy you left behind. 

The splintered boards of the veranda creak under your weight as you walk to the front door–an audible sign of your approach. For a brief moment you pause, hand poised over the doorknob, and inhale deeply. The air smells as crisp with the scent of the morning air and the apple orchard nearby as you remember it. The faint scent of spring lilac and inherited dust. 

Suddenly you feel out of place. An intruder at the threshold of someone else's home. Someone else's life. It was easy to convince yourself as you explored the world that everything would be the same when you eventually made your return. That the house, and Seungcheol himself would still  be there, frozen in time, waiting as he had said he would. But now you were not so certain. The walls of time collapse around you, and you run your hands along the length of them. Feeling the passage of it. How long it has been. 

With a shaking breath you pull yourself back to the present and retract your hand from the knob, opting instead to rap your knuckles against the door. 

You sent no word ahead about your return. No letters or postcards. Just hopped on a train and then all of a sudden, here you were. So you weren’t sure what the welcome would be like. Whether or not you would even be welcome. Was he even home? 

Footfalls on the staircase inside answer your question as your hand falls back against your side and you wait–body coiled in a tight rope of tension, ready to snap at any moment. You take a small step backwards as the door swings open to reveal Seungcheol–sleep still crowding at the corners of his eyes as he blinks you into focus. 

“You’re back,” he states–voice a half-whisper–eyes widening with the surprise of your presence before him. Standing on the porch, coated in the soft morning glow of the sunrise. 

“I am,” you nod slowly, adjusting the suitcase in your grip. Time stretches between you for a moment–thousands of unspoken words flitting in and out with the speckles of dust in the air–and you stand across from each other in silence; the closest you have been in years, but still miles apart. 

Seungcheol clears his throat and steps aside, gesturing for you to enter the house and you let out a shaky exhale before stepping across the threshold. 

The interior of the old farmhouse, much like the exterior, is virtually unaltered from your memories. The same generations of Choi family portraits hang along the staircase, the same light blue eggshell paint adorns the crown molding, and the same floral wallpaper covers the bare boards of the walls. You take a cursory glance around, heart beating with the pulse of a thousand memories, and breathe in the past. 

Seungcheol takes your suitcase from you as you look around and hauls it upstairs without a word. In his absence you take a moment to walk around the ground floor of the house, running your finger along furniture and tabletops. Curious as to how he has filled his time and his home while you’ve been away. The vase of fresh flowers you always insisted he kept in the kitchen window are still there–slightly withered and in need of replacement soon. A small stack of books you had left unread on the side table still sits stacked in the same order you left them–carefully dusted, but unchanged. You briefly wonder if he had picked them up at some point–seeking some answers, some connection to your thoughts in the wake of your departure. 

“Have you eaten?” he asks as he steps into the kitchen behind you, hand ghosting over your back as he slides past you towards the fridge.

“No,” you shake your head, slipping your coat off and draping it over the back of a kitchen chair before taking a seat. With a soft smile you watch as he busies himself gathering a last minute breakfast of assorted fruits and breads. His back is turned to you but you can see the change in him even through the fabric of his sweater. His muscles are more hewn with seasons of work–formed in careful dedication over time. The Seungcheol of your memory is fresh faced with the kiss of youth. Rounded and soft. But the Seungcheol before you now has grown into himself; his jaw has sharpened slightly, his mouth is set in a straighter line. Seriousness creases itself around the skin of his eyes. You try to adjust your image of him to match the current reality but the boy you remember stealing kisses from in the orchards outside remains. 

“If I had known you were coming, I would have gotten some more groceries,” he says by way of apology as he sets the platter of food down in the center of the old kitchen table. 

You shake your head in dismissal and reach for a slice of green apple. Crisp and fresh–no doubt plucked from one of the trees just outside the windows of the house. “It’s fine. This is perfect.” 

You make no move to speak further and he follows suit. Instead you settle into a rhythm of eating in silence. Allowing yourself to slip back into space together–atom by atom getting used to the proximity once more. Birds chirp outside the window, passing the time in chatter and short flights to and from their nests as the sun rises higher and higher in the sky. 

Seungcheol heads into the fields after breakfast. 

You watch as he disappears over the horizon, tools slung over his shoulder, and gets to work tending the crops and plants. There isn’t much to be done this time of you, you recall. Just simple trimming and harvesting a few ripened fruits before they fall to the earth and belong to the insects and critters below. But even what little there is to do takes time, so you take the opportunity to head upstairs and finish recollecting your memories of the old house. 

He had set your suitcase down in the guest room immediately at the top of the stairs. The blankets were pulled taut over the mattress–clean with lack of use–and your favourite pair of slippers were placed on the floor next to the nightstand. You drift out of the guest room and venture further down the hallway, sparing a passing glance into the reading room and the bathroom as you make your way to the bedroom at the end of the stretch. 

A similar feeling of not belonging settles back over you as you lift a hand to push open the door but you brush it aside–curiosity overwhelming any desire to tread lightly. 

The whole house feels like a time capsule. You felt it earlier as you stepped cautiously through each room–your presence a traveler through the ages, unbidden and disruptive to the daily minutiae. As if all of those years you spent chasing some unknown aspect of yourself across the other side of the world ceased to exist the moment you crossed the threshold into this old wood-framed home. No where is that feeling more potent than inside the master bedroom. 

You feel twenty again. Standing on the precipice of your new life. Kissing your first love goodbye and making promises that you didn’t know you if you would even be able to keep. The comforter on the bed, slightly messed still from sleep, is the same as all those years ago when you tangled yourself up in them with Seungcheol–skin against skin. The only indication of time that makes itself known in the room is the collection of postcards on the nightstand. 

Dozens of them. More from the first few years of your journeys, when you still dotted your ‘i’s with hearts and ended each letter with ‘xoxo’. 

With a swelling heart and shaking hands you pick up the stack of letters, flipping through each one and noting the smudges of ink and indentations of fingerprints on each of them. Some are more worn than others; all clearly read over a hundred times. 

You absorb yourself in the postcards–trying to place yourself in Seungcheol’s shoes when he had received them. Monthly at first, as consistent as you could be considering the complications that invariably accompany a life of travel. Then every few months, every six months, and finally almost no word for a year and a half until you arrived at his front door out of the blue. 

He could be difficult to read when he wanted to be. When his thoughts and feelings felt like heavy burdens to bear and  were thus kept close to his chest, unvocalized until they had to be. Simmering under the surface of steadiness that he presented on the outside. Aside from the small alarm bell you saw ringing behind his eyes this morning, you weren’t sure where you stood with him currently. Whether he felt you as much of an intruder in his space now as you did. 

You lose yourself in reminiscence and don’t notice Seungcheol’s arrival in the room behind you until his arm snakes around and plucks the stack of postcards from your grasp. “I wasn’t sure if you would come back,” he says, dropping the cards into the nightstand drawer. 

“I said I would,” you respond softly, voice on the edge of cracking. “I didn’t think you would still be waiting.”

“I said I would,” he says before slipping past you and heading back down the hall, leaving you with your swirling thoughts.

The day dissolves into night. The thread of the unknown is pulled taut between you as the hours drag onwards and you get ready for bed down the hallway from Seungcheol. Owls hoot in the distance–the only sound breaking up the running of water from the shower in the master bathroom. 

You slip under the covers, curling up on your side, and close your eyes. It had been years since you had been somewhere so quiet. It was almost disconcerting. No sirens, no people, no traffic. Only an owl and the quiet footsteps of one man as he slips into bed two rooms away from you. You lay awake for what feels like hours–blinking into the darkness of the guest room. The silence, unlike the idyllic calm of the daytime, was almost suffocating. It had been so natural when you were younger. Darkness descended and along with it, the world went to sleep. Sound disappeared. But now, after so many years of noise and colour, it was difficult to readjust. It felt like at any moment the long arms of darkness would reach out and grab hold of you where you lay. 

You sigh and before you can rethink the impulse, you push yourself out from under the covers, slip your bare feet into the prepared slippers, and pad down the hallway towards Seungcheol’s room. The door creaks slightly on its hinges as you push it open–a hallmark of its age–and you wince, but Seungcheol makes no indication of waking as you step further into the room. 

Seungcheol lets out a soft sigh as you climb into his bed next to him–eschewing all thoughts of propriety and hesitation that flood your brain as you do. “Is this okay?” you ask, and as soon as he hums his approval you sink into the mattress. Tucking your body into the familiar curve of his side. 

“Where have you been?” he asks, voice quiet–reverent. He shifts his body next to you, adjusting so that your head falls onto his shoulder and his arm is tucked up underneath you, hand coming around to rest against your back. Finally, you think.

“All over,” you answer, afraid that if you give too many details you might break the spell of the moment and remind him of the distance.

“Well,” he sighs, shifting once more. His breath fans out of the skin of your cheek as he leans in to press a soft kiss against it, “welcome home.” 

“Happy to be back,” you smile, feeling the warmth of tears prickle at the corners of your eyes as you do so. The final remnants of the lingering energy of intrusion melt away in his arms. You do feel at home–finally after so many years of trying to find it elsewhere. 

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks, words broken halfway by a yawn. 

“Yeah,” you nod, sinking further into him as he drifts off to sleep, “I think I did.”

© 2024, neoneun-au. all rights reserved.

if you read and enjoyed this, please consider reblogging and letting me know what you thought ! its really the only reason i keep writing anything

[theworldbrewery]

1d8 Places to Rest in the City

The upstairs of the Coronet, a seedy and rundown public house in the industrial district. The pub is under new management, and has been undergoing extensive renovations in the hope of cleaning up its image. Despite the owner’s best efforts, pickpockets and thugs loiter outside. And most nights, a smuggler by the name of Smiley Sam can be found in the barroom, ready to trade in secrets, coin, or illicit goods.

The roof of the Third Regional Bank, an imposing edifice with an atrial dome and a cluster of gold statues above its grand doors. From this height, you can see the sprawl of the whole city, its flickering lights and flares of magic. The night watchman might need paying off, and it’s none too comfortable in rain or snow. But the gargoyles have formed a sketch comedy group, so there’s built-in entertainment.

The Magnolia Pink, a fabulous hotel with genuine silver floors. The suites are worth the expense, from the liveried servants who attend the guests’ every need to the plush, indulgent beds and decadent room service options. But rumor has it that for every night you pass in the Magnolia Pink’s embrace, the less likely you are to come out again — at least until you can no longer scrounge up the cash to afford just one more night.

Under the Bodhi Bridge. This brickwork overpass provides excellent shelter from the elements, particularly because some enterprising vagabond has knocked in part of the supporting wall and created an accessible niche roughly 15x15 ft. in size. In time, other vagrants have left their marks: symbols in thieves’ cant, broken bottles, worn-out boots, and a pile of logs inoculated with a variety of mushrooms.

Inchibald Quingle’s Lodging House, a crooked three-story structure with drafty rooms, narrow hallways, and two hearty meals a day. The elderly Mr. Quingle has handed the reins to his son, Inchie Jr., whose passion for cookery has earned the Quingle Lodging House its place on the map. Inchie’s other passion—taxidermy—does put some guests off their supper, however.

The Asylum of the Ragged Saints, a humble almshouse dedicated to housing the poor, the pensioners, and the downtrodden. Available only to those in need, the Asylum’s rooms are clean and orderly, but offer little privacy and even less comfort. Its patron, Lady Parsimony Cross, is a crotchety and bookish young woman who inherited responsibility for the Asylum from a more kindly and warm relative. She is greatly concerned with the idea that the Asylum is being used by those who do not truly need its services, and has begun imposing increasingly high standards of poverty and desperation to its residents.

An abandoned underground transport station, dating from a time immemorial. A rusting metal wagon rests on a sunken track, its doors jammed into the open position. Moth-eaten seats line an aisle within. The track extends into the darkness of an enclosed tunnel, which emits an eerie buzzing noise. If the wagon doesn’t hold any appeal, you can always remain on the buckling stone platform and examine its illegible signage and explore the chambers lined in cracked, mossy tile which branch from the main cavernous space.

The basement of the Ershae family home. The Ershaes are friendly people, part of a social network which offers safe housing to travelers. As members of this group, they host strangers willingly and are welcomed by other strangers in the network when they travel themselves. The sole condition of your stay is this: you must join the network and list your address among the available places to stay. If you agree, you may sleep in this place as long as you need without charge, though you are responsible for your own meals. The Ershaes’ basement is wood-paneled, with a shaggy orange carpet and a vividly green sofa bed.

[2danny2furious]

Haunt

Danny Gonzalez X Reader

wk: 3.4k

blurb: When you fill in as Danny’s videographer for his ghost-hunting trip to the infamous Stanley Hotel, you expect creepy corridors and bad Wi-Fi—not this kind of tension. (Based on this video)

A little angst, a little fluff, a little spice. Minors: there is suggestive material towards the end but not explicit material so please approach the one shot accordingly ❤️

He’s just not into you– not professionally, not platonically, and definitely not romantically. Despite the fact that you’re working the camera on your first assignment for him, Danny’s eyes seem to move right through you, his voice clipped, sending one syllable directions your way when the monitor isn’t showing a perfect read.

“Left.” “Zoom.” “Again.”

No please, no thanks, no good job—just the bare minimum, like you’re an inconvenient piece of equipment he didn’t ask for.

Which, technically, you are.

You flew out to Colorado from California last-minute after your mutual friend Jake—Danny’s longtime editor, and videographer—came down with food poisoning. (“Bad sushi,” he’d groaned over the phone. “Save me from myself.”)

You’d been a fan of Danny’s videos since his skits were filmed in his dorm room and his punchlines were seven second Vine wonders. You flew in the night before Christmas Eve, missing time with your family just in the excitement to see Danny behind the scenes. But now, you feel like the only true ghost in this shitty tourist trap mansion.

You’re sitting in his hotel room, as he scans the old carpet with an EMF reader.

“You good with that lighting?” he asks, not looking at you as he adjusts his mic pack.

“Yeah,” you say, too quickly. “I mean, unless you want it more eerie? I can—”

You’re interrupted by the loud zipper of his equipment pouch opening as dull plastic thuds together in his search for something he hasn’t told you about. He’s not even listening to you anymore. You clench your teeth and bury the burn of humiliation for the millionth time today as you watch him slam batteries into a flashlight, the reader, and a ridiculous headset he’s wearing.

You watch him through the monitor, tuning out his charming babbling to keep yourself from getting hurt by the insane contrast of how warm he is only when there’s a camera between you. You realize that he’s now sniffing the floor like a bloodhound, nose scrunched in concentration around a “cold spot.” The EMF scan shows a large patch of something wet, which leads off into a tiny glowing trail. Wait.

“...Is it pee?” you say.

Danny freezes. For a second, you think you’ve crossed a line—but then his shoulders shake. A snort escapes him. Not the performative, for-the-audience sarcastic laugh from his videos, but something real and startled. It’s cute. So cute.

“Oh my god, what?” He looks up at you, half-offended, half-delighted. “Why would hotel cleaner be my first guess?”*

He actually giggles, and you feel your chest warm. He’s looking at you, smiling with his cheeks flushed pink and his eyes blazing blue with mist.

The moment breaks when his phone sounds an alarm. “Shit,” he says. “We’re going to be late for the underground tour.”

And then his back is to you, sauntering towards the door and out, and all you can do is follow.

*

The hotel’s underground tunnels are colder than you expected, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and something faintly metallic. Your camera's night-vision casts everything in a sickly green hue as you descend.

Vanessa, the lead guide, stops where the passage opens into a cavernous ice cellar. Frost crackles along the walls.

"This is where the night watchman went mad in 1932," she says, lantern light carving shadows under her eyes. "He swore the hotel manager's wife—who'd drowned in the lake out back—was standing down here every night, wringing lakewater from her hair." She pauses dramatically.

"They found him frozen to death right where you're standing, his hands clawing at his own throat... like something had been pouring water down it. His throat was found to be clogged with seaweed that looked exactly like a woman’s long, mangled braid."

You zoom in on Danny's Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. His fingers hover near Vanessa's elbow as they walk—whether to steady himself or her, you can’t tell.

She adds, "Guests still report hearing gurgling sounds down here."

The camera catches it all: Danny's nervous knee bounce, the way candlelight illuminates the crinkles around his eyes when he laughs at Vanessa's joke about "cold feet," how his gaze slides right past you like you are part of the wall.

Tom, the junior guide, takes over in the servants' passage. His voice is warmer, his delivery charming as he points to a large rusted hook on the ceiling. "This is where the chef hung himself after the 1911 avalanche trapped guests here for three weeks. Strange thing is—" he lowers his voice, "—every December, that hook starts swinging on its own. Kitchen staff keep removing it... but it always reappears."

A draft makes the lantern flames flicker madly. You shiver, and when Tom notices, he steps closer, his shoulder brushing yours.

"Too much?" he murmers. "We can skip the hanging pantry if our guests—"

"We're good on footage," Danny cuts in. He’s not looking at you, but Vanessa. He points to her phone. "Show me those spirit photos again?"

The camera's red light winks out under your thumb.

As the rest of the tour group takes the tours built in free time to wander the passageways, Tom falls into step beside you.

"So," he says, voice low, "you always let YouTube guys boss you around haunted basements?"

"Only the ones who forget I'm a person when the camera's off." The words slip out before you’ve processed them, and Tom huffs a laugh.

"His loss." He nods at your rig. "You've got a steadier hand than most pros who come through here."

You are about to respond when movement catches your eye—Danny leaning over Vanessa's phone, his arm braced against the tunnel wall behind her. She swipes through blurry images while he nods with that focused intensity he reserves for everyone but you. "This one's insane," he breathes, and you look away before the bitterness can crawl up your throat.

You let Tom fill your brain with some his funnier ghost stories— lights turning off anytime he starts to pee in the bathrooms, DUMDUM wrappers materializing within seconds on his desk whenever he’s working the graveyard shift, and his shoelaces becoming tied together whenever he’s talking to a girl he finds pretty.

“Well,” you tease, “your shoelaces look definitively normal.”

“Maybe they’re giving me a break,” says Tom. “Maybe they want you to want me too.”

He’s not handsome, he's not ugly, but he’s warm and kind, and he’s leaning into you to give you a kiss you desperately need. The touch of a human, tangible proof you’re not worthless. Your lips barely touch when you hear Danny bark your name, telling you it’s time to head up.

Embarrassed, you lean away from Tom, who just smiles knowingly. “Let’s go,” he says. “I’ll find you when you’re done with work.”

Back in the lobby's electric light, Danny corners you near the front desk. "Did you get footage of the pictures she was showing me?"

Your mouth drops open. "Shit. I'm sorry, I thought you said—"

"You thought I said what?" His voice is a blade. "Are you not a fucking UCLA film grad? You have no initiative?"

"I'm sorry, let me go talk to her—"

"Forget it. Why don't you just go back to flirting with Tom? You're here to have fun, right? Not work?"

Vanessa materializes beside you. "Come on, angel," she says, touching your arm. "Let's go back down. I'll reshoot everything with you."

Danny's anger evaporates the second she speaks. You are both aware now that everyone in the lobby is frozen still, watching you.

"Shit, I'm sorry," he says—to her, not you—running a hand through his hair. "Didn't mean to cause trouble for you guys. Your shift's over, go have fun. Our mistakes aren't your problem to fix."

You follow Danny toward the elevators, emotion choking your throat. That honeyed tone—the one he uses with Vanessa, with the staff, with the other guests, with literally everyone but you—echoes in your skull and you stand in silence a few feet away from Danny, waiting for this elevator that won’t come. You still have so many segments to shoot but the thought of being near him for a single more second makes you wish you were another ghost victim and God, this elevator is not coming.

Danny exhales sharply through his nose, then veers toward the stairwell exit. The metal door slams behind him, the clang of his footsteps on the stairs fading as he ascends alone.

When the elevator finally comes, you let the tears fall. You hit the fifth floor and find yourself running past curious guests, past the flickering hallway sconces, until you crash through the women's bathroom door. Your best friend's contact photo blurs as you stabbed the call button, your breath coming in wet hitches against the phone.

"Hey," you manage when she answers, "remember how I said this gig would be fun...?"

She sighs empathetically, and you hear a movie in the background become paused. “Is a man being a disappointment?”

“Yes,” you sniffle. "He's so funny and goofy and charming on camera, but so weird et when it's off! Everyone said he's a nice guy but he's-well he's not a nice guy. He's fucking weird! Only to me! It's like he's acting or something, l don't know!"

Your best friend is silent for a beat. "Well. He is a former theater kid." You could hear her crunching popcorn through the phone. "It's on you for expecting normalcy."

"No, no, you're right-"

"Why do you care so much? Aren’t the Hollywood execs so much worse?"

You pick at a loose thread on your sweater.

"I don't know. I guess he's... well, he's hot. And funny. And I love his videos. It just stings to be so repulsive to him. It’s not that I want to date him or anything, but can't he at least be nice? Like on a normal human-to-human level? I’m missing Christmas for this!"

“Im so sorry angel,” she says. "Don’t you have a red eye? Just get your bag and go. Like, go to Denver. Go out. Drink. Have fun. Have rough, hot anonymous sex. Fuck this guy."

“You’re right,” you say. “I love you.”

You hang up, staring at your puffy-eyed reflection. After a few more embarrassed sniffles, you wash your face, reapply your makeup with military precision, and twist your hair up into a claw clip. The mirror shows someone who looks like they have their life together-someone who definitely wasn't about to spend Christmas Eve with an apathetic ass hat.

Danny isn’t in his room when you go to find him, and in the end you discover him pacing the lobby as you approach, his sneakers squeaking on the marble.

"I'm heading to the airport early," you announce.

He checks his watch. "Six hours early?"

"Yeah. Just want to be safe."

The receptionist chooses this moment to clear his throat.

"I'm so sorry, ma'am." His smile is painfully polite.

"As I was just telling Mr.Gonzalez, all roads to Denver are closing. There's a snowstorm coming-we won't have clear roads until morning at the earliest."

As if on cue, your phone chirps with a flight delay notification. You aren’t expected to leave until tomorrow morning now. Outside, the first fat flurries began spiraling past the windows, dancing as if to taunt you.

"She'll be staying with me," Danny says. His voice has a warmth you’ve been craving all day, but you know this is because he wants you to finish the video and get his checklist complete.

"I think I’m done for the day," you say coldly. “I’ll happily cover my own space.”

Danny holds your gaze as the receptionist taps his keyboard.

"All our rooms are booked for tonight-Christmas Eve and all. But!" He brightens. "There's a lovely motel down the road-"

"The one where actual murders happened?" Danny leans on the desk, his cheeks flushing. "Wasn't there a human trafficking ring busted there last summer?"

The receptionist's smile doesn’t waver. It says, quite clearly: Not my problem.

You sigh and turn on your heels, heading to the elevators as Mariah Carey cries in Christmas happiness over the hotel speakers. You hear Danny’s steps in quick succession behind you, and you both are once again facing the elevators in awkward silence.

Danny finally clears his throat. "So. Room situation." He won’t meet your eyes, fiddling with his keycard. "I can film the rest by myself. You should take the bed and get some rest."

The unexpected decency hits like a punch to the ribs. You think of the LA producer who'd thrown a latte at your head for "missing his good side," the cameraman who'd "accidentally" grazed your waist every time he reached for a lens. Danny had paid you upfront. Had only really gotten mad at you not getting footage.

"Wait." The words tumble out before you could can stop them. "I'm—god, I'm sorry. I've been so unprofessional. You're not even the worst boss I've had this month, and I—"

"No, stop.” Danny runs a hand through his hair, his cheeks in flames. "I shouldn't have yelled. You're doing fine. I'm just..."

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "Got dumped by my high school girlfriend right before this trip. Holiday and family stuff's got me acting like a total dick. And I’m sorry."

The confession hangs between you, raw as the winter wind rippling through the hallways. Your eyes meet. You're looking in his eyes, tender, and you’re trying not to drown in them. And he’s looking at yours. And you swear he can hear your heart.

The elevator chimes and Danny suddenly stiffens, shoving his hands in his pockets

"Anyway. Not your problem."

The silence in the mirrored elevator is suffocating. You watch his reflection chew his lip, both of you pretending not to notice the other looking.

"I’ll take the couch," he says abruptly when the doors ding open.

"No, Danny, it's your room, and I’m not even finishing what you paid me for. I’m totally fine."

"Yeah, well, you don't want to sleep on that couch." A ghost of a smirk plays on his lips.

He opens the room door and immediately reaches for the thermal light.

The stains on the hotel couch glow neon purple. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what they are. You both stare at them in horrified silence until he says, “I’m gonna be honest I don’t want to sleep on that either. I’ll take my chances with piss floor.”

"Let's just share the bed," you say. "It's a king. We can put some pillows in between us."

Your face burns the moment the words leave your mouth, and you can't bear to see his reaction. You grab your backpack from the floor and hurry into the bathroom, emerging minutes later in the silk pajama set you'd packed.

Danny is already sprawled on the bed, a neat line of pillows dividing his side from yours. He’s down to boxers and a threadbare t-shirt, the fabric riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. One arm is thrown dramatically over his eyes.

"Too tired to film," he grumbles. "Turn off the light and call it a day."

You flick the switch, plunging the room into darkness save for the faint glow of the emergency exit sign under the door. The bed dips as you slide under the covers, putting as much distance between you and the pillow barricade as possible.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of the old hotel creaking around you—the groan of pipes, the whisper of wind against the windows. Then, a sharp thud from somewhere down the hall.

You hear the sheets rustle, the dividing line depressed by his body, his head propped up by a hand, his eyes finding yours in the dark.

"...You heard that too, right?" His voice is tight.

"Yeah," you say, "Probably just the heating system."

Another thud. Closer this time.

Danny exhales sharply. "Cool. Right."

In the dim light, his profile is all sharp angles—jaw clenched, lashes fluttering against his cheek as he stares resolutely at the ceiling.

"You okay?" you ask softly.

"Peachy." His fingers dig into the comforter. "Just. You know. Ghosts."

A surprised laugh escapes you. "Danny Gonzalez is scared of ghosts? After a whole day proving they’re not real?"

"Shut up," he mutters, but there’s no bite to it. "I can handle —" Another creak from the hallway cuts him off, and he swears under his breath.

You hesitate, then slowly reach across the pillow divide, your fingers brushing his wrist. "Hey. Breathe. It’s just an old building."

His skin is warm under your touch. For a second, he doesn’t move—then his hand twists, his fingers lacing with yours. His eagerness to lean into your touch surprises you, and the action goes unmentioned by you both. You don’t understand his mind, but you let yourself feel this softness, whether it be purely because he’s scared or whether it’s because he’s really warming to you.

"...You’re really not freaked out?" he asks after a beat.

You shrug, even though he can’t see it. "I grew up in a house that made noises like this. Kind of comforting, honestly."

His grip on your hand relaxes slightly as he lays back down, your bodies closer, your fingers still intertwined. You're not sure if it’s his heart you’re hearing or your own.

Two hours pass. His breathing evens out, his thumb absently tracing circles against your knuckles until it stills completely. The weight of his hand in yours is heavy with sleep.

And now you’re hyper-aware of every inch of him—the heat of his body just a pillow’s width away, the way his shirt has ridden up further, revealing the faint trail of hair leading beneath his waistband. The soft, sleepy sound he makes when he shifts, his leg brushing against yours under the covers.

You stare up at the ceiling, painfully awake. You’re holding hands with Danny Gonzales in a potentially haunted hotel bed, and you're pretty sure you're going to spontaneously combust before sunrise. Your legs kick, your shoulders fidget, your breath huffs. You try and try to squeeze your eyes shut, willing sleep to come. But then—

"Every time I open my eyes," Danny murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion, "you're still awake. You okay?"

“Ghosts,” you say quickly. “I’m uh, scared.”

"Bullshit." His thumb strokes your knuckles, slow and deliberate. "You're not scared. You told me you're not scared."

This time his touch isn’t just him being scared. This time his fingers tightening around yours means something, but he’s confusing you so much you could cry. You can’t think of a response, your mind stuck on processing every cell aflame from his skin on yours.

"Tell me what you need."

"Need?" You swallow hard. "I don't need anything."

"Yeah, you do." His voice drops, rough as gravel. “Tell me."

Your pulse thrums in your throat.

"Fine. I need to know why you were such a jerk to me today. What you think of me, what you’re doing. You’re hot and cold, and you shut me out and bring me in– I mean, you’re holding my hand still and I just–"

"It's not rocket science." He exhales sharply. "Girlfriend broke up with me. First and only person l've ever been with. Now I'm doing the holidays alone, away from my family, away from the one person I thought would always be there."

His fingers tense against yours. "And then there's you-gorgeous, funny, charming, smarter than me, way out of my league-and I want you. And I’m out of practice and I know I can’t have you. So yeah. Not my proudest moment, but... surprised after all those film classes you didn’t figure that out."

Your heart stops. "Who said you couldn't have me?"

Danny laughs—a startled, breathless sound.

"That's what you got from all that?"

Heat floods your face. You're grateful for the dark.

Another beat of silence. Then, softer: "You still haven't told me what you really need."

Your body moves before your brain catches up. You roll over, facing him. The pillow barricade is long forgotten.

"You tell me," you whisper. "What do you think I need?"

Danny doesn't hesitate. He closes the distance between you in one smooth motion, his breath warm against your lips as he murmurs—

“Like your friend said. Rough, hot, anonymous sex.”

Your stomach drops. Oh god. He heard your phone call.

Before you can panic, his hand slides up your waist, fingers splaying over your ribs.

"Or," he adds, voice dipping lower, "I can be nice. If that's what you want."

You don't get a chance to answer.

His mouth crashes into yours in a heat you’ve never felt before. There’s a promise in the way his hungry hands are reaching for the hem of your silk pajama pants, a promise he’ll possess you in ways that will haunt you all the way home.

[wickerfemme]

about fantasizing about fattening you up. . .

///

It's the dream—a 3 month artist's residency in an old historical house for the summer, dark wood floors, white-paneled walls, vintage furniture. A staff maintains the home and takes guests on tours, but you live upstairs, sharing the floor with a few other people, including one who cooks every night in the period kitchen for all of you.

But she cooks like she's expecting a dozen dinner guests every night, lobster in cream sauce, alfredo, carbonara, thick soups and chowders, roast chickens and mashed potatoes whipped hard to hold more butter. It starts to show on you before the first month is over, and halfway through the second, a button flies off your dress when you sit under a tree to sketch. Embarassed, you have to ask her for a needle and thread, but she's happy to help, insists on sewing it herself. "I can change up the food if you like," she says, apologetically. "I get too into the grand-old-house schtick sometimes." No, no, you say, her food is great. She smiles. At dinner, your plate is heaped high, but you power through and finish. When she clears the table, there's a knowing look in her eye.

As your gallery comes together, your wardrobe is coming apart, waistbands past snug into embarassingly tight, your fat belly cut in two. She starts bringing you food through the day, little pastries full of clotted cream and jam, little cucumber sandwiches with generous smears of better, heavy cream in all your coffees and teas. A few days before your exhibition, she asks what you'd like for dinner—the night watchman is on vacation, the custodian out sick, so it's just the two of you, and she's happy to cook you a nice little good-bye dinner. Yes, you say, that'd be great.

When you come to the table, you're shocked—it looks like a Christmas feast, bowls of gravy, a roast goose, mashed and scalloped potatoes, two cakes, baked carrots dripping in butter. She watches you eat intently, smiling, not talking much since your mouth is so full. You eat, and eat, and eat, and finally lean back, No more, I'm full.

"But there's so much left," she says, walking slowly to you. "I'm sure you have some more room." She nuzzles into your neck, and when you gasp and pull her closer, she laughs kind and cruel and ties your wrists tight behind the chair. "Let me help you finish. . . and for God's sake, take this off." Your belt falls useless to the floor, your stretch-marked belly pushing your dress—the blue one she mended—to its limits. She brings one of the cakes, orange-flavored sponge layered with chocolate, in front of you, feeds you gently, caresses a chubby cheek. "I worked so hard on this, is that all you can eat?" Another bite. "Hours and hours slaving away." Another bite. "That dress needs a lot more work than just another button." Another bite. Your eyes are closed, your mouth open, when you feel her free your wrists, and you're shocked when the plate is empty. "Thank you," she says, wiping a chocolate smudge from your pretty face.

You end up needing a new dress entirely for your exhibition. She helps you find it, hems it for you, and while friends and colleagues mill about, talking color and composition and framing, she stands near the door, eyeing the way the fabric rounds over the top of your new belly, how it catches on your wide hips, and when your eyes meet you know you weren't the only person with a project this summer.

I'm blushing; I'm swooning 💞💘💫

[silvyavan]

Recent chapter being Follo's rise from the trenches (literally and metaphorically) is such a fantastic development.

People on Twitter and Reddit are howling how Follo might die after the trash beast is dead or how Rudo turned the hammer into a jinki but I honestly don't thinks that's the case.

The thing is that Follo clearly became a giver by several factors: the eye-flash is the same one Zodyl had when activating his jinki, the energy/anima on the hammer is white, not black which is the watchman color for activation and that Rudo never touched Follo's hammer at ALL, just his shirt.

But MOST of all, I want to point that the panel where Arkha said that some join for power had Follo in it. While in earlier chapters, Follo was in general given the characterisation that he wanted to be more useful.

Arkha had correctly clocked Follo wanting to join the cleaners for personal reasons. The reason why Follo COULDNT activate the hammer prior is because he was burdening himself with a one sided rivalry and wasn't honest with himself. We actually see that Follo isn't honest with himself at all in flashbacks, Rudo demanding him to bare his soul to him is just the push he needed to activate it.

You can't REALLY treasure something if you won't admit to yourself as to why you're keeping it. The sentiment is probably the reason why Follo's hammer looks like that.

Follo wanted to cultivate the hammer not because of rivalry, but because he wanted to be someone cool like the cleaners, to stand out in a faceless mob. A massive hammer stands out and does fit the rule of cool. Selfish desires are no less worthy of completion than noble desires.

Follo doesn't want his story to end there and Rudo probably sympathises with him. He didn't want his end to be in the forbidden either, so this in a way is Rudo's way of giving back to the cleaners, if indirectly. Plus, remembering the wall to do list probably was the push Follo needed to admit his real desires.

Rudo has plenty of selfish and noble desires, and that's probably what reminded Follo that he's just as human as he is.

[vibingandsimping]

I hope this is okay >< but i love the idea of an injured tav x Raphael. Maybe he finds them in Gortashs prison or im not sure, but I love it. 💕 please and thank you if you do it

The confinement you were in was damp. A leak from the stone wall dripping. You knew that the sound would eventually drive you crazy.

You’d have gotten away if your leg wasn’t so mangled. You disobeyed and insulted Enver Gortash. The details of what led to it were lost to you- but he wasn’t a man to sit and take that simply. He offered you a chance for redemption but you turned your nose at it. You claimed you’d have his head. The steel robot was quick to grab you and restrain you. You must’ve struggled in it’s hold too much because it’s mechanic hand clamped down onto your calf. The bone fractured and the pressure left a gnarly bruise. He instructed the watchman to bring you to a cell while he decided what to do. Hopefully you’d have a change of heart when he approached you once more.

The cell was musty and cramped. If you stretched your legs out the toes would practically touch the opposite wall. On your uninjured leg was a shackle that firmly planted into the stone underneath you. You grew used to the smell in there. Which is why it was odd when an overwhelming scent of sulphur filled the air. It was revolting. Head shooting up from your knees, you scanned the area. Outside the cell bars was Raphael in his human form. A smirk played on his lips as he approached the bars keeping you apart. “My favorite mouse caught in a trap that isn’t mine. What a shame I can’t enjoy the torment.” You frowned and looked back down at your feet. Of course he was here to mock you. Slayer of Ketheric Thorm trapped so helplessly. He noticed your shame and chuckled.

“Mouse, I am here to help you. Only I should get to play with you. Especially if the man is Gortash, damned fool.” He growled the last sentence and with a snap of his fingers you flicked from the cell into his arms bridal style. You gasped loudly and cried out when the position your leg in changed. He gave you a pout and tucked a stray hair from your face. “Poor thing.” You weren’t sure if he was genuine in saying that or not. Could you bring yourself to care at this point? It was minutes before he was back in his House of Hope. Leading you down the halls until he was in his chambers. He stripped you of the confining clothes and laid you out into a sauna pool. The water lapped at your skin and eased the ache of your muscles. Within moments your leg shifted back into it’s proper place. You watched as the pain faded and the bruises disappeared. Raphael drew you from the water when he figured you had enough of it and led you to his bed. His touch was surprisingly tender.

You wanted to question him why he was so gentle with you as he dried your skin and dressed you in silk. Who were you to look a gift-horse in the face, though? You were thankful that you weren’t in the cell of Gortash’s prison anymore, at least. Whatever Raphael had in mind could be your forefront later. He offered you some rest and you gladly obliged. Sleep weighed heavy on your mind and eyes. The morning would bring lots to come.

[kseniyagreen]

The symbolism of the world of Manyang. Part 3: Lee Dongsik's basement

Lee Dongsik's basement is perhaps the most important location in the entire drama. A significant part of the plot takes place here, and the main intrigue of the plot is literally contained within these walls. But no less important than the external plot is the internal, spiritual plot that happens here to the main characters.

The metaphorical meaning of this place is quite clear - the soul's basement, where the most dark secrets are stored. All those things, that in the light of the day we try not to notice. But we stay with them one on one in the insomnia's painful hours.

First of all, I would like to point out that this basement is furnished as a semi-living space. It is cluttered, dirty, but there is a sofa and a TV. And in general, we gets the impression that Lee Dongsik lives here. As if he is not the master of the house, but the watchman.

This is how he lives - like a guardian at the family crypt.

Although he does not know that this place is a crypt in the literal sense. He doesn't so much live as exist, frozen for twenty years, in a state of waiting. Moreover, for Lee Dongsik this is in many ways a conscious choice.

Here, in that basement, Lee Dongsik is going through the most hard moments, to the emotional bottom. And the scene that is especially strong for me is the moment with the fly.

This is the moment shortly after the discovery of Kang Minjong's fingers. (and focus on the hands, again) It seems that nothing special is happening in this scene, but it breathes so strongly of death from it, as if death is already creeping into his soul.

And Lee Dongsik can't even run away - the pain in his leg fetters, paralyzes. If Lee Dongsik continued these lonely dives - he would surely come crazy.

But in his basement, with enviable regularity, a guest begins to come. To threaten, to blame - and at the same time, to share his burden.

Only twice in this basement there are other people, and both times - to confession.

In all other cases only one guest visits Lee Dongsik's basement - Han Juwon.

Or not quite so, there is another hidden hero who is present in this basement - the spirit that Lee Dongsik will be able to meet and let go at the end of the 9th series.

And with the same difficulty and pain with which Lee Dongsik released his sister's body, Lee Dongsik and Han Juwon release long-suppressed feelings in each other.

Four dialogues take place between them in the basement. And there are the most sharp moments of their confrontation.

Here they twice watch the performances of Han Gihwan - and this "monster" between them hangs like a ghost of hidden evil.

One monster - two crimes, two souls crippled by him.

Han Juwon hears Lee Dongsik crying and apologizing to Minjeong. And then Han Juwon himself reveals to Lee Dongsik his innermost pain about the tragic mistake he made.

The image of the basement describes well what binds them together. The pain of loss and feeling of guilt, the feeling of the gloomy truth hiding somewhere near, under the stucco of the normal world.

And here they finally do not need to pretend that everything is normal.

And having gone from irritation to understanding, in their last basement dialogue, Han Juwon opens up to Lee Dongsik in his doubt, in the highest doubt in himself - isn't this a manifestation of trust in another?

And although it seems that this scene is more about Han Juwon, Lee Dongsik opens up here too - in his desire to trust, perhaps for the first time in these years, voiced desire not to be alone.

He is putting the success of the whole case on the line: "you can do what you want, Han Juwon" just to find out if he can trust Han Juwon? Because - how much joy is there in cleansing the world of evil if your world remains empty?

This is the last conversation in the basement. Because they let each other out of the prison into the open world.