#yes i do my heart is a boundless void

[light-bender]

"You can't just call everyone 'my love' all the time it sounds weird"

"Aw I'm sorry my love should I call you something else" aka "you can pry this phrase from my cold dead hands.

[huenjin]

quarter past midnight.

pairing: chan x reader | breakup!au

word count: 6.107 words

genre: angst, smut

tw: heartbreak and break ups, reader is confused af, nsfw content — cunnilingus, overstimulation blowjobs, deep throating, face fucking, unprotected sex. this is just some angsty smut.

note: an old work i edited because i needed to write something angsty with chan and hurt myself, yes. <3

apartment 5005.

you stare at the door for as long as you know, your heart tingling, stretching apart to tear and shatter within you and you know this for sure — you are clearly mad. you are absolutely crazy, but love makes people do crazy things. beyond love, survival instincts to protect oneself in the long run makes people do disastrous things. you are confused, lost and heartbroken. isn't that why you are here? for some clarity in this mist that fogs your mind.

you insert the duplicate key you had into the keyhole and open the door to the abode you once called home, not because it was four walls that provided you shelter but because bang chan lived there.

it was the spring of 2016 when you had fallen in love with this man - the entirety of this man with a crooked smile so cute and a giggle that could open dimensions to him. he stood before a cherry blossom tree with two cones of ice cream, one for you and one for him and asked you out on a date —"let's watch cherry blossoms together, y/n," - and you agreed with not much reluctance. because you were enamoured of chan at the very first glance. a little boy with endless passion and boundless potential all ready to win your heart.

it was a gradual fall from there — falling in love with chan was so easy, so precious. every small action of chan's made you fall for him harder and the fall was steep. you toppled and tumbled happily but the impact of the crash was hard.

It was hard enough for you to have forgotten what breathing was. It was claustrophobic in a room that was wider than an average one. bang chan slowly seemed to have no time for you. so caught up with his own life and to sort that out, he took out his anger at you, the anger he bottled up in front of all the people — almost as if that was normal. funnily, you thought it was normal.

chan loved you. chan loves you. there was no way anything could have changed. the emotions were strong — the emotions are strong — however, it almost seemed like it was contaminated. like the strong colour of potassium permanganate that changes the whole liquid. so exactly, where in the world did you go wrong? how did your relationship reach this stage — this strained stage of your threads ready to snap and let go?

and staring at his open door, you want to know the answer.

you had walk in the rain to reach here. the weather was disastrous. it had rained heavily enough to make you feel more void than you already felt. the rain had hit your body with a certain impact that momentarily snapped you back to reality; yet, you are quick to drift away. with every step you had taken, the world feels like time had drifted to the past, aeons away. the rain merely grows even more intense and your heart sinks.

the rain has left you drenched. your hair strands stick to each other with droplets of water falling from the ends. your vision was blurry and all you had know was to get to chan quicker than ever. like your body being pulled to a force. you had to reach bang chan quick, to ache this void.

and when you do, your heart skips a beat. you take a step back as an act of cowardice and you do not want to knock on his door. you stand in front of his room, puddles of water collecting by your foot from the water that drips from your clothes and your hair. how could you knock when you were conflicted yourself? you couldn't leave chan but you know you had to if you wanted to try finding happiness again. probably with the man himself years later when you both grow up.

it was in the winter of 2016 that you grew to love bang chan for the person he was. that you knew were in love. the innocent, star-eyed boy waited in front of your house unexpectedly in the strong winds of winter. when you come back home late after your work at the grocery store, you find him there, still waiting for you. your heart had ached for the man who sat in front of your house, leaning against your door with his body shivering and his teeth clattering. he was half asleep, holding onto his thick overcoat tightly in an attempt to escape the cold.

"chan," you had called out to him. "chan, baby, wake up."

his delicate eyelids had fluttered open only to see you. the man quickly sprung to his feet, stumbling and losing his balance for a split second. chan fell into your arms and nuzzled himself into your warmth. he looked delicate and everything chan usually tended to not display - of vulnerability, a certain pastel and ethereal kind.

and when his pale arms had wrapped around your waist carefully and weakly and you held him up, you knew for sure that this always chirpy and optimistic man (albeit all the layers of insecurities he had) was going to steal your heart. and he did.

probably that is why it is so hard for you to knock on his door now. the fact that you could set the world on fire with the love you had for him and yet you knew that you had to untie the knot you had in your relationship to find happiness for a while. to find yourself all over again.

after much thought, you knock on his door. you feel cold, both physically and mentally. the water you are drenched in is soaking into your being and you know you are going to catch a cold for sure tomorrow. however, that is the least of your concerns at the moment.

the door is pulled open only for you to come face to face with the man you have fallen so in love with.

bang chan's face instantly morphs into one of concern as soon as he sees you drenched in the rain. he catches hold of your arm and pulls you into his small studio room of his. he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his warmth. you nuzzle into his chest and he gently rubs your back. 

"are you crazy?" he asks so softly, that it almost does not feel like he is scolding you. "you walked all the way here in the rain. you are most definitely crazy."

you do not respond, however. chan holds you close and notices your silence. you tug at his shirt and chan keeps you close. it's this warmth you reckon you will miss. for the years you step back, you'll feel like a tourist. you pull apart and you look at him with tears in your eyes, "chan."

he looks at you worriedly. this isn't normal. this isn't normal. this is definitely not normal. you take a step back before continuing, "i'm leaving you."

there. you said it. it's out in the open and you hear it out loud too. the thought that screamed in your head is finally freed and normally, you should have felt lighter. so why is it that you have never felt your heart heavier than this?

you had promised yourself that you wouldn't shed tears yet here you are, unable to stop all those droplets falling from your eyes like a cascade of all those memories. 

"what?" chan looks broken.

"i can't do this anymore, chan," you say, looking down, shifting your balance from one foot to another. "it's heartbreaking to be in this relationship. every time i take one step forward now, you hardly have the time to even take two steps back."

"you know my work entitles me to this lifestyle," chan reasons. his voice is cracking and seeing chan this hurt merely makes you want to go to him and shelter and protect him for as long as you live. however, that very act makes you feel lost. not right now. what the two of you need at this minute is a break.

"i know," you look at him with guilt. "i know and yet i can't help but feel a little bit nervous of you never being there. i can't help but realise that your career is definitely way more important to you than i am. i understand that but i can't help but realise that maybe you don't love—"

"don't." chan's voice turns icy. he takes a step forward and you shudder at that moment. why did things turn out like this? why could the two of you not be like any other normal couple out there?

"stay, baby," chan pleads. his hands hold your arms fiercely and he leans over to look at you in your eyes. "i beg of you. stay. we'll make this work, somehow."

"how much more can the two of us try, chan?"

"enough to make this work. you promised me a lifetime of happiness. don't go back on your promise, baby. please."

chan is vulnerable, like a glass ready to crumble into fine dust and you realise how human this man — who seemed to be very nonchalant once — was all his life. in all the time you had dated him, chan had been rarely vulnerable and every time you saw him like that, it made you wonder how the world could ever be cruel to him to put him in such a state. the joke is on you this time for it is you who was hurting the one man you never wanted to let go of, the one man you never wanted the world to hurt.

"i'm hurting, chan. every day i go back home waiting for that one call of yours that never comes. i lay in bed wondering how it was perfect only months back when you pulled me close and rested your head on top of mine as we drifted to sleep. chan, we are not working," you gesture at the two of you, "this relationship is strained, toxic and potentially damaging to our mental wellbeing."

you are crying. your eyes burn and your cheeks are wet. chan looks at you in a shock. his eyes are red and he takes a step back from you, dropping his hands on either side of his body. he looks lifeless for a split moment and you are hurting too much to sort this issue out.

"do you want me to let you go?"

"yes," you say with much pain and sorrow from every word that can rip you away from chan.

"okay." chan takes two steps forward, edging closer to you, "okay. but do me one last thing before leaving me."

you look up at him, wondering if it could be anything that could revoke more memories and hurt you more than it already was. chan couldn't do that. he was in pain too. the two of you manage to be hurting at the same time.

"stay with me tonight. one last time before i say goodbye."

chan closes into you and cups your face delicately. he leans close enough for you to feel his breath fan on your face. his eyes are glassy and they shine in the light. his brown eyes with specks of chestnut hues look pretty. he is so devastatingly pretty. 

how is that chan looked so painstakingly pretty to you right before you were about to leave him?

"chan," you sigh his name out like an airy breath of fresh morning hopes. "no."

"why?"

"because then i would want to stay," you whisper into nothing. your heart strings drum and beats quicker. your eyes burn so badly and you want to leave instantly and cry out loudly.

chan presses his lips against yours instantly. his softness melts into yours as you kissed him and he to you like nothing else mattered. you sigh within and bring your hands up only to find home in his soft brown hair. he is everywhere, infiltrating your mind slowly and creeping into everything subconscious.

every contact of his reminds you of everything you had and everything you were ready to miss out on. chan leans closer, and suddenly he is kissing you harder, deeper with a fervent urgent need you had never known.

"chan," you pull away and lean back slightly. "chan, what are we doing?"

"let me make you stay," he whispers into the crook of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

"but I won't stay," you mumble, sadly. "i can't."

"then, allow me one night to remember everything," chan rasps out. his mouth has found its way to your neck. parting his mouth sinfully, he latches onto the skin at the crook of your neck and sucks. your eyelids close and your eyes roll back.

with chan, it is the small oblivious bliss. with chan, it is possession and yet not. with chan, it is being loved and cherished. with chan, you feel complete and yet crave for so much more.

like the air you blow into a balloon with a hole.

you pull chan closer by his hair and you hear him moan against your skin, the shudder of euphoria running down your spine and only enhancing the heat you felt at your core. yout body needs him as much as your mind craves his being.

chan pulls apart and looks at you, studying your face, every curve and every dip. he wants to remember everything. he begins, "i—" but never continues. rather, he holds your waist and lifts you up. your legs wrap around his waist automatically and almost in an instinct. you wrap your hands around his neck and lean forwards.

your cold thumb grazes the expanse of his cheekbone and your chest contracts. everything is too painful. chan's hand squeezes your waist and you lean forward for your foreheads to touch.

chan still smells like fresh morning with mist and beautiful dew. you blink the tears that threaten to spill as you cup his face. you peck his lips, once, twice and again till you can remember how his lips were with your eyes closed.

chan parts his lips for a sigh and you kiss him. you press your lips against his and you feel him loosen, his arms still on your waist, but this time, his fingers grazed ever so slightly. you let out a whimper when he pulls apart. 

the next thing chan does is take you to his bed. He carefully walks across his room, still carrying you and you're looking at him. you look at chan's eyes and you look at his nose. you study his face and your heart aches with every minute you stay.

he places you delicately on his bed and and you watch him stand and pull his shirt up to remove it. the moment seems familiar, the emotion however, is not. 

chan matches your body form and you instinctively arch upwards, moaning in the contact of his body heat against yours. you kiss him again and you feel him relax against you, lips softening as he permits you to take his lower lip between your teeth. you suck against his lower lip, moaning into his mouth as he pushes his tongue against yours.

chan's hands trace the sides of your torso, cradling your curves as he finds home in your neck. chan has always liked your neck. his licks, kisses and sudden bites only further enhances your point. your hands go to his hair as you hold him more firmly against you. the swelling of him beneath you makes you gasp and your thighs rub against each other.

chan pulls back for a minute, his fingers playing with the ends of your shirt. you whine greedily and move your hands to pull the shirt off your body. chan helps but he is so slow that you pause and look into his eyes. chan wants this moment to last forever. 

he removes the shirt off of you and looks at you, unsure when his fingers trail to your shorts. you place your hands over his and together, you unbutton your shorts. you pull yourself upwards and kissing chan, you say, "i'm staying the night, chan. i'll stay tonight."

the two of you discard the rest of your clothes, undergarments still on, only for him to pause and stare at your breasts, "how did i not notice you not wearing a bra when you were soaked in the rain?" and then he realizes how, pausing for a while. you quickly pull chan closer.

chan rushes to latch his lips back on your skin, sucking and kissing his way from the crook of your neck to the top of your left breast. you rock your hips against his, desperate for some friction. your clit has swollen, moisture already dampening the fabric of your panties.

chan's hands travel to your arse, squeezing the flesh beneath his fingers and grinding you down against the bulge growing in his boxers. a moan escapes your lips even before you could hold it and chan looks distinctly pleased.

"chan," you whine. "chan, please. i need you. touch. kiss. anything. please. i need you everywhere."

he smiles and removes the grasp on your arse, your skin feeling bruised over how tight he was holding you. his fingers trail upwards only to loop around the strap of your panties and he pulls it away from your body slightly only to release it. the strap hits against your skin and you wince. 

"you're so delectable," he mumbles and pulls your panties away. you rub your thighs together, feeling your wetness spread. his lips gently graze over your hip bones and land right over your clit, grazing it almost unnoticeably. the sudden contact leads you to grip on chan's arm and cover your mouth to smother your groans.

"do you like this, baby? do you want more of this?" he kisses the skin on your hips, so close to where you craved his attention. 

"chan—"

"you could have more of this if you stayed. y/n, just stay, please," he peppers more kisses around, moving his hands up and down your thighs.

"chan, no," you place your hands on his head, tangling your fingers into his hair. "i—"

"why not?"

and then chan's lips find your lower ones and you moan so loud that you didn't know you even had it in you. you pull his hair up of surprise and chan licks your lips up and down slowly and in the most gratifying manner.

"c-chan!"

he doesn't respond. he merely brings his hand down and places his thumb over your clit, pressing down on it as he licks you. he pulls apart to lightly kiss your inner thighs and the sudden loss of contact makes you whine.

"why can you not stay?"

"because it hurts to be with you when you're never around," you sigh, tears rolling down your cheek and chan looks at you from below. he sees you vulnerable and broken and he blames himself. he is as responsible for leading himself to this situation as much as you are.

he holds tight on to your thighs, pulling you closer to him as he plants soft kisses on your dripping core. he sucks and nibbles on the lips before parting them with his tongue, swiping one big stroke and resting on your sensitive nub.

"chan, more, please," you whimper. his sinful tongue feels like heaven on your hot core, and you leave your hands to move around to look for places to grip onto; moving from your hair, to the edge of the bedsheet, until they find their way to his hair again where you make your final grip. you always did like gripping on his hair during sex. it edges him and steers him to do as you pleased. you instantly entangle your fingers through the strands of his locks as you start to move your hips in the same motion as the movements which his lips and tongue are now making.

chan keeps his action of devouring you with hunger, moving his tongue skilfully in and out of you, humming as he went. the vibration only makes you edge a bit more. you close your eyes and focus on feeling him and his motion. and right at the moment, chan feels your grip on him getting tighter. when your whimpers sound more desperate, he moves two fingers inside your walls, curling deep while sucking at your clit. he keeps biting lightly at the swollen nub, making you cry out his name. the moment when he feels you tightening around his fingers, he latches his lips around your clit tightly and sucks, all while thrusting his fingers deep onto your sweet spot, relentlessly, until you see sea of stars from under your eyelids.

"ch—" your breathing shortens and you quake, "oh my god! baby!"

however, bang chan never stops; even when your whole body starts shaking and quivering on his bed. he continues the work of his fingers and his hot, sinful mouth all moving in the same pace, letting you ride out your high until it slowly subsides and you are left, gasping for air, on the brink of overstimulation.

chan finally lifts his head as you open your eyes and you notice. his lips glistening and his eyes sparkling. he runs his tongue across his lips, taking in the last of the remnants of your high. you gulp, admitting that the scene before you is hot. chan doing anything will always be hot.

"fuck my life, i'm so in love with you," chan says and your eyes widen.

"no," you mumble. "you should not be."

"isn't that my decision, baby?" chan says. you lean forward and holding onto his arm sockets, you move him backwards allowing yourself to climb on top of him. you position yourself over his leg and frantically pull his boxers down and away.

"you shouldn't though," you take his cock into your hands. chan stifles a moan. his fingers softly hold your head and stroking your hair as you tease him with your tongue on his shaft. your eyes keep looking up at his face while you drag a slow lick along the base of his member, before swirling your tongue around the tip, earning his subtle grunt and unsteady breaths while he looks at you with darkening eyes.

you lock your gaze on chan and dragging one excruciatingly slow lick, you take his head into your mouth before pulling apart almost instantly. you drag your tongue over your lips and tease, "tell me what you want, baby boy."

chan smiles widely at you and your sudden voice of confidence. he strokes the back of your neck and says, "i want you to stay."

"you're such a buzz—" 

"but i know you won't. so i'd rather, just for tonight, have you as a whole. i want your pretty little mouth on my cock, wrapped around it and sucking it. i want you to look like a mess, baby, for me."

you smile at him softly and almost apologetically. shaking your head of any sad thoughts, you place another kiss on the swollen tip of his cock, before giving a long and slow lick at the base of his shaft, coating his member with your saliva, and finally take him completely in your mouth. you hum gladly as your lips move and sink down slowly, adjusting yourself to the size of him, only stopping once you feel his tip touching the back of your throat. the depth and your constant move gifts you with a couple of deep groans coming out of his own lips. you look up to see him, supporting himself up and leaning his head back, enjoying the way your mouth is sucking him tightly. once you are adjusted to the size of his girth, the muscles around your jaw relax a little, permitting you to move your head and sink down low. hollowing your cheeks, you keep sucking him on your way up with flattened tongue, stopping by the time you reach his tip only to sink yourself back down.

"fuck, fuck. fuck, y/n, baby. your mouth feels euphoric," chan groans, his head dropping and his eyes screwing shut. you let out another hum in acknowledgement and respond with another bob of your head up and down his length.

the sound of his ragged breath and his whimpers makes you aware of how fucked out he was. you keep your pace while raking his thigh with your nails from one hand, while you use the other to cup and graze the skin of his scrotum and his uncovered base. until suddenly, he looks down on you while gently stroking the sides of your face with his thumbs before he moves his hips upwards, thrusting deeper into your mouth.

you gag in surprise with his length reaching all the way down to your throat. you whimper against his cock. you keep your tongue still flat and presses against the base of his cock to give him more sensation as he keeps fucking your mouth at a distinct pace. you hold on tightly onto his thighs, scoring them, ignoring the soreness on your jaw and throat to let him chase his high, until he finally explodes inside you. the sudden appearance of his thick, creamy release filling your mouth has you gagging. when chan slows down, you are finally able to carefully swallow every single drop, a few dripping down by the corners of your mouth.

"ah, fuck," he suspires, gradually slowing until he stops and pulls himself out of your mouth. "i'm so sorry— i'm sorry, baby," he tells you between his ragged breaths, sitting up and rubbing his thumb on your face and neck lovingly, over and over again. "did i hurt you? tell me i did not. fuck, i got carried away."

you take hold of his hand and kiss his knuckles, letting out a small chuckle. chan pulls you closer and hugs you and you sit in his warmth. you mumble against his chest, "i hate to be evil, but i hope that no one can give you a blow job or a mind-blowing sex like i could."

chan sighs and holds you tighter, "don't you already have me in your captive?"

the back of chan's hand moves around the edges of your face before he pulls you in and kisses you slowly. he touches the tip of his tongue to yours, teasing at first, before entwining your tongues together. his hand moves down your back and pulls you closer, your core pressed against his cock and you moan against his mouth.

"i'm going to make you come all night. when you tire out, i'll let you rest and have you again," chan whispers against your ear as he pulls apart from your lips.

this was why leaving chan was hard. he was addictive. the taste of his lips, the deep moan he exhaled when he deepened the kiss. you let him intertwine his tongue with yours, let him taste your mouth while you press your palms on his chest to feel his warmth. chan's hand runs freely over the curve of your arse, earning a gasp to escape from your lips, stopping the kiss unexpectedly.

he pushes you back once he had calmed down from his last high and climbs on top of you with a smirk, "i could eat you out again but good lord, you look so fucking delectable that i need to have my cock inside of you — right now."

you gulp and you feel your throat parching. he continues kissing you while settling himself between your shaky legs, groaning against your mouth the moment he could feel your wet folds brushing the tip of his shaft. he leans forward to catch your erect nipple between his lips. he did the same thing to the other breast.

he firmly holds your name and kisses every single part of your body, murmuring softly against your skin, "need to remember. need to remember. fuck, i need to remember you."

you cup his face softly and look at him, breathing slowly in order to force him to do the same, "chan, I love you."

"but you can't stay."

"i can't."

"i need to be inside of you. i need to remember how you felt. i need to engrave it till i know how much you've captivated me and left me miserable," he whispers softly between your kisses, and you buck your hips upward to meet his as a response. you are still mildly sensitive but so needy to feel him inside you.

exhaling, chan pushes his throbbing length between your swollen lips, ever so slowly delving into your hot sex with a low grunt and moan. you instantly hook one leg around his hip, placing both of your palms on his back as you guided him inside you. your soft, hot walls enveloped his length, pulling him in deeper as he thrust his hips against yours and when your being finally envelopes him, he grunts in content.

"i missed this so much," he whispers to you, pressing your foreheads together as you pant softly against his lips, trying to regulate your breathing. "i'll miss you, baby."

chan waits until you adjust yourself to his length. no matter how many times you have had sex with him, his girth still surprises you. you notify him by pecking on his lips with your eyes flickering up to him and staring at him with lust and want, and chan knows you are ready.

he moves slowly in and out of you in a calculated rhythm, almost like he was playing his own music, never looking away. he pulls his hips back and then thrusts forward, filling your hole as much as possible once your body recognises his being.

"fuck," chan grunts. beads of perspiration have formed on his neck and slowly they drop down and you watch. chan looks precious and for a minute there, you want to stay. you want to stay with chan forever, marry him and have his kids. you want to be there in his highs and lows. but you know you shouldn't. he deserved better and so did you.

"oh god, y/n," he moans, gripping your thigh harder. he keeps on grinding his shaft into your wetness with more fervour and all you could do is —

"chan!" 

scream his name out for everyone around to know.

he sighs, moving his hips into yours a bit faster as you begin to meet his thrusts with the movements of your hips. he lets go of you and drops both of his hands down to the bed on either side of you, holding himself up and increasing his range of motion; pulling nearly all the way out, then rocking forward to push all the way back into his base. 

your fingers keep holding tight on his shoulder and his upper arm, lightly scratching your nail on his skin. he leans down to press his mouth to you, kissing you hungrily. he moves into you harder and even faster, scrunching the sheets up under his palms while driving his shaft deep into you. 

your soft moans grow higher in pitch and you bite into your lower lip harshly. you become louder as you feel your high approaching. "chan, baby, fuck," you rasp out and chan kisses your clavicle and licks a stripe, leaving a bruise by its end.

"let go, baby," he moves his hands back on your hip with a tight grip, helping you to move in the same rhythm as his. you grip harder on his arms for leverage. you feel him grinding your clenching walls with his shaft inside of you until you can not take any more, and your entire body shakes from the second climax of the night.

chan starts to slow down yet keeps thrusting forward, so gently and disoriented. he smiles before kissing you deeply once again. he groans at the feeling of your walls clenching hard around his shaft, your orgasm lingering even after your body had stopped shaking so much. leaning down, chan presses his body hard on you while he kisses you, and you can feel his member throbbing within your depths and his heart pounding fast in his chest. his brown eyes look softer tonight and his eyes are glassy. you cup his face and kiss him repeatedly. you hold him steady while he pushes into you languidly. you can't seem to part with him — is this what love does?

you move your hips. you can feel your desire still dripping hot in your core and more than ready to continue on. "keep going. i want to feel you come inside me, chan."

his hips, hitting against your clit repeatedly, makes you woozy with tensed and excess euphoria. it is too much but you couldn't stop. you guide him into you, over and over again even when your walls seemed to scream out of exhaustion. you needed to feel chan in you, fill you up.

you wiggle your hips and raise them to meet his warmth. smiling, you bend your knees up to help him reach his high quicker.

you hold onto the moment he starts to move his hips one more time, drilling inside of you with both of his hands planted on the bed once again for grip. this time, you keep your eyes opened. you gasp and enjoy how beautiful his toned body looks, moving above you fluidly. silently admiring how his skin is glowing from the illuminating moonlight which enters the room through the opened windows, how they had fallen perfectly on his sweaty chest against the background music of the rain hitting the window panes.

you let your eyes capture its beauty, memorising him and everything else the best you still could in your mind. just so you could keep the image of him making love to you for as long as you possibly could in your memories. after all, this is it. this was the end of the lane, the last page in the chapter you shared with him.

you graze chan's chin and watch how he moves into you. you close your eyes for a second - just for a second - to hear distinctly of the squelching sound of his cock entering you and his hips slapping against yours.

he tilts his head and gives you a few sloppy kisses by the edges of your neck and then your mouth. your eyes screw shut with the overload of euphoria. you are oversensitive and tears spill out from your eyes. chan thrusts a few more times into you before reaching his own orgasm that washes over him like a wave. you feel his cock pulsate and a shiver of pleasure runs down your spine. his movements become slower. he grunts and moans in each motion of his and you lean forward to kiss him. after a few deep and long kisses, he steadies himself and pulls out of you carefully. he kisses you a few more times — your lips, neck, clavicles, breasts and everywhere.

chan falls besides you and sighs. he cups your face and looks at you. your eyes are closing in exhaustion and you whimper, "i'll miss this."

chan remembers that this is the last time and pulls you closer, a lone treacherous tear falling on your face. he watches you carefully and you softly smile, "you should sleep. you have practice tomorrow."

"no, it's my last day with you. i'd rather watch you than waste time sleeping," he sounds sad and you move closer into his warmth.

"i really do love you, chan."

"i know and so do i. our circumstances just weren't right. don't beat yourself to it," he mumbles, pushing a strand of your hair from your face.

"nor should you. promise me that you won't overwork yourself?"

"i—"

"chan!"

"just go to sleep, baby. you look tired. i love you," chan coos and you yawn almost immediately. he laughs and rubs your back soothingly and you fall asleep. chan does too, soon after.

and when his eyelids part the next morning, the bed feels cold and his heart feels the void. you are gone and chan is lonely as he has been always.

[remsmoonlight]

— title : a sweet truth

— word count : 2.1k words

— pairing : john wich x reader

— summary : you get an overwhelming need to share with John how you feel, unable to keep it to yourself anymore, leaving only the good to follow.

— warnings : none, issa soft one

note: my first one shot back and it’s john of course! anyways i need to binge the movies again because this man’s voice was difficult to master this time around, now i will be getting to requests now i have indulged myself oops

                    ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*   requests are open !   *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The dull crackle that runs mindlessly beneath the audio of the radio is the only sound that can be heard illuminating the space of the bedroom where you and John lay contently together. He’d offered to repair the object, or even buy another but you refused stubbornly — remarking that it gives it a certain endearing charm. You had joked that it reminds you of him. In the sense that while it has a flaw, it was able to bring joy and amusement to a person’s life. It’s humbling to know that even the John Wick was human, that he had his flaws despite being difficult to witness them in the flesh.

It took a lot for John to bare the darkest and most damaged parts of his conscience. He couldn’t go another day where his mind leapt endlessly to conclusions, his mind conjuring haunting images of your departing body that would eventually come to pass — to him, it was inevitable. He fully convinced himself he was hallucinating when you had not retreated in fear, with the look of disgust cosying up to your reflection, but the opposite. He is still a man greatly feared by a whole world beneath yours, yet you still gaze upon him with nothing but warmth.

You will your mind to focus on the words from the small object, yet it’s the heat that is emitting from his body in waves that prevent you from fully taking in what is being said, its presence doing more to provide white noise than entertainment. The minor glint in your gaze turns upwards to drag your sight across the body that half lays on top of you.

Like vines, to be found in a twist of limbs that would be almost difficult to distinguish what belongs to who is a common occurrence, the sense of shielded from the scorching realities that the world bares boldly is an addicting concoction that you can only find with him. Your heart swells tenfold at the mere thought of him and being here in such a simple way that holds so much affection just for two people.

“ What ? “

The suddenness of his voice lifts you from your thoughts that run their own race, a shy lift of your lips can be seen twirling gracefully in response.

“ Nothing, I’m just thinking. “

“ Thinking? “ he asks you, a light hint of laughter gently coating the question with a feather-like touch. “ Are you trying to scare me? “

Eyes widen in response to what he says, a heavy burst of air plummeting to the soft mattress below the two of you. “ Don’t be so rude! “ A short chuckle trails behind your reply, secretly loving the cheeky side of his personality coming out to peek out.

You’ve realised that he has a warmth whenever you’re together, but even still he maintains an air of such seriousness you’re surprised he has not collapsed under the pressure of holding such a wall up with his bare hands, these moments are the kind that you paint mentally — a still of this moment in a thousand shades of gold. Upon your first meeting of his, you’d never associate that with him, with how intimidating and stone faced he was, it would be a honeyed lie if someone would have described him in such a way but here he is. Not a honeyed lie but a sweet tasting truth that you never want to be without again.

“ I’m sorry. “ he apologises as the amusement in his tones still very much present that would aim to refer to him as a hypocrite, but it’s not spoken with vitriol, his words directed towards you rarely contain any harshness. “ Tell me, I’m curious. “

It’s a minor debate that dances with only itself, zig zagging with a biro pen that creates a mess of lines converging at multiple points to create a tangle plot point that should not be as complicated as it’s being made out. Neither of you have muttered the L word, not even under your breath in passing and the one dominating emotion you can feel overwhelming your body entirely is incredibly close to it.. but is it too soon? Even as a description? It’s a fear you can feel tickling your neck from behind, whispering stained words of discouragement, but if you have learnt anything, it’s that hiding your feelings will be worse off in the long run. Never can a human being strive for the euphoria of authentic happiness clutched in their fist when they lock away their thoughts and their desires in a box to gather age and dust — leaving behind a hollow shell of what could have been had it the opportunity to bud and grow.

“ Well.. “ you begin, your sight lowering to meet the sight of his neck, unable to look him in the eyes fully and you approach the topic. “ I was thinking about you. “

“ Yeah? “

“ I’m just.. happy. More than I thought I could be and it’s you I have to thank. “ Your shoulders shrug as best they can from your position laying down on the bed.

“ I think I should be the one saying that. “ he replies softly, his words ringing truer than they could ever be realised to be as he leans down to leave behind a ghost of a peck behind your ear. It’s an action that is short and sweet.

Never did John imagine himself being rewarded for being the architect in more tragedies and more horrors than he could ever recall. Though, he soon realised your presence was rather the opposite, a ticket to a greener field void of bloodied bargains and death, and should he keep you in his life that would be an opportunity he would not let pass him by in a sea of missed chances left to drown due to his lack of motivation. He gazes upon you fondly in affection, a hand reaching up to draw mindless circles in the back of your hair, memories of his last bargain to leave his previous life playing before him as if an old gritty movie.

“ Stop it, John. I haven’t done a thing! “ your nose wrinkles as you refute what he says with a bashful glint that explodes in your gaze. After all the time you’d spent together and you still refuse to see yourself in the way John has painted you in —

“ You’ve done more for me than you realise. “

It feels like yesterday you shared your first kiss, fondly remembering how you’d mentally remarked that it’s so unfair that what is between you should be so perfect, a cruel joke were it not to work out. Though your heart is full of gratitude when you still tell yourself that not a worry should be had, your need for a physical reminder as you move your hand to his clothed back — bringing him closer as if to burn a permanent reminder into your fingertips.

“ I guess that’s why we compliment each other so well, huh? “

A wispy sigh plummets, your thoughts and emotions mixing more and more into a blend of intensity as you fully realise just how much you have fallen and adore the man who shares your bed. It has been such a long time you have had these emotions to this degree rouse from, what has felt like, an endless slumber. Yes, there had been a few who had caught your eye, but compared to the substance that has been created and nurtured from you both, they had nothing more than a water drop in a boundless and enduring sea. It’s a hope of yours that you don’t look foolish before him, getting so emotional over something like this, you scold yourself mentally — trying to pull yourself together before you completely crumble.

“ What’s wrong? “

“ It’s nothing, really. “ you shake your head, accompanying the almost denial. You want to let everything in your heart free, but the question is how to without scaring him off. There’s not much that can scare him, but you’d rather not throw a spanner in the flawless equation.

“ You don’t have to tell me, but it might help if you do. “ John lends a soothing weight in your hand as he interlocks your fingers together, leaving the choice completely up to you, refusing to force you to share something that is so personal to you. “ it’s your call. “

“ It’s nothing crazy.. “

The side of John’s brain that has been hardwired to jump to every scenario imaginable — good and bad, is running rampant. Itching to be prepared so nothing is able to disrupt the perfect day dream of a life that had only been made available through television shows and movies, now that he has it, every day he promises to never let it be ruined. Nothing good can ever occur from ripping away the first drop of water that touches a person starved of it for days, only a troublesome path of anger can walk that path on its twisted and turned limbs.

“ I think it’s time that I tell you how I feel, “ you state, your lips almost devouring your lips by how hard they bite them, a lost thought of how you have not drawn a drop of blood seeping into irrelevancy. “ how I really feel. “

“ Right? “

For the first time, John is completely unable to get a read of you. The apprehension that is emitting off you in strong waves is not something that comforts him fully, though the fact that you speak not from anger and have opted to stay in your current position as opposed to fleeing is the only source of relief he can continue to draw energy from. Curiosity is the only thing that dominates his mind, wanting desperately to hear the next part of your statement.

In his silence, your brows furrow purely from your own thoughts. Mainly in the wonder of how you can approach this while sounding as if you have capacity and are not obsessed with him as some are with their idols. You know that would be something that would probably scare him off. Your fingertips lay a random beat on the top of his hand, you nestle closer to him as to make yourself comfortable — this does feel like the right time. Should it not? You remind yourself that it is part of a plan that the universe has for you, that it is part of a bigger picture you are not allowed to know until the final moment.

“ I just, “ you pause, blinking as you gather your thoughts and your words further. “ It’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything remotely close to this. “

Your words are like a cozy kiss goodnight before two lovers depart until the next time they see each other, a warmth that slowly grows in his heart overspills at the sentiment you individually wrap with each word you speak. He can’t help but tip his head ever so slightly, to take in every detail on your features — in his mind, nothing is more so perfect than this moment.

“ What I’m trying to say is, and you don’t have to say anything — “ the rambling leaves your lips so effortlessly, as if to savour the last few moments of normally before the inevitable confession. “ I can’t help but realise how much I am in love with you. “

His eyes widen instantaneously as his features follow suit, his lips part in surprise. With how your speech had begun, it should not have come as a surprise, yet to hear it from your lips is as pleasant as the final summer’s day, surrounded by warmth and an impenetrable energy that shields you from any harm that would befall you. He’d lived the life of a haunting ghost story that it soon became a belief that he was a monster, to hear you in this moment recite something so real is something that is difficult for him to wrap his head around. Maybe he isn’t a monster that has made its peace with the darkness, that there is more for him as a person.

The emptiness is soon replaced by a soft weight on your lips, he has leans down to join you — unable to fight the desire to savour the taste of him as you often do when you kiss. It’s a fight you have not yet one, and it’s a fight you imagine you would prefer losing. Time is no longer a concept, you’re too wrapped up in the concept turned reality that is John Wick, only are you able to concentrate on the burning that his free hand leaves as they slide up and down your waist. If this is a dream, neither of you want to awaken.

“ Who says I’m not feeling the same as you? “

[hyunsuks-beanie]

Mi Casa

Pairing: Hyunjin x gn. reader

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 0.88k words

Part of the Sound of Love event

Mellow speaks: Been ages since I listened to Home tbh, but it's such a good song! And writing Hyunjin for this piece was so cute!! Hope you guys enjoy, especially the nonnie who had requested (and also 🐱anon, who is always up for reading something with Hyun hehe)

Tagging: @freckledwinterfalls and @yogurteume

In a crazy flutter I couldn't even say hello (yeah) (right) Yeah, I'm going out baby The whole world is my home (whoa, whoa, whoa)

Being an idol sure comes with its perks. The love from fans is enough to warm one's heart, and the adrenaline from performing to filled out areas and stadiums seems almost dreamlike.

Crazy for myself (yeah) As if when you open that door, anything will happen

Who wouldn't enjoy that? With the cameras making their reality better than imagination, and the constant spotlight making the whole world seem like their home.

Yes, I remember when I thought I could do anything I saw the ocean, yeah, before I even opened this door

But that doesn't mean idols aren't allowed to feel exhausted every now and then, and it's at moments like these that they want nothing more than to go home, to the arms of someone who cares.

The more I fill it, the more empty (empty) The more we are together, the more alone I feel (whoa)

And Hyunjin's no different. The brighter he shines, the more he longs to come back home. Come back home to you. His line of work forces him to stay away from you for extended periods, and it would be an understatement to say that he hates it.

Half-closed eyes, sleepless nights Where you are

He absolutely despises the ordeal, feeling more alone every time he leaves for a new tour after having spent a couple months with the love of his life. Practice can no longer tire him enough for a good night's sleep, and he finds himself craving your touch, your warmth.

Maybe that's mi casa With you I'ma feel rich (yeah) That's the mi casa Turn it on in advance, your switch (switch) Yeah

It'll be comfortable even if you don't say anything (right) With you, everything will be my home (yeah) 너만 있다면 다 내 집이 될 거야 (yeah) You know I want that home You know you got that home (woo)

To him, home is no longer a place. To him, home is a person. A person called you. Being close to you is his source of comfort, and when he's away from you, it's like a piece of him is missing, leaving a void incapable of being filled.

Your love, your love, your love (I miss that) Your love, your love, your love (I want that) Your touch, your touch, your touch (I need that) La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la, I love it (yeah, yeah, yeah)

It's your love that he needs, it's that smile of you that can take his weariness away after an exhausting day. It's your presence that can make him smile, can make him laugh. It's you he needs.

So shabby, the world thinks we have it all (oh yah) The big house, big cars, big rings of my dreams All I want is to have (take) everything A strange feeling felt by someone who accomplished everything now (ay, ay)

He used to think being famous and reaching out to millions of people was all he wanted in life. And that was true, but only until he met you. The moment you graced his life, he knew he wanted to be with you just as much as he wanted to be an idol, if not more.

A strange feeling felt by someone who accomplished everything now (ay, ay) But even if I leave now, I have a place to come back to, so the door I go out (huh?)

And that holds true to this day. Because with you, Hyunjin can be himself, no filter, nothing censored. Just pure him, and his love for you. Now he has a place he wants to come back to, now he has a person he wants to come back to.

I keep thinking of you at the crossroads (I remember) You, who recognized me when I was poor (you)

Sure, the love the world has for him is boundless, and he can't help but be grateful for that every single day. But you, you're the only one who sees him for who he is, and loves him despite his flaws. And that's why it's only with you that his soul feels at ease. He jokingly calls you "Mi casa," saying that his home would be wherever you are. But in hindsight, he might not be joking after all.

Someday When the doorbell rings three times will you open the door So that I can say goodbye to you I'll tell you then

Long time no see, mi casa (casa)

He can't wait to go back home after the tour wraps up. He can't wait to scoop you up in his arms the moment you open the door, to smell your scent that always eases his mind, always calms him down.

Even if you don't say anything, you're comfortable (yeah) You became my home (woo)

He can't wait to tell you how much he missed you, fully aware of how he's going to find himself at a loss for words when his eyes land on you. But that's okay, because he also know that no words need to be said when it's just the two of you.

The sound of your heartbeats against each other is enough.

[atviera]

Unseeing

Beneath the myriad of stars, Atvir gazed back at their glittering countenance, gentle breeze embracing him as he rested upon a bench in the yard of the dock house. Silence had become a presence upon his mind once more, esoteric whispers and ominous musings were absent since opening the second gate. The accession of the firmament’s power was months ago, a drop in an ocean of memories, but the recollection was as clear as the calming waters that resided close by.

The bog of the Southern Shroud was an uncomfortable affair. During his travels, the familiarity of musty mires was lacking, however insignificant to what became of him. A glint of emerald in the heavens guided him to the heart of the place. The viera kneeled as the glowing eye glowered at his presence, followed by a viridian lance that dug through his chest. The stream into unconsciousness was sudden as his proffering body slumped over.

The eyes opened to a chamber of ceaseless darkness. Ever since being sequestered to the nothingness in his dreams, trepidation crept upon his very soul, and the sensation was brought back like a crashing wave. The mask hid any air of dread that he held, but he knew in his heart that it would not matter. If it was who he anticipated, it would not matter.

A wound in the emptiness above began to bleed a frigid white, eventually forming a perfect circle. Illumination was born as the scar wept, truth made form. The place Atvir stood was not a prison of any sort, a hollowness with no shell, the non-lands boundless. The ring-blood crawled from the source of the opening, coursing downward in uniformity until it reached the featureless floor. The viera moved forward, each stride with his boots resonating a tune upon the waters of the void. The masked visage stared upward, pacing becoming rhythmic to the music. Every time he advanced, the scarred star would retreat as if a mockery of his attempt to approach it.

Desperation to grasp familiarity was evident as the pacing turned into a frantic run. The wound would not heed his pleas, maintaining the precise distance it initially had. The luminous blood seeped with greater emphasis, a dazzling contrast of the empty confines Atvir found himself in. The anomaly above was shrouded as a tall, grey spire towered in front of the viera. The surface was befuddling, edges reflecting with the sheen of metal but ornamented in the imperfect form of bark. The protruding roots were colossal, dwarfing the greatest trees back in the Skatay Range.

Absorbing the majesty in silence was short-lived, as a cacophony of screeching metal and snapping bark overwhelmed the ear. The screams of metal and tree were a prelude to its surface opening and shifting back, revealing a pupil of shadow with a singular iris of an icy blue. A brief reprieve in quiet was broken with the shifting of metal. The eye blinked, yet the iris was unmoving, quivering with futility as it deigned to look down at him.

The voice did not have the neutrality from before. It was slow, resonant, and metallic. An anger crept in the back of the metaphorical throat.

“With the interpretation and my blade, you have created the second wound. The stars bend to your will. It is now easier. My understanding expands once more.”

Atvir blinked, taking a long, shuddered sigh. “Yes. The second gate is open.” Endless questions danced on the tip of his tongue, and the lack of response presented opportunity.

“Where am I?”

“You are here and where you sleep. The darkness between the stars. The exactness is unknown. This is the house of the gardener. What stands before you is me, the same as what you met in dreams”, the voice echoed.

The astrologian looked towards the gnarls, his head following it up until his stare met the dark pupil.

“What do you want?”

“I wish to know what has happened in my absence, what happened to me. We forget. I do not know how I got here.”

An eyelid lowered slightly, metal grinding against itself. “The garden has granted me insight to teach. My reach is limited. You are an agent of my designs, application of my prior learnings. To wound the heavens twice is more than others. Six are the limits of man from our pact. The seventh is death. Your demise would be wasteful.”

“There is more”, the viera responded.

“Of course. I cannot reveal my intent on this path you walk. You have the choice to leave. That was always there since the first dream, yet you continue. You wish to learn, and I present such a thing. You have taken it and have done what I asked. The only way to have answers is to seek more. The harvest grows with each strand of knowledge woven into the tapestry.”

The gardener’s words clamored in echoes, dying after mere moments. As silence consumed the space, an iris of green formed in the pupil, taking the opposite corner of its frozen counterpart.

“The second eye opens, and we achieve a greater understanding.”

With no time to utter a word, Atvir awakened in the South Shroud.

[revengeisourlullaby]

If I Never Knew You Pt.5

Pt.1  Pt.2  Pt.3  Pt.4  Pt.5  Pt.6

Warnings: 18+, angst, secret relationship plot, kinda royal au, arranged marriage plot, fighting

a/n: Hope everyone is doing well. Here is the second to last part. I’m going to upload the final part right after I upload this one. Just so y’all aren’t waiting for the resolve :)

Word count: 1.7K

Loki x female!reader

Feeling the pebbles roll under your feet, you felt your legs begin to shake with anticipation and dread. The panic that you were holding off while with Loki was beginning to come back and you wanted to turn and run the other way. You knew you needed to do this and finally come clean to your parents but the idea was just so awful you wanted to run and hide away forever. 

Before you knew it you were standing out front of your childhood home feeling a bubble of unease build in your throat. Breathing deep and exhaling hard, you put your hand on the doorknob and stepped inside your home. Your family once again sitting at the dining table talking amongst one another.

There was someone you didn’t recognize sitting in what was normally your seat. You felt the energy shift around you and suddenly you felt something worse than panic settle in your gut.

“Y/N, there you are! We were so worried when you didn’t come home last night. You haven’t done that in a while. I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Your mother rose from her chair, wrapping her arms around you in a tight hug. Your father looked at you with disdain on his features, obviously trying to figure out where you were in the night.

“Glad to know you’re alright, Y/N. Come sit down and meet who we think might be a perfect suitor for you.”

Your heart sank to your stomach. You felt your face get hot and your emotions were mixing with intense anger and despondency. You didn’t want to have to fake interaction with someone you knew nothing about let alone didn’t care learning about. It would be adulterous to Loki and you couldn’t bear the thought of engaging in such horror. You found your courage and finally decided to put your foot down in this situation.

“Actually, that is what I was coming to talk to you guys about. I found someone. I have for over a year now.”

“What?! Y/N that’s amazing but why haven’t you told us anything.”

Your mother’s eyes lit up in curiosity wondering why you were so private with something that was causing you such trouble. 

“I’ve been fearful of your reaction to whom it is I have found boundless love with.”

Your father’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion waiting for you to continue your declaration. Your mother on the other hand was just overjoyed that her dearest daughter had found somebody. You opened your mouth again before your mother cut you off,

“Well, what’s his name? I want to know everything about him!”

You sighed, the next words you had to speak feeling like lead on your tongue. 

“Y-you know the all-father?”

“Y/N! Are you courting Thor??”

Your father tapped your mother’s hand in discipline,

“Let her speak and you will find out. Stop interrupting her”

You sighed again, playing with your fingers out of anxiety about what you were about to say next.

“I-it’s actually his brother. Loki.”

The air became suffocating. Loki’s name always putting a sour thought in people’s minds because of his notorious behavior. You felt the excitement in the air turn to disappointment and rotted curiosity. 

“We met in one of the gardens a year ago and something about us was magnetic and drew us together. We started out with a friendship and a few months in he asked if courtship would be a viable option to further our relationship. I said yes reluctantly because I feared your responses so deeply.”

You decided to lay it out all on the table hoping that maybe it would persuade their opinion of someone that they felt so little for.

“He cares for me with such truth. I’ve never felt this with anyone before and the way that he understands me makes me feel like I have finally been found. He loves me with such ardor that I feel complete finally. All that was thought of him is something of the past. He has matured indefinitely and the feelings I have formed for him are incessant and I can’t let that go.”

Finally letting out all the extra air in your lungs you felt such a weight lifted off your chest. You still feared what their answer would be regarding their approval but they knew now. If they cared for you like they said they did they would be able to see your admiration for your current partner. And you hoped that would be enough to not have your parents strip that from you.

“Y/N...of all the people you could have chosen. That treacherous excuse for a god is where you let your feelings reside?!”

Your father’s response made you feel sick. This is exactly what you were predicting what would happen. But your mother was unusually silent. Her eyes drifted off to space on the floor and it was difficult to read what she was thinking of. Your father stood up from his chair and spoke again, his voice thick with dismay.

“Loki?! How could you let yourself stoop so low? He’s nothing but a troublemaker and you for some reason have become so weak to fall for him. Where did I go wrong wit-?”

“-Alright that’s enough, dear.”

Your mother finally spoke up and cut your father off. He looked at her incredulously and at that moment you began to feel such regret for the man that was still stuck at the table. Falling victim to the conflict between you and your parents. Your mother spoke again,

“Maybe, just maybe dear, we were wrong about him. Our daughter is not a halfwit. She has such a powerful mind and she has waited this long to find a suitor for her to make her happy. Perhaps we should give them our blessing. If she’s happy then that is all that matters. It is not our life to live.”

“No! I cannot and will not allow that dope to spoil our daughter. Let alone create a family with him. I don’t care how luxurious that tower it is you stay in with him but get your last visit in-”

“Father.-”

“This is non-negotiable. My heels have been dug-”

“Father, I may bear his child.”

The silence that fell over the room was deafening. You could hear the rise and fall of each person’s breath and it was haunting. You hadn’t yet known if this was a possibility but with the night's previous endeavors, it wasn’t a shot in the dark. It was your last-ditch effort and you were willing to do anything to keep Loki in your life.

“You what?”

Your father stepped closer to you trying to find the lie in your demeanor but it was never found. 

“Dear, please do not chastise her. What is done is done. We must give the blessing now. Child out of wedlock is not something I want to be stained on our or his family's name.”

Your mother stood up and came to your side, wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you to sit down at the table. Wrapping her hands around yours she spoke with such serene.

“My Y/N. You are like an untamed bull. Your headstrong nature will catch up to you one day but with that being said. I am more than happy that you have finally found your person. If he treats you as well as you say he does then that is all I can ask from him. I can only hope to meet him soon and that he knows he is welcome in our home. The blessing you seek is already had.”

“Says who?”

Your father chimed in

“She needs both of our blessings to go through with his eloping and as far as I am concerned. I have yet to give her the go-ahead. I am not giving away my daughter to someone who has yet to show truth and consistency in something other than mischief. I will not allow it! And that’s final!”

The tears that were once falling in joy were now falling down hot in fear. 

Why must he be like this? My happiness matters too.

Pointing to the man at the table your father spoke through gritted teeth and told him to get out. He had no business being there anymore anyway. And with the direction the conversation was going, it wouldn’t be fair to have him in the mix.  

“As for you. You aren’t to see that man again.”

“No! Dad, wait! You can’t do this. Please, he’s the only person outside of you guys who has seen me for me! Please do not take that away from me!”

Your heart was doing backflips in your chest and it felt like you couldn’t breathe. Everything that you had built up was beginning to crumble. 

“You aren’t to see him until my mind is made. I’m beyond disappointed in you and at the root of it all, I am unsure of what to think.”

“Dear if she is to be with chi-”

“I KNOW! But that doesn't mean I feel any different towards the bastard. For all I know he took advantage of her, knowing her situation and now we're stuck with the consequence.”

“Father, it’s not like that I swear!”

“Enough! You have said enough today.”

Removing your hands from your mother's, you hung your head in your hands. The tears now overflowing as you hit your breaking point. 

“Your tears will not alter my decision any faster so you can give that a rest, Y/N.”

Standing up from the chair you were overcome with anger. Your voice was meek because of all the pressure built up in your throat but you made sure to make your point delivered. 

“If you ever pretended to care about half as much as you say you do, all those snarky remarks you make would be void. You cannot control me forever. If you loved me outwardly half as much as you say you do, you would’ve listened to me, but you never did.”

Walking toward your bedroom you couldn’t bear to speak anymore or be in the environment of the main room. It was deadly and you needed to rest. Closing the door you flopped on your bed. Hot tears falling down your cheeks and absorbing into your hair that was splayed out underneath you. You moved up to the top of your bed and hugged your pillow, pretending it was someone else to provide you with comfort. You sniffled and your eyes became heavy and you drifted off to sleep. The energy completely stripped from you.

_______________________________________________________________________

Taglist: @mad4marvelloki​ @lightmelikeamatch​

[kitreadsbirdmen]

Birdmen Finale Thoughts

A Reflection on the End

Birdmen checked a lot of boxes for me. The most superficial being wings and flying, concepts that I would imagine from the window of a speeding car or subway train. I can’t say I was attracted to the freedom of the idea, that frankly scared me silly. But it was fascinating enough, and it preoccupied this small part of my imagination from time to time with the pull of the absolutely inexplicable. What if… What if something happened? What if I were different or strange? How would everyone react? What would I do? How would I change or what would I do to fight that change?

These thought experiments often led me to self-indulgent stories with fantasitcal premises that would only halt the speculation and sweep their characters towards their own plots and narratives. They would only glance over to the vastly more interesting human fallout of the [insert truly miraculous phenomenon] for the sake of episodic drama or a comedic take. These would deep down be very disappointing to me because they failed to give weight to the mind-spinning concept of the supernatural. By brushing past it, the story would dismiss my biggest questions, the ones I felt a morbid curiosity to see explained vicariously. That’s probably why I was so hooked to Birdmen at first. 

Birdmen was and is... rather mundane if you think about it. Grounded, set in a recognizable reality, gave nuance to very human quirks and details of life and society. Kinda dull-ish, slightly charming, and depressing, with all the same desire for something more that we feel when we watch the clock tick away. And even the murmurs of the supernatural had this incredulous air. Something amusing and perhaps hard to dismiss nevertheless. And as our cast is thrust into this new spin on reality, it’s given weight and time. Growing pains full of stumbling youth shenanigans and strife. The Introductory Arc is some masterful execution of humanity as the line of a new species skirts more and more into a diverging reality. It’s here that a very different kind of strength is capitalized on. The limitless potential found within limitation itself.

The core concept and primary conflict of birdmen comes from the subtle utilization of a grounded scientific and philosophical school of thought. This limits the entire narrative to concepts inspired not by the dramatic needs or visual aesthetic, but by the imagination of existing science itself. While a lot of things can boast this particular source, I think Birdmen is very conservative with where it could go. The most outlandish things are noted but not abused. Nothing is absurd no matter the demand. It’s the reason why I found the lore behind the growing science and discovery of the Seraph abilities to be immersive. It’s why I could create a million 1st ability ideas, headcanons, and theories (some of which would actually get confirmed) in one sitting. The source material existed within limits and therefore opened the door to boundless potential. 

To put it in a word, it’s realistic.

Realistic characters, events, ‘villains’, powers, relationships, conflicts… the list goes on. When we pick up a story we suspend our disbelief to welcome the basic empathy and logic to engage us through the world. But I felt a strange relationship with that process on so many levels for Birdmen. It’s why talking about it in-depth is such a hard to explain feeling. When fictional characters have all the nuance and depth as a real person. When wide-scale event scenarios start reflecting the common trends of the current mediascape. When manga-panels start echoing peer-reviewed articles… It becomes hard to see the need to suspend disbelief. At least not in the same way. It makes things seem so much more possible. Everything feels so much more personal.

The current pandemic has helped in this process of course. My life has been turned upside down and I often find myself asking ‘dude is this (still) happening???’. It makes a lot of stories and speculative fiction narratives seem a lot closer. But then the final arc of Birdmen introduces its own pandemic SEVERAL months before covid-19 is first spotted and we see a roll-out of cultural fallout that is eerily familiar. WHO press conferences following the resignation of Eden’s director. Forgetting your mask as you leave to greet your son’s arrival home. Teachers taking a sick day for themselves or perhaps out of caution (if only that worked state side lol). Misinformation and tension across social media. Unrest and riots in the street. (that image of Robin’s flock watching the riot from a distance got me big time. Mostly because I was thinking about the Capitol riots at the time). I think I just needed a chapter devoted to a successful and seamless vaccine distribution to set my resonating heart at ease.

...I’m not kidding there actually. We can’t just assume it went off without a hitch Tanabe. Can I get some wish-fulfillment here??

That actually brings me to a big takeaway as I read the final chapters. In my initial reflection, (and entire year ago) I talk about how I was certain Birdmen was prematurely cut short. And while there is probably a world Takayama could witness in his multiverse seeing eyes, where Birdmen runs for several more volumes and the playout of years of arcs goes much longer, I ultimately want to rescind that thought. 

I don’t think the ending was rushed. I don’t think Tanabe was racing against a clock to wrap things up. I don’t think she was dropping million plot threads into the void out of necessity. It is very clear at every point toward the end that Tanabe knew exactly where she was going and was taking a straight shot to that destination at every point. 

Yes, there are some characters that did not get a long enough time in the spotlight. Yes, there is a boundless potential to explore with many characters and concepts. Yes, there is an element of fallout that was left unaddressed. But this doesn’t make it unfinished or unsatisfying. The mundane, realistic nature of the narrative, allows this lack of tangible book-ends. It has uncertainty. The resolutions are not perfect. Not every person in your life is going to shine in the same way (no matter how much you like them). Their purpose in the narrative may seem small but has ripples of effects on the characters and chemistry of the collective. This is not wasted. I knew this wasn’t rushed because the primary themes of these characters came through and they were given all the space and time and panels they needed to tell that story. I noted this most when Robin was having that discussion with Agent Leo about her address to the media at the White House. The back and forth and revelations of Robin’s entire arc were expressed in this one conversation and it lasted several pages. This is the final volume of the story and this nuance is getting the full dry clean treatment. How can I claim that this was rushed? If I had to claim any ill intent I might say we would have gotten a few more chapters of proper fallout, but that would only be for the sake of neatness. But as I mentioned there is something grounded about taking that away and leaving that to the imagination. 

And thus, I’m left feeling incredibly satisfied. So impossibly satisfied. Birdmen has become something so integral to my life and I feel changed having known and loved it. To see it take a bow as gracefully and profoundly as it did fills me with a personal satisfaction I cannot put into words. This is and will forever be, one of the finest stories I will ever read. 

There is a part of me refreshed. Inspired by the daring embrace of reality. Charmed by the beautiful characters. Intrigued by the possibilities still to be discussed. I am almost left a little overwhelmed with how much I want to do as a response, both for the sake and honor of Birdmen and for my own personal motivations. It’s a kind of weightlessness, burdened by crippling fear. 

It’s a lot like flying really. 

[watcher-ofthe-sky]

Pairing: Justice x Elsie

Summary: This universe binds Justice and Elsie together through a connection that runs in the very marrow of their bones; something which is stitched to the core of their existence. Like a collision, they will always be heading towards each other, no matter wherever they are. They are supposed to find each other; every atom of them reaching towards the other.

Read on AO3

***

There is something so frustratingly cruel about the destiny that makes Justice grit his teeth and stays awake at odd hours in the night, burning with hot, white anger. He silently curses the supposed powers of the cosmos in which you’re expected to surrender in because some of them are just beyond the control of any creature. 

Justice would have been just fine living without the knowledge of these forces. They can do their own business and not meddle in his life. That would have been great. Desirable. 

But it’s the derisive way in which the universe laughs and shakes its head. No. How could he possibly imagine escaping the clutches of it? This mocking universe is made of lines that criss-cross each other; threads and strings that start from one end and are stretched to the other which may not even be known. Justice would have liked that. The not knowing. He would have preferred the strings being tangled into a mess so deep that the knots would have taken eternities to be pulled apart. 

But it’s not the way the powers work. The encounter can be delayed, sure, but it’s destined to happen, no matter how different the circumstances are. 

He holds up his hand and looks at the thread knotted around his finger. 

  The Red String of Fate.

  He shuts his eyes and tries to forget its existence but the colour--the fucking colour fills his vision and he can’t help but see the crimson flooding everything. He achingly wishes to forget what comes with it. Because it is the vision of hair of the same colour. A laughter rich and bright. Love that was once so warm and tender but only turned into fire and pain that now runs through his vain.

  Elsie Crimson. 

  The bane of Justice’s existence. 

Once again fled from their reach.

Justice clutches his sheets tighter, he is aware that his ether gear is fuming but he couldn’t care less. He was so close to catching Elsie and yet the woman managed to escape again.

  “Justice,” she had whispered, her face so close to his. He was twisting in the cuffs that she had put on him, working his way out. He was almost there.

She was smirking. The fucking woman was smirking and that only made his blood boil. 

“We keep running into each other again and again,” she said. His eyes trailed the Red String tied on her finger.

  The string that connected her to him.

The string that connected him to her.

The string that connected them.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “This one will be the last time.” The back is going to arrive soon and he has almost worked its way out of the cuffs anyway. 

Elsie laughed. Once this laugh used to make his heart clench. Now it only rages him. “You have always been a bit delusional. But you’re right. These encounters have become too frequent to my liking and I would like to have some peace for me and my crew.”

“You took away everything from me,” he spat, every word filled with overwhelming anger and hatred. “Someone like you does not deserve peace. Ever. And I will make sure of it.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, the amusement from her face slowly fading away, only to be replaced by apathy. She pulled herself back and stepped away from him. 

A silence stretched between them. 

  “You know,” she said, at last, her eyes looking away with a distant look. “I have always wondered if there was another life where this,” she held her hand up and gestured to the red string, “--didn’t weigh so heavy. Where,” her gaze met his and she smiled softly and in that moment, everything around him stilled, “--we meant something to each other. Where our love would have been something softer.”

She averted her eyes again and Justice stared at the ground. He swallowed and to his own surprise, he said, “All of that could have been possible in this life too. But you blew it all away.”

  She looked at him with widened eyes and it seem as if she wanted to say something but all he could think was the emptiness that was left in the aftermath, and then suddenly, that emptiness was replaced by the bitterness which fueled him to move forward. He composed himself back again and in the flash of the memories filled with rage, he clicked open his restraints and seethed, “All of this ends today.”

But in the same exact moment, it looked like she too snapped out of the reverie of the past and smirked at him, her eyes glinting with the challenge. “Aww, but they have worked so hard in setting the ammunition. I can’t let it go to waste.”

  When he looked up, her ship was hovering low in the sky, the bullets of ether pouring down from them like a rain of fire.

“ ELSIE! ” he shouted, launching himself forward towards her but she already gone behind the smoke and the dust screen.

“Don’t be sorry,” he heard his voice from the distance. “You know we will meet again, Justice.”

  Justice sits up and then slides down the bed, making his way to the balcony. From the window, he stared at the infinite void in front of him. The massive stars and the spiralling galaxies. 

This universe which is boundless, which harbours life in the corners that are still unknown. It should be so easy to get lost in this sea and never cross paths again. After all, how many people do we meet daily and never see them in our lives again? It should be easy to get lose yourself in the grid, be a coordinate who is insignificant enough to be never traced.

And yet, this universe binds Justice and Elsie together through a connection that runs in the very marrow of their bones; something which is stitched to the core of their existence. Like a collision, they will always be heading towards each other, no matter wherever they are. They are supposed to find each other; every atom of them reaching towards the other.

He curls his fist and swallows thickly. 

  In another life.

  Maybe in another life things would have been different. Maybe they wouldn’t be at each other’s throat and none of them would have been a criminal. Maybe there they have found the warm and soft corners of each other and their love would have stayed.

He wonders if this will always be like this. This Red String of Fate which is woven into the fabrics of the universe guiding them to each other in all the lifetimes. Whether both of them are always meant to be in the same story.

  “Yes,” he says out loud, his eyes determined. “We will meet again, Elsie.”

[itsthe-neo-zone]

Wands and potions: NCT Dream & WayV 

Please read the Masterlist before continuing ahead with the upcoming chapter. Thank you.

A/N: I apologize for taking so long to post (im a mess) but i had some issues to deal with, personal things at home and some family members were feeling sick so things were a mess, as always I hope you enjoy the chapter and I’ll try to get back on track. I’m sorry if my posts aren’t up to the standard I usually output in. 

Chapter 17:

[Lyra’s Pov]

[10th Jan 2005]

The first memory I had of my parents was a fight. It was one of my earliest. And one id never forget. The shouts and screams being thrown about. It was hazy and only when I began whimpering and crying weakly the blond male lifted me up into his hold. His cold icy eyes warming up for me. Melting the frozen glacier of cerulean into a deep royal navy.

I’ve been hidden from everyone and anyone around me for their safety and their status in the social wizarding world. I was a child that wasn’t ever supposed to be born and it was hurtful the longer the secret was kept. Whilst my siblings were given all the love and care in the world, lived to be around them in a comforting lovable world. I was left to be brought up by myself. Alone.

[06:18PM]

“You deserve to know, and I deserve to be treated like I’m desired, like I’m loved and wanted.” I murmured quietly my voice came out fragile and broken, its displayed the 14 years of raw emotion behind it.

“Remember when you told me you really felt we were like sisters?” I saw Selene’s expression warp into confusion her lips between teeth as she sat next to me her eyes shaking nervously. She didn’t want to glance into my own, but she nodded confirming my words.

“Well we could be, if Scorpius believes me... when I tell him, I- I’m his half-sister. His blood sister...” Selene stared as if I'd just produced a rhinoceros from my pocket. Though the expression on Scorpius face was unreadable. It was a mix of confusion, guilt and denial.

“Please say something.” I pleaded, he needed to respond. In any way possible, I needed to know how he felt. My heart was being torn by the second, this was worse than being stabbed multiple times and left to bleed to death...

“I can’t- i don’t know- how do I?” he sighed, exasperatedly. “I need some time to think about this.” He stood his eyes frantically looking around, Scorpius looked anxious wanting to leave, and even though it was freezing cold he was loosening the green tie around his neck.

“Please, don’t tell anyone. You can’t let anyone know.” I stood desperately wanting to hold or grab him. I yearned for his acceptance for so many years. My only sibling I cared about. This had to be kept a personal family secret as well.

“Scorpius, are you ok? Do you need me to-” “NO, no- I’m fine,” it came through gritted teeth...

“Selene, just stay with her? I need some space.” He quickly takes his leave frantically looking off, not once did he look back at us.

“Give him some time, he’ll come back. Don’t worry.”

“How are you taking this?” I turn to Selene who was hugging me, her arm on my back comforting me. She seemed dazed, her eyes were clouded. It’s like she wasn't here.

“You were already my sister; all you did was give me confirmation.” She held me close pulling me into her hold.

“Thank you, for being here.” I whisper clutching her robes her hair tickling the side of my face. I was glad to have her around me.

[06:25PM]

Pieces of mirror shatter breaking into a shower of tiny pieces; the amount of negative energy in the air was boundless. “Scorpius please calm down.” the rage in him needed to get out somehow? He wasn’t himself.

“He lied! HE LIED TO ME AND HER!” the bloodcurdling cry echoed; his mouth wide open as he released his inner demons. The scream made all the hair on his body stand. Albus wanted to stop him. To help him.

He couldn’t.

“He had another child, behind her back, she was thrown to the side. Like it was nothing!” The sobbing continued gales began to swirl and enter through the sides of the bathroom. Unknowingly, he was brewing a whirlwind. A storm hitting, equal to the force it felt inside him. It was building for weeks now and all Lyra did was confirm the reality.

His vice was strained, and it hurt like hell, but he continued letting all the pain and sorrow out. His head was pounding now. He wanted it to stop. Scorpius yearned for the numb feeling

“Stop you’re going to hurt yourself.” We he? Scorpius wished He’d hurt himself. Maybe that pain would distract him from the searing agony he was feeling. Pain sears through his abdomen better than a branding iron, his mind conceding to the torment, unable to bring a thought to completion.

Everything had been a lie.

“Want it to end. Please.” The crouched figure in the centre of the room strained himself. He didn’t want to be here anymore. “leave.”

Albus couldn’t do that. He couldn’t leave his friend in such a vulnerable and defenceless position. “let me help you.” A crack in his voice, it shows the pain he was feeling it reflected into Albus. the young boy stumbled back pushing from the sheer force of the gales that tormented Scorpius this whole time.  

“I SAID GO!”

The pain was increasing in waves; getting bigger by the second, giving false hope of an end. But it would never end.

It was too loud to hear anything at this point the push of the wind tore bits off the wooden cubicle doors. Becoming spinning daggers of anger within the whirling storm.

Scorpius increased the howling gusts, faster and faster until they sheathed him with a spray of sprinkled sharp edges and crusted glass, they shimmered in the ill lit bathroom; the gloomy skies reflecting its dusty grey cold rays.

“Scorpiu-”

Albus had no way of coming near him he was forced out of the bathroom having no choice but to leave his friend in there suffering alone. The soft tears fell down the boy’s face, he hated the haunted feeling of having no form of control over the situation.

 Across the empty acres of land, empty silent castle hauntingly still not much moving, was two figures perched up upon the north towers. A forbidden duo, though ones that felt comforted in another’s presence. The light breeze slowly yet surely trying to pull against their night robes.

“I want to get over the anxiety I have, I want to control my feelings not the other way.” murmured to the male, she had been spending most of her time. Days -and starting now- her nights were spent with the devilish Durmstrang boy.

“It’s not easy.” he spun on his own two feet looking across the edge of the tower towards her. Selene was perched upon the handle of the metallic barrier.

“I know. but I want to at least try. Will you help me?” Selene was in her sleeping robes she was twiddling with her wand spending most her days with him she had gotten extremely comfortable with the male who she has come to know for his sharp tongue and the ability to be quite convincing.  

“I will. But first you need to show that you can trust me.”

“I do, I trust you.” Selene leaned off just a little further. She was content in being here silently with him. But was he? did he enjoy their secret nights alone?

“Do you think I can be like them?” letting her hair cascade past her figure, taking orders from the wind it wrapped over her -like the tentacles of the giant squid- across her body.

“Like them?” Repeating the words; he asked for more.

“My ancestors. I want to find out more.” It was like a persistent hunger that couldn’t be satiated. From a fairly long time, it was that absence of complete acceptance and love. Deep down she understood that but was she never going to admit it?

“You want to follow the prophecy?” a hesitant nod answered his questioning. the endless chewing on her dry lips and thoughts fighting against one another proved to show the utter confusion in what she really wanted. The certainty was on one thing though “I want to belong.”

“A girl, Dominique, from Beauxbaton.” Leaving the edge Selene moved towards the boy getting slightly closer. “She mentioned that the Lestrange ancestral family had a connection to France.”

“You think it could be important?” she pondered over his words for a moment. “Didn’t you mention that Grindelwald had his convocation in Paris France?”

“He did. But what’s-”

“I can find out more, what happened? Who I am.” Curling back into herself Selene hummed a soft tune she was comforted by her own arms wrapping around herself. Making her feel the soft pressure upon her own body.

“Selene.” Yangyang mumbled as he stepped closer sitting next to her “When you were at the mirror, the first time we met, it showed you something.” he grasped her two hands in his softly rubbing his slender fingers over her palm. His eyes were captivating.

“it showed me myself.”

“it showed you something else along with it.” He edged, the slight smile on his face and his eyes boring into selenes pushed her to continue. It felt as if everything was surreal, it was all a dream, why was everything so easily spilling past her lips.

“What I wanted; I want to find myself.” Capturing his eyes she glanced at the void contained the magnitude of the earth and the blackhole sucking the shimmers of light inwards. Nothing could escape.

“I promise I can help you do that, but you can’t go to France just yet.”

“I can’t go to France…” Selene murmured his eyes were captivating. As time passed slowly, she fell deeper into his gaze.

“Yes, you have something to do. First.”

 [13th October]

“Someone has taken a large noticeable dose of tentacle juice, from the private potions storage. If anyone has any known whereabouts or knows of anyone having sources, you must inform your head of year or head of house. Thank you.”

“Are you fucking kidding me-” shifting to take seat next to her position next to the others the raven-haired witch sat calmly the frustration only evident in her voice. “-they wake us up at 8am for this?”

“Yeah, some bastard nicking a few drops of poison…” Irene adds muttering, every single student for a 20-meter radius was yawning uncontrollably and dozing off on the study tables but once awake you needed to prepare for breakfast.

“Where were you this morning?” Ravelle had a sly smile on her lips as she pondered not so innocently over the whereabouts of the ginger witch before her.

“Out taking a short walk.” Blowing out an exasperated huff Selene stood taking her leave from the depressing and sleep deprived circle, “You know there’s only so much ‘Ravelle’ I can take in one day.” Sarcasm slipping past her voice was what made the sneaky witch drop her innocent act.

“Really, I’ve only asked you one question you shouldn’t be so defensive… unless there is something for you to hide?”

Selene stopped in her tracks, movement stuttering for a second. The wrapping of a dusty cloth rough in her hands.

“I have nothing to hide.” The outrage in her voice was enough to alert those around them that somewhat of a fight was about to start and, like the usual- all hell was about to break loose.

“Though I must let you know that I am exceeding the amount of ‘bitchiness’ I can take from you in a day so mind if I leave?” she widened her eyes turning to face the raven and nodded frivolously, she feigned sorrow for her and a sympathetic smile came to her face as she left.

“Thought you’d never ask…” Ravelle murmured the words she wasn’t interested in Selene herself. The antics she had grown accustomed to, -since that night with the celebratory introduction Selene had been on edge, spitting back ruthlessly and harsh words were leaving her lips- Ravelle eyed the linen wrap in her hands, it covered something, and it was important, no doubt delicate by the way she was cradling it to her core like a mother would do to her babe.

   [1st November]

Many days passed and winter edged nearer, visibly shortening the once lengthy and enjoyable days. The cold let soft cotton and thick clothes layer up with the many peaking noses out of scarves turn red and pink. 

The clouds of air exhaled when talking put things together but what really allowed the community to know the ending of summer solstice was the thick coat of white sheen that glistened in the early morning rays, covering the lands and lulling them to sleep.

“Anyone received any personal invites to the yule ball?” Albus whispered to the young brunette. The two now becoming much friendlier than usual were confiding in themselves after all they both had Scorpius to worry about.

“No not yet.” She glanced at him weary of the random questioning. lyra had enough on her plate already. It was harsh and difficult that her only brother wasn’t talking to her and Selene was sleeping off half her days and running of at night.

“If this is about Selene the-” “It’s not.”

“Then who-”

“I’m just asking.” She shuffled to turn towards him, sceptically reading his face the Slytherin shifted uncomfortably. “Such a liar.”

“You dummy, I can see it in your eyes. Who pushed you to do this? This is about Selene.”

“It isn’t, I swear.” His hands flew up in retaliation. The silent pause of scepticism made him sigh in relief when she dropped the accusations.  

“I’m sick of this, it’s all going to hell and I cant get any of them to even sit and talk to me. It’s awful.” Lyra whined her frustration could be seen in the way she tugged at her roots the hair lengthier than it was a few weeks ago.

“Scorpius isn’t ready to face this ye-.”

“-Hell never be ready then. Albus I can’t wait any more. How does he think I feel?” the brunette boys turned into saucers at the sudden interruption. She had been waiting for the past 3 weeks and it was getting agitating for a while, but nobody understood her. The way she felt.

“Whats wrong with Selene then? He can’t talk now so whats the issue with your ginger friend?”

“Oh don’t get me started with her.” She shifts in her seat lyra was starting to remember the situations Selene was in, breaking her heart for the past fortnight. “She’s gone, really lost it.”

“Sleeps all day and sneaks out at night, its odd Selene would have never done such a thing.” She mutters, the frown on her face showed her feeling of betrayal. “I can’t get her to spend any time with me at all, it’s always ‘Yangyang this Yangyang that’!”

“Wait.”

“You mean Durmstrang Liu” if his eyes were saucers back then they were as wide as cauldrons. His hands clenched up visibly the whole demeanor he possessed was stiffened within a second, Lyra didn’t comprehend the change until she spared him a quick glimpse.

“Yeah him,” she blinked dropping her head further into her grasp as she questioned his body language “Whats got you so surprised, most girls already know!”

“Liu Yangyang that German-Taiwanese boy?” the voice crack gave him away, there was definitely something wrong, but Lyra had no clue what was happening to him, what kind of reaction was that.

“Hold on know what?” he interrupted again.

“Well, supposedly they’re in a relationship, and I don’t know… but he’s really affecting Selene.”

“They can’t be though?” the denial in his voice was giving all the wrong signals and signs, Lyra turned towards him fully, hands out of hair and eyes skimming his face, his expression wasn’t helping the previous accusations planted upon him by her.

“Why Albus? Do you like her or something?”

What came out of his mouth after wasn’t a big shocker or anything but lyra was shocked to find out such a revelation and from him, Albus, who seemed to have no clue who the boy is.

“No, its just. He has a girlfriend already,”

“Yeah Selene.” The response came quick.

“No, he’s engaged to her, its not Selene. She’s back in Germany.” He was referring to another girl, that Selene wasn’t the only one in a relationship with the male and it made Lyra's blood boil.

“HE’S TWO-TIMING?”

The two had another issue to deal with, Selene couldn’t find out, even if it meant lying to her. She wouldn’t be able to handle what was to come.

@ajuniceuajuniceu​ @kkuljungwoo​ @sensiblebutch​ @kangkinoa​ @nctzen2020​ @mystic-jungkook​ @merryandhappylele​ @bcbymingi​ @mochischeeks  @rilakunma​ @jaehyunspaghetti​ @commentgirl​ @99jjh​ @johnnys-wifeu​ @misaraem @apricottulips​ @h2ogamergirl @angelsnowflake​

[starswornoaths]

Her Pendants, His Garden

A commission for my dear friend @karoiseka of her girl and the resident crystal catboy! Post 5.0 below the cut, but no spoilers for the new patch, so you’re safe and sound to read! Thank you so much for your patronage, hon!

Commission Info!

If there was one thing, just the one, that the Exarch would consider a secret he would rather be kept to himself for fear of mockery, it would be that he felt something of an understanding of trees.

“Understanding,” might be a poor choice of word, though he wasn’t sure how else to describe the feeling he grappled with, standing still in the boundless, beautiful garden that was all of Lakeland, knowing he was the oldest thing in it. The lilac colored grass, the lavender elf trees, the brilliant blooms that had sprung to life...all things he toiled to help bring to life, things he had watched stretch ever higher, ever toward the sky. 

Perhaps that was why he struggled to consider himself wholly selfless: how could he plant trees whos shade he would never walk in, knowing that he would live for eons, as the Crystal Exarch?

“Your thoughts are loud.” His companion— his dearest one— mused at his side.

He turned toward her, the Warrior of Light and Darkness both, and couldn’t help but smile. Karoiseka hadn’t so much as looked his way, and yet she still knew him well enough that he was, once more, getting very much into his own head.

“Can you hear them? Do you know what I’m thinking?” The Exarch asked with a playful smirk. 

Truly, it wouldn’t surprise him in the least to discover that she knew exactly that he was thinking about; more often than not, she seemed to have an eerie, almost preternatural sense of what was weighing on his mind. As long as she never suspected he had a gift for her on his person, then he might yet manage to surprise her with something that wasn’t potentially world ending today.

“I’m not a mind reader, Crystal Boy,” she reminded him, and then she turned to face him, bending to peer up at him from under his hood. “But I can practically hear the gears in your head turning. That rarely means anything good.”

“I think of plenty of positive things!” G’raha insisted, even as he tugged his hood down to shy away from those piercing eyes of hers. 

“Oh? And what are you thinking of?” She asked with a perk of her ear and a swish of her tail.

He watched Karo straighten as they continued to walk down the garden path, and felt a twinge of guilt at not wanting to explain what, precisely, he had been ruminating over. His mind hadn’t wandered far before she had pulled him back to the present, thank goodness, but even with how close they had become, how much he loved her, endlessly, he struggled with trying to put to words how he felt regarding the years he had lived, and how much farther they stretched than they should have. 

No, better to think of the present. Of the warmth of her hand in his. Of the happiness, the want to live that she inspired in him. Of how he had never looked forward to tomorrow so much as he did when she reentered his life. Better to focus on her.

“I was ruminating on the weather, and hoping it holds for our outing,” he said instead— technically also the truth. 

“Oh, is that all?” Karo asked, and threw her head back in a laugh as if in relief.

The sound was bright and genuine. Her laugh was a ray of sunshine that he lingered in, warmed by her radiance. How quickly she made such concerns as nigh immortality seem so petty, compared to committing the present to memory. Historian and archivist as he was, he would be remiss in his duties to not take in her every brilliant facet.

So he decided to let himself be G’raha Tia today— and more specifically, just for her, he could let himself be Raha.

She made a point to reach for the hand not yet turned crystal, to make sure he could feel her touch and be comforted by it. He was glad he had foregone his usual arm wrappings; he’d have her touch as unobstructed as he could manage. He readily laced their fingers together and moved that inconsequential, crucial ilm closer to her, to unmake the distance entirely.

Karoiseka had done as much for him, had waded through the void and been battered by the stars themselves, had fought her way along the better path, all just to reach him. It was the least he could do to embrace the life she had battled so desperately for him to have— and to embrace her, for the love they had unexpectedly found along the way. 

Their walk wasn’t far— he could only wander so far from the Crystarium when not away on business, after all— though when they finally stopped at the shore of the lake, they at last came to a stop. After a scan to ensure they were well and truly alone, they set bow and staff alike against the tree beside them at the lakefront, a physical way to show that they had both unburdened themselves of titles and obligations, if only for this singular moment to enjoy their surroundings and one another alike. The breeze coming off the lake was refreshing, and the way it caught her hair when she turned to look at him stole his breath. Though really, she always did that anyway.

For a moment, they took in their surroundings— and each other— though the Exarch eventually gave into his own selfish desire and draped his arm warmly around Karoiseka’s shoulders. He didn’t dare tug her closer, he didn’t want to push her in any way, though he deliberately angled himself ever so slightly toward her in silent invitation.

When she let out a happy hum and bumped her head into his chest as a show of affection, she stumbled back unexpectedly when her temple connected with the spot he’d hidden his gift to her— the box tucked away in his breast pocket. 

“Oof— what—” She startled, gently rubbing at her temple.

A moment of panic hit him when she managed to hit the one spot on his chest he had hoped to conceal, though it was easy enough to hide that panic with the equally genuine panic of fretting over his beloved.

“A-ah! I’m so sorry, Karo—!” The Exarch let go of her hand and stepped in front of her with a swiftness that blew his hood off of his head. He ignored the way only one of his hands felt the gentle warmth of her skin when he cupped her face in his hands and tilted it up closer for inspection. “You hit one of the embellishments on my coat— did it hurt you?”

“No, no, you’re being silly.” Karoiseka insisted, flushing prettily beneath his searching fingertips, bright eyes averted even as she didn’t pull away from him. She pouted most endearingly when he smoothed his thumbs over her cheekbones. “You can stop fussing.”

“I have. Now, I am admiring!” The Exarch laughed, glad that he managed to sidestep her discovering the gift he had before he was ready to give it. “To have such beauty in my grasp, how could I not?”

“Oh! Y-you—!” Flustering, Karoiseka swatted at his chest— and when her hand smacked the hard, decidedly square box in his coat that accompanied a strange rattling, her hand froze there. The discomposed expression on her face twisted into a ponderous arch of her brow, a shift of her sharp gaze, and a curious tilt of her head against his hands. “Wait...what is…?”

He realized a second too late that she was staring at it, her fingers molding over the edges, flexing, inspecting, testing.

“Ah.” Knowing when he was caught and cornered, the Exarch sighed, removing his hands from her face to scratch at his cheek and fiddle with a tassel on his coat in nervous habit. “I had meant to surprise you with it.”

Her hand still remained enclosed over his coat, around the box, though she made no move to attempt to divest him of it for closer inspection. After a moment, her fingers went lax, no longer gripping around the edges, and shifted away from the box altogether to lay over his heart instead.

“You needn’t surprise me with anything. You know that.” She said, and it struck him how quietly she spoke those words.

The thought occurred to him that she might think the surprise grave, given his previous attempts at secrecy with her and the rest of the Scions. Or she might not have expected him to want to give her gifts.

Or...was she unaccustomed to it? Was it unwelcome? The thought hadn’t even occurred to him before now, though suddenly the slight weight of the gift in his breast pocket felt as dense as lead, and he had to make a concerted effort to swallow his heart when it leapt into his throat the moment that panic gripped him. 

“I know. I wanted to!” The Exarch managed around a stammer, mentally cursing himself all the while. Nevertheless, he persisted, “It was the least I could do— I feel as though we’ve hardly had a moment to ourselves, and I wanted to show you how much I—”

“You’re babbling, Crystal Boy.” She chided gently, words wrapped in a giggle and formed around a broad smile. “Be at ease. I’m flattered, I just want you to know I don’t expect it.”

“Ah. Ah!” His ears perking with realization were enough to give away that he hadn’t realized he’d gotten caught in a bit of a loop, his brightly blushing face only flushed all the deeper the more he looked at Karoiseka, who for her part was watching him with growing amusement. “Y-yes, of course! I’m glad to have surprised you— or rather! Surprised you in a good way— or in what I hope is a good way—” 

At Karoiseka’s pointedly blanched expression, brows raised in a very clear show of waiting for him to be quite finished with his anxious rambling, he visibly straightened himself as he cleared his throat, and when she removed her hand from his chest he made an effort to tug his robes back into place. 

“I should stop overthinking it, I think.” He admitted in a calmer tone.

“I agree.” She replied in a flat tone.

“Right.” With a deep breath to collect himself, he tried, again, to find his eloquence. “Karo. I know I’ve likely exhausted you for how much I remind you of how happy you make me.”

“You don’t. That’s impossible.” Karoiseka corrected him. Her ears tweaked in amusement as she offered a bashful smile. “I could never get tired of you in any sense of the word.”

“...Right.” He amended, ignoring the heat growing on his face. He was fairly certain his blush was spreading clear down to his chest by now.

When he averted his eyes from her patient, expectant gaze, he couldn’t help but let his focus shift to her bow, crossed over his staff and propped against the tree. It’s familiar blue crystals shimmered faintly in the sunlight, dappled with an iridescent kaleidoscope of fractals of light. 

Once he’d found his courage again and he peered at her with a sidelong glance, she looked ethereal, breathtaking, and somehow that made the words come easier. 

“Though I was not the one that gave you the bow you now wield, I know it was crafted with fragments of the tower.” 

“So I was told.” With a content hum, Karoiseka nodded. “But really, I could tell even before the weaponsmith said so— only so many crystals that are this shade of blue.”

“I rather liked the idea of a part of my home going with you on your journeys. To accompany you when I cannot.” The Exarch felt himself wince as he continued, “But I misliked the idea of only offering a part of me as a weapon for you. To mark you as an arbiter of the Crystal Exarch. Such an implication felt ill suited for you.”

“I never viewed it that way.” She tried to reassure him, though when he held up a hand to signal he wasn’t quiet done talking, she offered him a grin filled to the brim with fond exasperation. “Alright, alright, go on. I’m listening.”

Helpless in the face of his affection, helpless in front of her as he always was, the hand he’d held up moved to close the distance between them, to cup her face in his hand. She eagerly leaned into his touch, though her eyes twinkled in mischief when she snuck a kiss to his palm as she did so. Despite his flustering at her affectionate antics, her affection eased him into finally reaching into his coat with his free hand and producing the box she had bumped into. 

“I would much rather offer you a piece of my home that I had taken myself, and made into something that served no other purpose than to bring you joy.” He murmured, and slid his hand from her face to open it. “I wanted you to always have a part of me with you, to show the world— any world that you’re in— that I am yours, Karo. Always.”

The Exarch’s breath caught in his throat at the way she peered into the box, her eyes wide as saucers and her lips parted in shock. Though she moved a hand in the space between them, it hovered there, moving neither without nor within. She stood, transfixed by the two crystal hair tassels inlaid in the box. There was such little movement that for a moment, he feared he had offended her.

Then she spoke.

“Raha...” Karoiseka whispered in a voice that trembled with the weight of reverence and unshed tears in equal measure. 

That one utterance unmade him entirely, struck him at his heart, and before he could even register the sting of tears in the corners of his eyes— and in hers— she launched herself into his arms. Even unfeeling as it was, his crystalline arm wrapped around her to clutch her closer without thought, without anything but the instinctive need to always keep her close to him and remind him that he was human, that he was alive. He managed to avoid spilling the crystal tassels out of the box, even as he yet stumbled to keep them both upright from the force of her impact.

He made to ask if she was alright when he heard a telltale sniffle from somewhere around his shoulder. Her arms— powerful, fierce, unyielding as they were— squeezed him so tightly that he felt every jagged piece of his crystalline heart fit back into place. She had that effect on him all the time, really, but the physicality of it was soothing. 

“You like them?” He asked in spite of himself, just to be sure.

Karoiseka slipped her arms from him and stepped back, gazing at him with wide, glassy eyes, and in lieu of her own babbling, she smiled wide enough to make the corners of her eyes crinkle, enough to make those tears slip down her cheeks, even as she vigorously nodded. His posture softened in relief, and he moved to gesture toward the box still in his grip.

“Would you like me to put them on for you?” He offered.

With another enthusiastic nod of her head and another sniffle, he handed her the box and took the first of the two tassels in hand.

“They’re not too complicated— I am not much of a goldsmith, admittedly— a simple hinge and a clasp was about all I could manage.” He spoke softly as he clasped the first one around the end of one of her braids. “Though Iola was instrumental in ensuring that my handiwork was of suitable durability, for a blessing. I wanted to make sure these would endure whatever trials and tribulations you may face.”

“They’re beautiful.” Karoiseka finally managed to croak out, and from what he could see in his peripheral view, she was peering down at the other tassel, still in the box. “I can’t put to words how much this means to me.”

“You needn’t.” The Exarch reassured her, taking the second tassel. “That you would wear them so gladly is proof enough. I only hope these small tokens can convey even a little of how much you mean to me.” 

“Of course they do!” She reassured him.

The second braid he aimed to adorn was a little smaller, and a little trickier to put a tassel on. The fiddling gave him time to babble distractedly, letting his heart be more honest with her.

“I know that obligations have kept us both busy— and I, in particular have been scarce of late for my work. I feared it would be less apparent how I cherish you, so I suppose this is something of a declaration of mine, if you would have it.” 

“Always.” She promised him. 

The clasp finally worked through her braid and secured itself properly, though he lingered, his hands moving almost on their own, completely naturally, to hold her face again. 

“No matter what happens, I beg you to never doubt my heart, or your ownership of it.” His hands guided her head into tilting down just an ilm, just enough for him to press a kiss to her forehead. “I love you.” Her head straightened, and he kissed the tip of her nose, cherishing the way it crinkled cutely under the attention. “I love you.” The third kiss, she met him half way for, their lips finding one another in soft enthusiasm. “I love you, Karo.”

The tears she had managed to swallow came back in full force, though her smile had never been bigger or brighter, and he had never felt so warm.

“And I love you, Raha.” She whispered, overwhelmed. 

When she moved to embrace him again, he marveled at the way her new hair tassels caught the light that filtered through the tree branches, and shattered it in resplendent rainbows across her shoulder, across his chest. It seemed most fitting to him, as she had always been the sun spot that he had lingered in, a shunned outcast finding refuge and acceptance. In her arms, even the parts of him he had lost to the tower felt warm.

[darthkvznblogs]

Saiyan Creation Myth

WARNING: This is meant as background info to my MCU-based AU, as seen in “You and Me, and the Woman that is We”. I’ve never watched Dragon Ball or its spin-off/sequel series, and this bears little to no resemblance to the divine hierarchy found in canon. (Really, I was just disappointed to do research for the fic and find little to no information on what Saiyan mythology might be like.)

I hope you enjoy!

“In the beginning, there was only the Void. Then, Infinite Shenron tore a hole through the Void, in his endless voyage through the multiverse. The wounded Void fought back, but the immortal serpent ignored the attacks, though they tore scales, whiskers, and hair from its body.”

“Mortally wounded, the Void pooled its power, in a desperate final attempt to eradicate the serpent. The attack was successful, obliterating the dragon’s body, but immortal as it was, it merely continued onward as a spirit. The Void perished, as new life emerged from the serpent’s remains.

From the dragon’s skull, the gods splintered. From the rendered flesh, limitless matter. And from the dragon’s blood, boundless energy. Shin, First of the Kai, gave order to it all. From Shenron’s glittering scales, she made stars. From Shenron’s bones, she made planets. From Shenron’s heart, she made the Other World. From Shenron’s veins, she made pathways between it all.

Chronoa grew bored of the beautiful but static universe, growing to titanic size and kicking it into motion, starting the passage of time. At first, Shin was angered, but as time changed her Creation in ways she never envisioned, she judged it good and allowed time to flow.

Many of the other gods followed her example, taking the rest of Shenron’s flesh and sculpting mortals to populate Shin’s Creation. For a time, all was peaceful. But the gods grew jealous of each other’s little mortals, and they pitted them against one another. And when one species proved victorious, the god who’d lost would eradicate them. So it went until all was lost.

Saddened, Shin asked Chronoa to restart the passage of time, and Chronoa obeyed. But events played out the same way, over and over. Six times, the gods’ petty conflicts resulted in oblivion.

On the seventh try, Shin decided on a failsafe. She tasked Beerus with irreparably obliterating the universe should the war between the gods happen again. She entrusted Whis with staying Beerus’ hand until she deemed the universe unsalvageable. And she warned the gods of what would happen, should their conflict arise again.

Even with the warning, the gods prepared for the same old war. But before they could get started, one among them decided to let mortals choose their own fate. Oozaru, Father of the Saiyajin, unleashed his wrath on his fellow, unsuspecting gods, and slew them all, one by one, staining his crimson fur with their golden blood. Every Kai fell to the Great Ape, save for Shin, Beerus, Whis, and Chronoa – the only gods who hadn’t spawned mortals of their own. His bloodlust sated, Golden Oozaru issued a challenge to his people: prove their might against the other races on their own merits, or fade into obscurity. Become as gods, or die trying. He took away their massive size, and gave them humanoid bodies, that they might only regain their Great Ape forms once the challenge was overcome. With that, Golden Oozaru shed his divine form, and vanished among the bereft Saiyajin.

Sobered by the massacre of their divine siblings, the surviving gods sought to discover the cause of this madness. No sooner had Oozaru disappeared, did the culprit appear – the consciousness of the Void itself had, in the chaos of Creation, possessed one of the Kai. The corrupted Kai, named Zamasu, had whispered in the other gods’ ears, in every iteration, and turned them on each other, hoping to return the universe to emptiness. Oozaru having ruined his usual plans, however, he vowed to eradicate the universe himself.

With Zamasu’s identity discovered, Shin asked Chronoa to reverse time until the moment immediately after Oozaru’s disappearance, and bound Zamasu to the role of God of Death – he could take mortal lives, yes, but only when their time came, as dictated by Chronoa. Robbed of his freedom, Zamasu was forced to serve Shin for eternity – or until the gods judge the universe wanting...”

If you enjoyed, consider checking out “You and Me, and the Woman that is We”, a fic based in the “There Was Once an Avenger from Krypton” series that follows Caulifla and Kale accidentally fusing into a fourteen-foot tall, four-armed woman and trying to unfuse before the other realizes the extent of their crush on them.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24630583

And the series itself:

https://archiveofourown.org/series/1316201

I also have a Ko-fi! If you have a coffee’s worth of cash to spare, please consider checking it out at: https://ko-fi.com/darthkvzn

[riathel]

Thoughts about Shelley and the Unresolved Questions of Season 12

Well, I am writing a meta post about the Timeless Children and why I think it adds such an interesting complexity to the Master’s relationship with the Doctor, but in the meantime, while I process that finale, I wanted to write about something I’ve noticed this entire season.

The connection to the Shelleys and to Byron.

To TL;DR this post:  I think that next season, we’ll get an answer to who the Kasaavin are, it will tie into Percy having had the Cyberium in him (and it having been around Byron’s house), and we’ll get some huge development for Yaz, the Master and the Doctor, as they’ve all been in the Kasaavin realm.

Let’s recap all the times we’ve lingered around Byron and the Shelleys this season, shall we? This includes some very brief history lessons, and I will be including links!

Episode 2: Spyfall Part 2

We meet Ada Lovelace, who has a connection to the Kasaavin. She sees them in her dreams, she’s the one to rescue the Doctor from their realm. Brief history lesson: Ada Lovelace was an absolutely BRILLIANT mathematician and the parent of computers. She was also the only legitimate child of Lord Byron and his wife. She died in 1852 at age 36, taken far too young. I’ll post the scene here for benefit:

[Kasaavin realm] ADA: Please be assured all this will pass. I shall be recovered momentarily. DOCTOR: When you say recovered, what do you mean? ADA: The paralysis will fade. DOCTOR: You don't look paralysed. ADA: Not in this realm, but in my earthly aspect. DOCTOR: Right. What's your name? ADA: I am Ada. DOCTOR: And what do you think this realm is, Ada? ADA: I believe it to be my mind. Though I have not met another here before. DOCTOR: Then what do you think I am? ADA: I presume you are a consequence of my thoughts. DOCTOR: No. I'm the Doctor, and I'm very real. But you've been here before? ADA: Many times. When the paralysis subsides, I find myself fully back in my body, restored in the physical realm. If you are real, do you have your own solution for egress from here? DOCTOR: No exit strategy. Before I leave, I need to work out what this place is. Oh! Those fragments of light or energy, why are they surrounding you? ADA: They are always here with me. They place a word in my mind. Kasaavin? (One of the light creatures appears.) DOCTOR: Ada, step away. ADA: Do not be afraid. This is my guardian. DOCTOR: This is their realm. This is where they're from. But how did you bring us here? Unless... You can't be. But you must be. What, gateways? We go through you and arrive in your realm? I say realm. It's not a planet, not really a void. A separate dimension? Are we beyond our... my universe? ADA: Little of what you are saying makes sense to me, but I am concerned you'll be marooned here. When my guardian has returned... DOCTOR: They're not your guardians. ADA: I can offer you my hand. We may leave this place together. DOCTOR: I don't think that will work. ADA: How will you know if you do not try? Decide, Doctor.

Later in the episode:

DOCTOR: If you're Charles Babbage, then you're not just any old Ada. You're Ada Lovelace, daughter of Lord Byron and Annabella Milbanke, one of the great minds. ADA: I am Ada Gordon, madam. DOCTOR: 1834. Of course you are. Well, maybe one day, who knows, you might meet a nice Earl. This changes everything! This isn't an accident. Ada Lovelace in Babbage's house? You're clues. You're important.

Charles Babbage has the Silver Lady (aka the Kasaavin device) in his house, but Ada is the one who has been being visited by them.

DOCTOR: Ada, when was your first paralysis? ADA: I was 13 years old. That is when I was first transported to the place where we met, and I first saw an apparition. DOCTOR: And over the years, the paralysis recurs with the same effect? ADA: Yes. No doctor has ever been able to diagnose the cause. DOCTOR: Well, this Doctor may be able to. An apparition, from this machine. BABBAGE: Correct. DOCTOR: So, they take you, Ada, multiple times from here and they study you in their dimension, which means they can't be in this dimension for long. But maybe they gain an ally, a mastermind who builds them a machine which stabilises them in this world long enough for them to send spies and to spread their work and start a plan. 'Cause I've seen the map in his hut. Multiple Earths. Except not. Not multiple Earths. Multiple time periods. These creatures aren't just alien spies on Earth, they're spies through Time, through history, starting with you.

Or, at the very least, the Doctor assumed they were starting with Ada. Maybe they started earlier - with her parents. Or maybe the Master found out about the events of  The Haunting of Villa Diodati with the Cyberium - but we’ll get to that in time.

Again, Spyfall ends with a neat-ish conclusion as to them being focussed on “computing history” and “human DNA”

DOCTOR: I know what this is. A temporal map, showing every significant person in the development of computers through history, starting with you, Ada. This is the plan. See? BOTH: No. ADA: Wh... what is a computer? DOCTOR: Oh, forget you heard that word, otherwise I've just disrupted the whole of history. Again. Okay. Ah, my brain's fizzing. Good. The Kasaavin posted an agent on every person on that map, because that's what spies do, what Barton does. They gather all the data. Where does the DNA fit in? Kasaavin, technology, DNA. How are they all connected? Oh! Human DNA. That's what they were testing.

Episode 8: The Haunting of Villa Diodati

Gif by itberice.

This is the big episode, where I started to notice it especially. Huh, a bit a coincidence they’re doing Byron when Ada was his daughter. Interesting.

DOCTOR: Okay, so there was a spot of rain, and gale-force winds and a super-long walk. But I got us here, didn't I? And Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, soon to be Shelley, screamed in your face. Quality historical experience, that. Gold. YASMIN: (sotto) On that night that inspired Frankenstein. FLETCHER: If... you'd be so kind. GRAHAM: Blimey. DOCTOR: Excuse me, Yaz. I was very clear about the rules. RYAN: Nobody mention Frankenstein, and don't interfere. YASMIN: And nobody snog Byron.

This is because, as Tumblr has already noted, Byron is a thot/fuckboi.

BYRON: She walks in beauty, like the night. DOCTOR: Of cloudless climes and starry skies. BYRON: I'm intensely flattered you're familiar with my work, Mrs Doctor. DOCTOR: Just Doctor is fine. I'm quite into Shelley's stuff too. He about?

Then enters the Lone Cyberman (aka Ashad). It is scouring the villa for Percy, to obtain the Cyberium, and cannot find him. When it starts charging up, it begins to quote Percy’s poetry (specifically Queen Mab book 2 and Queen Mab book 3)

CYBERMAN (glowing with energy): There's not one atom of yon Earth, but once was living man. (Book 2) The sword that stabs his peace; He cherisheth The snakes that gnaw his heart; he raises up the tyrant whose delight Is in his woe. (Book 3)

As the episode progresses, Ashad gets the Cyberium back from Percy (who has been dying with it). Even more interestingly though - the Cyberium wants to choose the Doctor.

DOCTOR: And it chooses me. Interesting. Time Lord magnetism. Looks like I'm the true Guardian. (The Cyberium passes into the Doctor.) CYBERMAN: Surrender it or I will execute you. DOCTOR: I'd be very careful with those execution threats. I can feel it already, fusing to me. It feels very at home. Recognising great host material. Not to big myself up, but I don't think it'll vacate me without a fight.

But now we know - she’s not just a Time Lord. So can the Cyberium sense that? Did it know? Or perhaps, even if she were just a Time Lord, it would have preferred her... Anyway, this deviates too hard into my other, upcoming post. I think this episode, the Villa episode, was VITAL in determining what will happen next season.

Episode 10: The Timeless Children

MASTER: Look upon my work, Doctor, and despair.

This is an homage to Percy Shelley’s sonnet, Ozymandias, which contains the iconic lines:

“My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Oh, cute, what a fun little addition, I first thought when I heard it in the finale. (It now occurs to me, while writing this, that the Master might have quoted Shelley to the Doctor because he knows she loves his work. My poor shipper heart.)  

Then I thought - hang on. That’s a lot of “coincidental” involvement with the Byrons & Shelleys in this season, especially when the rest of the plots have been so deftly woven with surprises.

The Master mentions to Ashad/the Cyberium that he has the entire Matrix in his head and then he ends up absorbing the Cyberium into him, linking it with him in ways that will have consequences we haven’t even seen yet. It all sets up such a juicy, interesting thread into the next season.

Summary:

What does it all mean? Who can say? I hope this will give us some answer for what the Kasaavin are, where their universe is (is it beyond the Boundary? is it another Boundary?), how the Master found them (was it in the Matrix? did the Time Lords know about them?)

Most importantly: I think Yaz will play a huge role in the next season, given she was in the Kasaavin realm, as will the Doctor and (I suspect/hope) the Master again. This Kasaavin plot-line is still left unresolved, and I will be incredibly interested to see what Chibnall’s plan contains.

This could all just be a very cute, season-long homage to Byron/Shelley... but... it’s very suspicious. Especially given they have an entire two episodes focussed on them/their progeny.

If anyone has any other examples of Percy & Byron or descendants in season 11/12, please add them through reblogs! :D I worry that I haven’t gotten every single moment, or that I missed a couple of them.

Links to biographies:

Ada Lovelace Mary Shelley Percy Shelley Lord Byron

[seadeepywrites]

When the River Meets the Sea

Character: Fathom Tidechaser Words: 3490 tw: death, violence/gore, body horror

1. Our Souls Will Leave This Land

Fathom isn’t afraid until the moment his Heal spell fails him. Like a sword parrying in a clash of steel, like a rubber ball rebounding off a stone wall, the magic that is supposed to close his wounds slips free of his grasp, reflecting back on him. As the sudden, breathless darkness of necrotic damage leaches his strength, Fathom feels it: a flicker of fear.

Fathom is occasionally anxious and frequently surprised, but true fear like this is vanishingly rare for him. He has faced vampires and corpse-stealing fiends from Hell and suture-scarred fleshy mutants that should never have existed in the first place. He has healed injuries, raised the dead, and climbed out of his own grave. He has walked between planes, traveled backwards through time, and spoken to gods.

Today, for the first time in his several lives and deaths, Fathom considers the idea that Melora’s blessing may not be enough to save him.

The illithid-lich shrieks without sound, and even aware of what’s coming, Fathom can’t stagger out of the way quickly enough. Its psychic scream blasts his mind free of his body, into some hazy place where the real-time consequences of combat don’t seem to matter. Fathom knows, on some level, that he is standing here in front of the illithid and its creations, flat-footed and slump-shouldered. But most of him is absent, drifting through a blurry infinity of vague concepts and disconnected thoughts. Not unlike being extremely high, actually.

Next to Fathom, the eye sockets of a dozen skulls light up with the same eerie green glow that pervades this lair. Their jawbones seem to widen and vibrate with silent laughter — or maybe that’s just Fathom’s vision swimming. Fathom isn’t present enough to be concerned as his soul begins to prise itself from his body, attempting to wriggle free of his flesh like a snake shucking its skin.

It is only the sigil inked across Fathom’s collarbones that prevents it, the Death Ward flaring in one final, desperate attempt to keep Fathom alive. Even when he himself isn’t fully aware of it. Even when blood slips slick over his upper lip and his neck, running like water from his nose and ears. Even when he sees — sees but cannot make himself react — sees the illithid floating down from its dais.

The illithid reaches out toward him with one hand, whispering in its breathy voice. Fathom can’t quite parse the words over the thunderous roar of his pulse crashing in his ears. It doesn’t really matter, though, does it? The illithid’s slender tentacles reach out too, impossibly long and serpentine, and wrap themselves around Fathom’s head.

Melora, Fathom thinks. He would say it out loud, if he could. If he could shape his lips to breathe it out, he would want her name to be the last word he says. It is a prayer and it is a plea: Please. Help my friends where I’ve failed. Give them the power to defeat this evil where I cannot.

The only thing in the world that Fathom truly, deeply cares about — the only thing he will ever live and die for — is his goddess. He would go to his death gladly — placidly allow the illithid to drink his brain like so much beef stew — if he could know for sure that he hasn’t disappointed her. But he isn’t sure of that at all, so Fathom’s heart stutters and his blood freezes to ice as the illithid’s tentacles smother him, obscuring his vision.

Melora, he thinks again, with desperation and heartbreak and terror.

And then the pain begins.

**********

2. The Winds of Time

In the darkness, Fathom hears the sound of ocean waves. He knows the Material Plane and several others by now — the Astral Plane, the Feywild, Orthrys, the Plane of Time, and Pandemonium among them. This place is none of those. This is maybe not a place at all but a feeling, a moment between breathing in and breathing out. It holds him like the fuzzy apathy from the illithid's Mind Blast did, but a thousand times more transient, more ineffable.

Fathom is alone here — until he is not.

He learned a long time ago to see beyond the sight of his eyes, to sense beyond the flesh that covers his bones. It’s that ability now that tells him who surrounds him.

First is the clicking of goat hooves and an uncanny chuckle, a presence as mysterious and mercurial as a dream. The glint of sharp teeth smiling, and a shimmer like a heat mirage. Fathom recognizes the unpredictable, long-limbed, goat-eyed Archfey-in-the-form-of-a-man who scraped him off the rocks of the Feywild and brought him back to life the first time. The Entertainer. The Twilight Walker.

Second comes the rustling of midnight-black wings, which bring an endless field of stars in their wake. This void is hers, as is the longbow the halfling wields and every inch of Tanazil's new human body. Fathom has passed through her domain several times now, but only discovered recently that she was once a person like him. A friend of the party's, once, until she sunk into a slumber from which she would never wake. Umbra, the Raven Queen. Keeper of the boundary between life and death.

Fathom actually tastes the third presence in the back of his throat, the sweet and heady burn of alcohol mid-swallow. If he had a face right now, he'd smile, because it's a familiar sensation. It reminds him of the wild nights of carousing he's participated in over the years and, more rarely, the sheer bloody joy of splitting knuckles and breaking furniture in tavern brawls. There's an energy to this presence, careless and defiant. Appropriate for one of the youngest gods, whose reign over his twin domains of strength and luck is just beginning. Cayden, proprietor of the Drunken Sailor until his recent removal from the Material Plane.

Fourth is another brand-new god, one whom the party itself assisted in his ascension. With him comes the clicking of tiny gears and the whisper of sand through an hourglass that now only exists in memory. He is a god of brilliant ideas and science precise enough to navigate through the stained-glass labyrinth of the Plane of Time — and while Fathom respects him, he does not understand him in the slightest. Fathom will keep his own slow thoughts and poor reading comprehension, and leave the worship of this god to the more intellectual party members, like Curt. Fizzlewick, once a gnome artificer who spliced together various realities. Now so much more.

Fifth is the reason they are all here, an overpowering feminine force who is both beautiful and terrible. Like Umbra, her wings would engulf all if Fathom could see them, but he has already witnessed their burning white radiance. He’s got his suspicions about Trox's allegiance, because he's seen the bug man's shell light with the same bleached-bone color. Amidst the chaos, Fathom can hear the thrum of the threads of Fate as they dance between her fingers. If she has a name beyond the mistress of such things, he does not know of it.

Last and most beloved is the taste of salt and the scent of ozone, vast and untamed ever-changing. Fathom's loyalty to her is as boundless as the waters she rules over and as fierce as the violence of the tempest. She has been in every breath he takes since the day he was brought into the world, and he will follow and fight for her long after he leaves it. Melora, goddess of sea and the wilderness. Fathom has pledged himself to her before, and would do it a thousand times again.

There are other gods here too, ones Fathom has heard of from the many faithful he's met in his travels. But these are the ones Fathom knows, the ones Fathom has actually met personally and spoken to. They surround him with their awful, unspeakable power — if Fathom were still alive, this much divine energy in one place would undoubtedly blow him into tiny pieces or melt his eyes right out of his skull.

"Hi," Fathom says, or tries to. "What's up, guys?"

It is Fizzlewick who answers him, voice gleaming gold against the blackness that surrounds them. His words resonate in Fathom's mind, deafening and omnipresent in a way they never were in life. WE ARE WAITING, he says.

Fathom considers this. "Waiting for what?"

WAITING FOR A CHOICE, Fizzlewick says, and does not explain further.

"Aren't you the god of time?" Fathom asks, skeptical.

YES, Fizzlewick replies, and is it just Fathom's imagination, or does he sound a little bit cranky? THAT IS WHY I AM GIVING HIM THE TIME TO CONSIDER IT.

"Oh. That makes sense, I guess."

Several ideas connect suddenly in Fathom's head, in that lightning-flash and logic-less way he processes concepts:

Curt, invisibility spell broken, screaming himself hoarse in a way Fathom has only heard once before. Although that time he’s been a version of Curt from a future where the illithid had triumphed, and then after the screaming stopped he wasn't Curt at all.

The sound of a vial uncorking. The screaming suddenly cut short.

A gift that Curt was given weeks earlier, when the party visited Fate's domain, in faint disapproval but also in consolation. A promise that the gods had not given up on the young wizard entirely, not yet.

"Huh," Fathom says.

So he settles down to wait in the way he does best: aimless, serene, equivocal. Just vibing. The pain and terror that accompanied his death seem very far away, like faded colors or muted sounds.

At some point, the waiting ends. Was it half a second, or was it forever? It could have been either. Fizzlewick speaks again, and Fathom's soul rouses itself to respond.

HE CHOSE CORRECTLY, Fizzlewick says.

"Cool. So what happens now?"

NOW, Fizzlewick says, I SEND YOU BACK TO HELP MY CHAMPION.

That's new information, actually — that Fizzlewick now has a champion — but it doesn't take a genius to figure out who Fizzlewick's talking about. Which is good, because Fathom definitely isn't one.

The void, the gods, this in-between place — all begin to dissolve, in the same rhythmic way that waves erase footprints in the sand. Instead of divine presence, Fathom becomes aware of a ceaseless wind that carries the whispers of insanity along with it. As the sound of the wind — which somehow, mysteriously, continues to blow indoors and underground — increases, so does another sound: a rapid, clicking whir. Like the hands of a pocket-watch, spinning forward. Or backward. Or both.

Fathom can see again: golden light, bright enough to sear through his closed eyelids. More to the point, he's back in his body, in his deeply cursed plate armor, with his arm made of water and his silver trident at his fingertips.

He is alive, and he's pretty sure his brain is firmly inside his skull, which are both things he never thought he’d experience again.

Fathom's eyes flutter open to a scene that would look really strange if it wasn’t the one he'd been seeing just before his untimely death. Trox and Tanazil are hacking at the illithid, both wielding enormous axes and foaming with berserker's rage. The halfling's elk is there too, rearing up with its wickedly sharp front hooves to contribute to the damage. The giant translucent pods up on the dais seem to have increased in number, which is odd, but it is not the oddest thing here by far.

As Fathom clambers to his feet, he realizes he doesn't just feel alive — he feels great. Better than he ever has in his multiple lives, maybe. The glow that haloed him is already fading, but there is another god's power present here, crashing inside him like thunder and breaking surf. Fathom feels almost limitless. Renewed. Reinvigorated.

"Now that's more like it," he says with satisfaction.

He sends a fragmentary thought through the telepathy rings, just enough to tell the nameless halfling he is alive. Her joy radiates back at him, warm and wonderful.

Then Fathom hefts his shield and his trident, and prepares again to fight.

********** 

3. That Sweet And Final Hour

Melora takes him home. Or rather, Melora takes him back to the only place that has always been there for him, a place that has taken from and given to and blessed and cursed him. Melora takes him back to the place that has always been hers, and now is a little bit Fathom's too.

Melora clasps his hand and pulls him between planes with a lurching tug he has come to recognize, not unlike free fall or the sudden drop of a ship's deck below his feet. And then he is with his goddess on the cliffs of Cherat, in the very spot he once stood and whipped up a storm, looking out over the wind-roughened gray expanse of the sea.

Fathom turns to Melora, unashamed of the tears in his eyes. "Thank you," he says, breathing deeply. "It's good to be home."

"Yes," Melora says somberly, looking out across the water.

They stand there for a moment side by side, saying nothing because they have said all there is to say already. The world has been saved. The tapestry of Fate has been re-woven. Fathom's friends, the little dysfunctional adventuring party he has kept alive at all costs, have gone their separate ways. Fathom's journey is, in so many ways, all over.

"I wasn't sure we'd make it here," Fathom confesses, scratching idly at his darkness-beard. He shrugs. "But I figured I'd try anyway, you know?"

Melora shakes her head, smiling, her long hair rippling as it shifts against her bare shoulders. "I know," she says plainly. "I wasn't sure you would either."

"That makes three times I've died," Fathom muses. "Can't say I want to make it a habit. That last one really hurt."

Melora winces. "Fixing that was Fizzlewick's doing. I couldn't— There's only so much I could do, when—"

"I know," Fathom says quickly. He isn't sure if a goddess feels things like awkwardness or embarrassment, but that's certainly the image Melora projects when she stumbles over her words like this. It delights him, actually, the thought that he's spent enough time with her now to recognize the habit.

"I'm glad," Melora says, relaxing slightly. "That you survived. Or, well. That you're alive now."

Fathom tips his head back and closes his eyes, letting the sea breeze mist across his already-damp skin. "That makes two of us," he says. After a moment, he adds, "'Cause now that I've done the save-the-universe thing a couple times, I just want to chill for a bit. And I feel like hanging out on the Material Plane would be weird if I was dead."

"Weird, yes," Melora acknowledges with a nod. "Also sort of forbidden by Umbra and her followers."

"Ha. Wouldn't want Tanazil coming after me. That axe of his is pretty sharp. Though..." Fathom brushes his fingers against the hilt of his trident. "I kind of feel like I could take him."

"Hmm. Maybe." Melora's smile is amused, maybe a little indulgent.

"Curt seemed to think he'd be able to do it," Fathom continues. "But Curt has a pretty big head when it comes to his own powers." He pauses, voice softening. "He made the right choice, though. When it counted."

"That he did." 

Fathom shakes his head, sighing. "Imagine fighting the illithid and all that because it was the right thing to do. A moral compass, or whatever."

Melora makes a little noise of objection.

"What? I know damn well I'm not that selfless."

"And what do you call your help in the whole matter then?"

Fathom stares at her. Surely she is just teasing — surely she must know. "My lady," he says, frowning. "That was all for you."

Melora blinks, a slow sweep of her lashes, her eyes glistening gray-blue-green-black-gold. Then she smiles, reaches across to pat Fathom on the shoulder.

"My champion," she says fondly.

Fathom shuffles his feet and squints out at the water again. There is silence between them for several long minutes, though of course it is never really silent here. The waves hiss and crash, and above their heads gulls screech and circle. The sky is a boundless blue, darkening to slate where clouds encroach at its edges.

Fathom is like a grain of sand on this beach, a tiny part of something much larger. His soul sings with it, with the connection to the land and the sky and the sea. He is suddenly quite certain that if he wanted to, he could step into open air and soar. Could fly upward towards the bright, alluring heat of the sun until his lungs lost their breath. Then he'd tumble downward head over heels to meet the sea under sunlight, and it would welcome him into its salty and eternal embrace.

Melora has entrusted him with part of her domain, and Fathom thinks this is one of the few things he’ll be able to carry with him for the rest of his life. One of the sole responsibilities he'll shoulder and never ever grow tired of, never seek restlessly to move on and walk away. He's left so many people and places behind, but this — this he can keep.

"So," Melora says after some unknown amount of time has passed. "What's next? Mushrooms?"

Fathom tilts his head. "Do you mean going to visit Toad like we planned, or the kind that makes you hallucinate? 'Cause I'm down either way."

"Yes," says his goddess, and offers him her hand again.

**********

4. Epilogue: The Almighty Sea

Fathom Tidechaser lives his life.

He spends two weeks with Tanazil in silent retreat and contemplation, drinking in the richness of the ancient, mossy forest, perfectly at peace. But while it’s a haven of relaxation and redemption for Tanazil, Fathom can’t linger. He’s never been able to settle down, not even for a few months. The power Melora has blessed him with guides him onward like he’s a ship sailing toward the horizon, pointing into the bittersweet unknown.

The halfling and her fey patron are always able to find him no matter where he travels, and it becomes something of a game between them all: to play pranks on Fathom, to get their tricks past his uncanny awareness of his surroundings. He catches them as often as they succeed, and it’s always a joyful reunion. The once-nameless halfling introduces herself these days with the name the Entertainer has given her. It suits her.

Curt turns twenty, which is a surprise to everyone who thought he'd get himself killed long before that. Technically he has, several times, but Fathom figures that any debt Curt built up from Fathom's resurrections was definitely repaid when Curt asked Fizzlewick to revive him. So they are equals now. On an even footing. Fathom has zero interest in the school of magic Curt is establishing on the moon, but he can recognize the bright-eyed whip-smart type of adventurer who would thrive there. He frequently sends Curt new recruits, and along with them his best wishes, but visits rarely.

Fathom travels as he always has. Now, though, he can raise and quiet storms at his command. He can also fly without a spell, skimming over the surface of the ocean for miles until he finds a ship and scares the hell out of its crew by landing on the rigging like a gigantic shiny albatross. When he is addressed as a minor deity, he scoffs, but then he wonders: are the frightened sailors that far off the mark? 

Fathom dies — finally, permanently, for good — at a much younger age than most, but that's hardly surprising. He is powerful enough to face almost any creature on the Material Plane, and several more planes besides, but the one person he can't resurrect is himself. It isn’t a dramatic sacrifice, nor is it a gentle and peaceful passing. It is simply a death — ugly and brutal and fast.

He greets Umbra as a friend, only exchanging a few words with her. Because they both know where he’s going, of course. Melora is one of the few deities with no astral domain, choosing instead to wander the cosmos eternally. So this is less of an ending and more of a transformation — from one way of being to another, like a wave breaking and returning to the water. Fathom’s soul still travels, still soars over the sea, still stirs up storms in thunderous magnificence. 

Fathom Tidechaser dies, and serves his goddess long past his death, until his name is mentioned in the same breath as hers. Things change, as they always do. Fathom dies, but he lives on.

[xiufaery]

Stitches ↠ six

svt gang au

masterlist

a/n: i’m really sorry for disappearing, i found a new job which is better but still really tiring, and i’m also working on university applications rn. i’ll try to update more frequently but idk when i’ll have the time. thank you for still supporting me and reading this story, i really appreciate it!!

CHAPTER SIX : ABSENCE MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDER

Over the following days, Naeun found herself spending more time with Mingyu. At first, it was mostly Mingyu who would call and ask if he can come over, but after a while Naeun began calling and texting him every free moment she had. Her job didn’t leave a lot of time to make new friends, and although her colleagues were nice, they didn’t have a chance to meet up outside of work. That left Mingyu as her only friend in Seoul, so naturally he was the first person she reached out to when she didn’t want to be alone. Usually, he had no problem with it—until now.

‘Hey, are you ok?’ she texted him as soon as she got home from work. Mingyu hadn’t shown up to walk with her like he always did, and all of her texts and calls throughout the day have gone unanswered. She stared at her phone, waiting for it to ring, or at least to get a text back. One minute passed, then another, and another…

What was she doing? She wanted to smack herself for acting so desperate. He had a life of his own, he couldn’t spend every single moment with her. She should give him some space.

Five minutes have passed with her staring at her phone and contemplating, before she decided to get up and do something more productive with her time. Like, take that hot shower she had been dreaming of ever since her shift started this morning.

It was a long day. She was already feeling down without Mingyu’s bright smile and boundless energy at all times of the day. It had become routine for them to bicker and make fun of each other on the way to work, so this morning felt dull and boring without it. Then, when she arrived at the hospital, all hell broke loose. Thirty-seven people arrived at the E.R. at the same time, all suffering from severe burns after an explosion in the factory they worked at. Having to treat so many people while also trying to calm down the panicked family members that flocked to the hospital, had worn her out both physically and emotionally.

The hot water felt exhilarating, relaxing her muscles and washing away all the tension in her body. This was the moment she’d been waiting for all day, the one silver lining in this hellish shift—going home, taking a long shower, and stuffing her face with food until she couldn’t feel anything anymore.

Of course, her plan was forgotten as soon as she stepped out of the bathroom. The moment she heard the sound of a new notification, she raced to the living room, snatching her phone from its place on the couch. She had a new message from Mingyu:

‘I’m fine. Busy. Talk later.’

One message. One line. Not even a complete sentence. She knew that Mingyu didn’t owe her anything, but she thought she at least deserved a grammatically correct sentence. Nevertheless, she pushed her irritation aside to send another text:

‘Be safe.’

Message received. He left her on read.

She heard her stomach growl, reminding her that she didn’t eat anything today. But how could she eat when her stomach was twisting with worry and fear? She shook her head hard, as though she could shake all of her thoughts out, but it was no use. That one message left her head reeling with questions she wasn’t sure she wanted an answer to. What was Mingyu doing? What is ‘busy’ in gang terms? She desperately hoped that there won’t be another mortal wound for her to treat.                                                                              

↠ ↠ ↠ ↠ ↠ ↠

The next few hours went by frustratingly slow. Naeun tried to distract herself in many ways—eating, reading, pacing, screaming into the void—but her mind always went back to the same thing: what the hell is Kim Mingyu doing?

“Hey, Sejeong?” “Naeun!” Sejeong’s voice on the phone sounded as cheery as always, managing to bring a smile to Naeun’s face. “How are you? Have you change your mind and decided to come over?” “No, not tonight,” she told her. “Sorry.” “Oh, it’s fine. Why did you call?” “Well, uh, hypothetical question…” Naeun started. “Hypothetically, if there was someone that I’m very close with, like in contact with them 24/7, and then they suddenly disappear without a word. Should I start freaking out?” There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “Is this about Mingyu? The guy that you’re totally not dating?” “No!” she exclaimed. “It’s not about Mingyu. Or about me. Totally hypothetical, asking for a friend.” “Alright,” Sejeong drawled. “Well, hypothetically, maybe this hypothetical person is just busy.” “That’s what he said,” Naeun added. “Supposedly. Hypothetically.” “Then there’s your answer. Mingyu is just busy and you need to chill the fuck out.” “It’s not—OK, fine, this is about Mingyu.” She admitted. Sejeong laughed. “I knew it! You’re way too obvious, honey.” Naeun rolled her eyes. “Fine, so maybe I shouldn’t worry so much, but he’s been glued to my side for the past week, and his job is dangerous so I’m worried because he’s an idiot and—” “Naeun,” Sejeong cut her off. “breathe.” “But—” “Breathe.” She repeated more sternly. “How long has he been doing this kind of work?” “A while.” “And nothing happened yet.” The memories of their first meeting flashed before her eyes, and she winced. “He’s…still alive.” “Great! I’m sure he’ll stay that way for a while. He’s not a child, he can take care of himself.” Naeun let out a heavy sigh. “You’re probably right. I’m sorry for bothering you.” “It’s fine, sweetheart, I understand that you care about him…” Sejeong kept talking, but the only thing Naeun heard was the sound of the doorbell. She ran to the door, looking out through the peephole. “It’s him,” she said, almost giddy. Thankfully, Sejeong didn’t mind being ignored and cut off. “See? I told you he’s fine. Go kick his ass; I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Yeah, thanks Sejeong.”

It took her less than a second to hang up the phone and throw open the door. The sight of Mingyu standing in front of her, more or less uninjured, caused her shoulders to slump in relief. That is, until she remembered that she’s mad at him.

Mingyu raised his hand in a hesitant wave, giving her a sheepish smile in return for her intense glare. When he noticed her eyes focus on the burn on his palm, he quickly put it down. “Hi.” “Hi.” Naeun repeated, almost emotionless. “Hi. Hi? You made me worry for a whole day, and all you have to say is ‘hi’?” “Uh…” Mingyu was clearly expecting a warmer welcome. “I’m kind of scared to say yes.” “You should be!” she seethed. “Then no. My answer is no.” he said quickly. “Kim Mingyu, you are unbelievable!”

She kept yelling at him for at least half an hour, even after she had let him in and they settled on the couch. Surprisingly, he stayed silent and kept nodding and agreeing with her. She didn’t know if he really regretted it or he was just scared of her anger—it took a lot to make her mad, so when she finally exploded it could be terrifying. His tactic worked, however. Slowly, she felt her anger fade away, being taken over by relief so strong that it made her burst into tears.

That seemed to freak Mingyu out even more. “What’s going on?” he asked frantically. “I’m sorry, alright? You’re absolutely right and I’m so sorry.” Naeun shook her head, wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug. “I’m just glad that you’re OK, dumbass.”

Mingyu didn’t answer, just hugged her back even tighter. He’d never tell her that she was right to worry, that he really was in danger, instead just whispering, “Yeah, me too.”

[inforapound]

Boundless Chapter 7

A/N -  Well, this chapter almost did me in. Hope it reads okay. Harald and Safira, again, fighting to be together. Thank you for reading <3

Pairing - Harald and Safira

Words - 2,900

WARNINGS - Canon typical violence 

The clamour of weapons being drawn caused the brothers to spin toward the ruckus and, instinctively, grip the hilt of their swords.

Axes and blades pointing at him, Fritjof froze, hands raised high, signifying he came in peace. He was hardly composed, though; visibly battered his face told a story of penance. Dark bruises to the left of his mouth, a bloodstained eye, scuffs to his temple with a partially scabbed gash across the bridge of his oversized nose. He looked pitiful. Alarm and annoyance flashed across his tentative face as he scanned the ready warriors before his eyes met Harald's.

"State your business?" Harald called out, studying the boy's disheveled appearance.

"They have taken her," he called back.

"Who?" Harald shouted, tipping his ear forward so not to miss Fritjof's next words.

"Safira!" Fritjof shouted.

"Who!" Harald roared. "WHO took her!"

"Red!"

Hucking his cup, Harald rushed forward, stepping over the dropped bowls of half-eaten morning stew. Stopping, he came face to face, with the clearly frightened boy.

"When?" he rushed, his hand still gripping the hilt of his sword.

"Not an hour ago."

Harald's gaze drifted beyond Fritjof's shoulder as his mind raced, estimating their possible distance. Turning back, he shot Halfdan a glance who nodded and sighed loudly, then tossed his cup into the campfire.

"To the ships," Halfdan barked, turning to the gathered men. "Let's go. Now! Carry only what is in front of you. Leave the rest."

Looking back to Harald, Halfdan's face was void of expression, their plan set and understood, despite the risks and grave consequences. Pulling a carving dagger out of the log below, Halfdan dropped it into the scabbard on his belt. Grabbing a fur and a jug of ale, he joined the moving line of warriors, weaving between the tents, heading toward the shore beyond.

Returning his attention to Fritjof, Harald's hardened face spurred the young man to stutter on.

"He knew she was with you... last night." Looking away, he watched the men walking passed.

"How many ships?"

"I did not see but he is making the journey with her. Said he could not trust me to be the escort. His army is still in camp so they must only have one ship, filled with mostly Danes. He had, maybe, a dozen of his own men." Reaching up, Fritjof pressed the split skin across his nose. "Twenty or so of Klak's."

Closing his eyes, Harald ran his hand over his head to smooth his pulled-back hair.

"You will catch them?" Fritjof asked. "You will fight Erik?"

Pushing air out of his nose, Harald squinted at him.

"What is your plan?" Fritjof snapped, frustrated with the lack of response.

"I do not need to explain myself to you!" Harald barked. "Some kid."

"Yes you do!" Fritjof shouted. "That is my sister!"

Harald's face showed his surprise but he steadied, seeing Fritjof's barely controlled composure about to break. His scuffed, bruised cheeks flushing in a way that reminded Harald of his sweetheart.

"Safira has looked after me my entire life. Raised me. You have no idea." Reaching up he again pressed his fingers, with badly bitten nails, to the oozing cut. "I should not even be here. I should have just let her go. Far from you and this.....tryst. Let her live her life as the queen of the Danes. There are worse fates, you know?"

"Why have you come then?"

Lifting his hand, Fritjof dropped the sapphire pendant. The vibrant blue stone swinging back and forth on the chain below.

Snarling, Harald snatched it, yanking it free from his hand.

"They held her down," Fritjof's face broke, tears filling his bloodshot eyes.

"Who!" Harald demanded, his face contorting in horror.

"My father's men." Looking down, he closed his eyes. "They made me watch as a healer examined her." He squeezed his eyes hard as if to force the image from his mind. "Checked to see if she was still intact." Clearing his throat, he opened his eyes, unable to stifle a sob. "Father said he needed to know if she had laid with you before he faced Klak."

Heaving in air, Harald stepped away, looking to the sky and screamed, erupted. Tearing open the buckle at the neck of his armour, he turned and kicked the large pot of stew, suspended over the camp flame.

Undeterred, Fritjof continued, raising the volume of his voice. "She demanded that she be allowed to hug me goodbye. She slipped that necklace to me." Wiping his cheeks with the cuff of his canvas jacket, he again cleared his throat. "All she whispered was, Harald."

Hand on his sword, Harald brushed past him, in the direction of his ship.

"I am coming!" he shouted at Harald's back.

"No," he called back over his shoulder.

"I am coming!" Fritjof shouted again.

Stopping abruptly, Harald spun to face him, nostrils flaring, his bright blue eyes lit with fury.

"I love her more than anyone alive," Fritjof's cried out, his face showing his pain. "And I am quite sure, she loves you more than anyone alive. Be good to her and I will pledge myself to you. To you both." Blinking rapidly, his gaze weakened. "For whatever that is worth... but I will be loyal. I will support her in her new home, in her new role, never leaving her side when your duties require you to." Lowering his gaze to the trampled grass below, he uttered, "I would die for my sister."

—-

"Pull!" Harald roared, as the sixteen ores cut through the water, sweeping back over the white-crested waves.

"Pull!" His deep voice bellowed. The sound of thirty-two warriors, heaving in breath, as they laboured with the oak paddles.

"Pull! He screamed as the stern of Red's boat grew nearer and nearer. Harald's large crew more powerful than Erik's sails in the lackluster wind.

"Pull!" His voice ripped through the air. Halfdan and Fritjof stood at his back, staring ahead, as they approached the other vessel.

"Pull!" His voice broke, his throat raw like the rage in his body, the sapphire squeezed tight in his hand.

Dipping his chin, he lifted the necklace over his head, dropping it below his leathers. Placing his hand on his chest, he pressed the stone hard against his heart, a heart that cracked wide and called her in the night she slugged drink from a jug with tales of ship to ship raids. Shaking his head, he closed his eyes; today, he too would leave behind a sea full of floating bodies.

"Pull!" He rasped, his voice lost in the shifting wind. The curve of her shoulder and black hair flashing in his mind, her easy laugh and rascal smile. The way her face would soften, and her brown eyes would search his right before their lips would meet. A fleeting instant, where her charm eased and all she needed was her affections affirmed, taking solace in the kiss from the man she loved.

Closing his eyes, he reached out and gripped the tall mast beside him, inhaling deeply, he looked back out to sea. Opening his mouth, he prepared for the next command...

"Brother, they know their orders." Halfdan stepped forward, chin nearly resting on Harald's shoulder. He too watched the vessel ahead as Erik's crew lowered their sails, scrambling to drop their oars to row. "Save your voice. You may need it."

"I will only need a sword."

Glancing to Harald, Halfdan's eyes caught the tight, shifting muscles in his brother's jaw, the visible lines around his wary eyes and the spreading grey in his beard. Evidence of all those years spent fighting relentlessly. Claiming territory and stripping the crowns from Kings. In part for glory but also for love. Unknowingly, for this moment and this love; for the girl in the boat ahead. Dropping his eyes, Halfdan watched Harald's fingers fidget with the pommel of his sword.

"We well get her," Halfdan whispered, his eyes returning to the sea. Erik's ship, now only three lengths away.

"Ready yourselves!" Halfdan bellowed over the heads of the rowing men. "You know what to do."

"No arrows," Harald added, making his way to the bow, stepping up on a crate for a better view.

"You heard your King. No thunderbolts today."

He could see her. The back of her. Her small precious form. She was attempting to stand but being held in place by a large, bald-headed Dane. Standing mid-ship, Erik began shouting commands. Back straight and unafraid, Erik's gaze seemed fixed on Harald and his boat bearing down.

"Strong through to the end!" Halfdan called from somewhere behind.

Withdrawing his sword, Harald braced, eyes locked on the other King. Erik's roaring orders shifted, calling for them to drop the paddles and pick up swords. Mirroring Harald's men, the warriors on the inside of the benches, rose, pulling axes and swords free. Many, dropping to their knees, anticipating the impact.

Cutting swiftly through the waves, Harald's boat barrelled on at a speed that made the other seem still. Standing high at the bow, Harald gripped the edge tight, shifting his gaze to Safira, consoled only in that moment, that she had the arms of a warrior to brace her.

"Now!" Harald shouted, keeping his eyes on his beloved.

His warriors heaved in the heavy oak planks, allowing for the side of the boat to collide with Erik's oars. The hollers of battle screams rang as Harald's boat rammed powerfully into Erik's. The sound of cracking wood snapped through the air along with a series of thuds as the long oars on Erik's boat were driven down, hard, below the water by Harald's vessel. The planks slammed against the side of their own ship, hoisting the handle ends up, to stand vertical.

Leaping through the air, Halfdan was the first of a dozen warriors to reach the edge of Erik's boat. Gripping the upright oars like poles, Halfdan and their men swung and slashed their weapons wildly. His swath of light hair, flying loose behind him as he moved swiftly from target to target cutting men down with precision.

The shrill cries escalated as more men joined the scrimmage. Weapons clashed and blood spilled onto the narrow boards of the wooden deck. Men in Erik's front line began to drop and a heap formed as those behind pushed forward to engage.

At opposite ends of the boat, Fritjof and Harald wound their arms back and flung iron hooks, attached to thick ropes, landing in Erik's ship. Yanking back hard, the sharp points, embedded deeply into the wood rim, latching the boats together.

Launching back onto the wooden crate, one boot up on the edge, Harald drove his sword down into the shoulder of an attacking warrior. Slashing savagely with his other blade the others that approached. Snarling, his eyes incessantly returned to Safira. Still braced by the smooth headed warrior, she stared at Harald, terror in her eyes and her mouth gaping open in a silent scream.

"She is not for the taking, Finehair." Erik's voice barely reached Harald's ears over the grinding noise of the fight.

Hollering into the air, Erik made his way toward the bow of his ship, pushing in beside the two men hacking their weapons at Harald. Lifting an ax overhead, Erik let it fly as Safira's scream tore through the clamour of metal. Freezing, Harald's eyes shot to Safira as the ax whacked into the wood beside him, severing the rope attached to the iron hook. Teetering, Harald fought for balance as the bows of both ships begun to swing apart. Flashing his teeth in a jeering grin, Erik pivoted, hurling a second ax through the air, slashing the rope holding the sterns in place. Shooting apart, men lost their footing, falling into the water between.

"Safira!" Erik's voice bellowed out, his eyes searching the deck of his ship. Stumbling backward, Harald grabbed the edge, looking toward the spot she had been. The tall warrior now stood alone peering over the far side of the ship. Rushing to the Dane, Erik too, leaned over the side, repetitively calling her name and scouring the swells for any sign.

"You lost her!" Erik roared, turning toward his warrior, he heaved his sword on an angle, slicing through the side of the man's neck. His nearly severed headed slumped forward, as his body folded onto his knees, thudding hard as it collapsed against the side of the ship.

"Find my daughter!" Erik's wild eyes turned to the rest of the men. "The princess! She jumped into the water!"

"No!" Harald roared as he scanned the dozen or so men still thrashing in the waves, blades hacking and jabbing between the submerged fighters. Others struggling in the water to dodge the enormous, heavy paddles being lifted and dropped, as the oarsmen struggled to control the shifting boats.

Gasping, Safira shot up from the choppy sea between the boats and at the centre of the chaos. Face to the sky with hair slicked back, she coughed and gagged violently, her frenzied eyes shooting in all directions as she fought for her bearings. As the oars dropped around her, both Erik and Harald screamed for the planks to be held.

Leaping from the ship, Fritjof dove into the water. With flailing arms, he moved toward a stunned Safira. Rushing down the ship, Harald too leapt from the edge, hitting the water hard. Surfacing, he clutched the end of a long paddle and reached out toward Fritjof. Swimming on his side, Fritjof tugged Safira roughly, pulling her by her dress as she treaded water, becoming increasingly disorientated.

Fritjof shoved her toward Harald, who grabbed her tight around the waist, pulling her back against his body. Working his hand up the oar, he pulled them as close to the side as he could before losing his grip and sinking, with her clutched to his body, under the surface. The noise instantly stopped; all dark and peaceful. Only the swirling of water could be heard and the hallow vibration of the oars shifting above. Kicking hard, he broke the surface, gasping loudly for breath, Safira nearly slack in his arms.

Brother!" Halfdan shouted, his arm extended over the rim of the rocking ship, his lower half braced by another fighter. "Take my hand," he shouted, jerking it forward.

"Grab her." Harald heaved her upward toward Halfdan's reach. The momentum pushing him, again, below the nearly black water.

Clutching the neck of her dress, Halfdan yanked her up the side, pulling her over the edge and into the ship.

"Fritjof!" Erik hollered from behind. "Fritjof!" he screamed again and again, his voice both damning and full of rage. Neither Harald nor Fritjof turned to look as they fumbled with lines being dropped. The freezing water causing both to struggle with the rope. Finally wrapping the lines around themselves, they were heaved into the boat; Harald, followed by a trembling Fritjof.

Landing on the deck, the uninjured warriors raced past, readying the boat and fishing the last fighters out of the water. Pushing up off the boards, Harald moved stiffly toward Safira; the cold deepening its grip. Being held by Halfdan, who was shouting for furs, Safira sat slumped on a bench, her body shuddering violently from the frigid water and cool air.

Falling hard onto his knees, he reached forward and grabbed her rounded shoulders. Her vacant eyes staring down. Jerking her to look at him, she lifted her face but her dazed eyes would not meet his.

"What were you thinking?" he rushed, his face no less panicked than before she had been pulled from the water. "You could have been slashed by a blade or crushed between the boats. An oar hit would have caved your skull!"

The cold had turned her olive-toned skin pale, her eyes red from the sea. Blue had begun to tint her trembling lips. Slowly, her gaze shifted to his, struggling to keep focus.

"You could have died," his voice broke, his face showing the torment of the thought.

Wrapping a fur around her shoulders, Halfdan's hands squeezed Harald's through the thick pelt. "But she lives brother." Standing, Halfdan moved away to help the men.

Lowering her chin, Safira's eyes caught the small length of gold chain just visible above the neck of Harald's armour.

Shaking her head, her eyes flicked back up to his. "It is you or not at all," she uttered weakly, tears beginning to fall from her large, dark eyes.

Harald, too, shook his head as he stared at her tender face, his own tears blurring his sight.

"You bold, remarkable woman," he whispered, almost silently.

"I angered you," she murmured, closing her eyes and falling forward to press her face into his neck.

"No, my sweet." Breathing in deeply, his arms wrapped around her. "Never mad, only scared."

Behind them, Halfdan called out the order to return to shore to warm and prepare for the journey home.

Cracking open her eyes, Safira turned her head away, resting her cheek against his shoulder. Nestling into his chest, she watched Erik's boat pulling away. The longship's paddles working in unison, moving them further and further out to sea. All she could see of the legendary Erik the Red was the back of his head, never once glancing behind at his children.

"I will never see my father again," she whispered, her cheek pressing against Harald's damp leathers.

"No, my beautiful girl, you will not." Squeezing her tighter, he pressed a kiss to her salty hair, resting his cheek against her head. "But I will."

.

@geekandbooknerd​ @lol-haha-joke​ @gearhead66​ @youbloodymadgenius​ @medievalfangirl​ @naaladareia​ @whenimaunicorn​ @alicedopey​ @no-confidence-to-write​ @dreamwritesimagines​

[chiseler]

VISAGE... VOICE... VITAPHONE

In Dimitri Kirsanoff's Menilmontant a destitute waif, betrayed and abandoned by the man who seduced her, sits on a park bench with her newborn infant. Beside her is an old man eating a sandwich. This wordless exchange is one of the greatest moments ever committed to film. Nadia Sibirskaia’s face reveals all of life’s cruel mysteries as she gazes upon a crust of bread.

The persistence of hope is the dark angel that underlies despair, and here it taunts her mercilessly. A whole series of fluctuations of expression and movement in reaction to anguish, physical pain involving hesitation, dignity, ravenous hunger, survival, self-contempt, modesty, boundless gratitude. All articulated with absolute clarity without hitting notes (without touching the keys). Chaplin could have played either the old man on the bench (his mustache is a sensory device!) or Nadia. And it would have been masterful and deeply affecting, but Nadia went beyond virtuosity and beyond naturalism.

She made it actual. And it was more than just a face. Sunlight travels across buildings at every second of the day; and the seasons change the incidence of light, too. Nothing stands still. Even déjà vu doesn’t attempt an exact rendition with the feel of a perfect replay.

***

Another face equates with pain—though a far more luxurious and decadent kind of pain, a visage summoning leftover ancient Roman excess or Florentine backstreets, the contortions of Art Nouveau with its flowers, prismatic walls and perennial themes of ripeness/rottenness, sadomasochism. While various directors have helped mold her naturally unsettling screen presence into nightmare visions, it’s Barbara Steele's vulnerability I tend to remember.

She is open and sensitive even as she materializes in the viewer’s mind as a kabuki demon one moment and a radioactive waxwork the next, a kind of alchemical transformation, an appeal to what Keats called negative capability—one’s ability to appreciate something without wholly understanding it; in fact, one’s ability to appreciate an object for its mystery.

“When did I ever deserve this dark mirror?” Barbara Steele asks me. “Clever you – I feel you’ve just twisted and wrung out an old bible to dry that’s been left somewhere outside lost in timeless years of…” She pauses. “…of rain.”

She made her Italian screen debut as a revenant.  And in so doing taught us all the eye is not a camera. It’s a projector.

Barbara Steele’s appearance in 1960’s Black Sunday is, even now, a shock of such febrile sexuality that it forces us to ask ourselves—why do we saddle her with diminishing monikers like “Scream Queen”? And, more fundamentally, why does her force of personality seem to trouble and vex every narrative she touches?

Of course, the answer is partly grounded in Steele’s unique physical equipment—and here I’ll risk repeating a clichéd word about those famous emerald eyes of hers: “Otherworldly.” As if sparked to life by silent-film magician Segundo de Chomón, the supreme master of hand-tinted illusionism. Peculiar even within the context of gothic tales on celluloid for the consumption of Mod audiences, flashing at us from well beyond their allotted time and place in history.

Barbara Steele is one of cinema’s true abominations—a light-repelling force that presents itself in an arrangement of shadows on the screen. No “luminary,”Steele is celluloid anti-matter; a slow burning black flame that devours every filament around it. Steele’s beauty is no accident of nature, even if she is, but in Black Sunday she gives a virtuoso performance by an artist in full command of her talent summoning and banishing it in equal measure in her dual role as mortal damsel in distress and undead predator released from her crypt. Filmmaking is the darkest and unholiest of arts (done right, that is), and for Mario Bava it becomes the invocation of beast and woman from the unconsecrated soil of nightmares. Steele remains the high priestess of the unlit and buried chambers of the imagination; the pure pleasure center of original sin and the murderous impulse buried just below the surface. She reminds us that existence itself is the highest form of betrayal and a continuing curse on us all.

Where Steele’s Italian films are concerned, we are watching silent movies of a sort. “The loss of voice for me has always been devastating…. It’s almost like some karmic debt…” Her sonic presence was eclipsed in a string of crudely, sadly dubbed horror vehicles, yes, including Black Sunday—no doubt aficionados of the great Mario Bava will object to my calling it a “vehicle.”  But whenever Steele appears, the storyline falls away. Anachronism rules. Not to mention the director’s exquisite sets, all keyed and subordinated to his ingénue’s stark loveliness (understood in black and white, molded by Italian cameramen into disquieting and sudden plasticity). Like a hot-blooded funerary sculpture made of alabaster, raven hair piled high, Steele’s already imposing height summons schizoid power, satanic sorcery—she’s Eros and Thanatos dynamically balanced. I’ve screened the film many times; and the famous opening sequence invariably leaves my otherwise jaded film students looking traumatized. (Just as a young Martin Scorsese was shattered by it once upon a time.) Barbara Steele’s defiant witch, spewing a final curse upon her mortal judges, pierces to the bone.

While Italian movies robbed Steele of her voice, they liberated her from what it had meant in Britain. Leading ladies in Brit films tended to be well brought-up young things, unless they were lusty and working-class like Diana Dors. Even at Hammer, where sexuality was unleashed regularly via bouts of vampirism, the erotically active roles usually went to continental lovelies (Polish immigrant Ingrid Pitt got her work permit based on Hammer’s claim that no native-born actress could exude such desire and desirability). Steele turns up all-too briefly in Basil Dearden’s Sapphire (1959) as an art school girl, the only kind of role that might allow for both intelligence and a certain liberated attitude. And Steele really was exactly that type. Her appearance is so arresting, you want the movie to simply abandon its plot and follow her into some fresh storyline: it wouldn’t really matter what.

In Italy, Steele suddenly became class-less and nation-less, devoid of associations beyond those conjured by the chiseled cheekbones and enormous eyes (convincingly replaced with poached eggs by Bava for a special effects shot). Her inescapable exoticism didn’t make sense in her native land, but that bone structure could suggest Latin, Slavic, or anything else. Omninational, omnisexual, but definitely carnivorous.

Generally remote with his actors, who were nothing more than compositional elements to him, Bava’s capricious move of selecting his female lead from a magazine photo-spread looks almost prescient in hindsight. Was it luck? Or, perhaps her now legendary eyes suggested a bizarre and beautiful leitmotif… to be destroyed, resurrected, and played endlessly on a register of emotions—extreme emotions, that is, tabooed delights.

Steele shares an anecdote about her director’s temperament and working methods on Black Sunday… “Everything was so meticulously planned that Bava rarely asked me for multiple takes. There was no sense of urgency or drama, which was rare for an Italian director…” I’m suddenly detecting deep ambivalence as she vacillates between little jabs at Bava (“He was a Jesuit priest on the set, somewhere far away”) and gratitude. “There was a tremendous feeling of respect, whereas in my earliest roles at Rank I always felt shoved around, practically negated by the pressure of production.

“Bava did go absolutely berserk once,” she goes on. “John Richardson, this gorgeous, sinewy creature, for some reason couldn’t carry me across the room. And I was like eleven pounds in those days. We had to do it over and over, twenty times or something, and whenever John stumbled or dropped me, the whole crew would be in hysterics. We were all howling with laughter, except for Bava – he went simply wild! Eventually, some poor grip had to get down on all fours, and I rode on his back in a chair with John pretending to carry me.”

If Black Sunday is a summation of spiritual and physical dread, it’s because Steele is everyone in this dream-bauble, everyone and everywhere, an all-consuming autumnal atmosphere. Which, of course, provides Mario Bava with something truly rare—a face and mien as unsettling as horror films always claim to be and almost never are. The devastation she leaves behind, her anarchic displacement, which has nothing to do with conventional notions of performance or “good acting,” is hard to describe. And here Bava earns his label of genius through compositional meaning—amid the groundswells of fog, lifeless trees and gloomy dungeons, Steele is an absence impossibly concretized in penumbras and voids. She is a force of nature never to be repeated.

Nightmare Castle (1965) starts off in Lady Chatterley mode as Steele cheats on her mad scientist husband (“At this rate you’ll wipe out every frog in the entire county,” is an opening line less pithy but more arresting than “Rosebud”) with the horny handyman. She’s soon murdered on an electrified bed, hubby preserving her heart for unexplained reasons while using her blood to rejuvenate his mistress. Then he marries her insipid blonde half sister (Steele again in a blonde wig) and tries to drive her mad. So we now have Gaslight merged with Poe and every revenge-from-the-grave story ever.

The identical twin half-sisters (?) bifurcate further: blonde Barbara goes schizoid, possessed it seems by her departed semi-sibling. Dark Barbara comes back as a very corporeal revenant, hair occluding one profile, like Phil Oakey of the Human League. Tossing the locks aside, she reveals… the horror!

Almost indescribable in terms of plot, character or dialogue, the film looks stunning, as chiaroscuro as Steele’s coal-black hair and snow-white skin. Apparently the product of monkey-typewriter improvisation, the story serves as a kind of post-modern dream-jumble of every Gothic narrative ever. You might get a story like this if you showed all of Steele’s horrors to a pissed-up grade-schooler and then asked them to describe the film they just saw. As a result, the movie really takes what Dario Argento likes to call the “non-Cartesian” qualities of Italian horror to the next dank, stone-buttressed level.

When I first met Barbara Steele about ten years ago, we somehow found ourselves sitting in front of a Brancusi sculpture here in New York City—I remember a filmmaker acquaintance joking afterwards: “Steele beats bronze!” Indeed, at 66 she was still stunningly beautiful, flirtatious, frighteningly aware of the power of her stare.

She was a painter in her youth, so it’s not surprising that, even as I visualize her in a voluptuous, cinematic world of castles and blighted landscapes, her own self-image is perennially absorbed by art—in the sense of André Malraux’s Museum Without Walls. She asks me to show her my paintings and when I dodge the subject out of shyness she offers:

A friend of mine just had a show of his art in a little cinema here – very small paintings, about 8 inches by 6 – and then they projected them onto one of their screens and they looked fantastic!  Size is everything!   Unless you were born in the Renaissance… then you were surrounded by silence and stone walls, shadows and glimmers of gold, and faces that are like spells they look so informed.

Steele speaks of her “old, suspicious Celtic soul,” her bitterness at having “flitted through movies par hazard,” and a newfound desire to make audio books (what colossal revenge!). It’s poetic really, this doppelganger, a ghost-like screen persona following her around. Whenever I think of the effect her movies have had on me, the following words by Charles Lamb leap to mind.

Gorgons and Hydras and Chimaeras – dire stories of Celaeno and the Harpies – may reproduce themselves in the brain of superstition – but they were there before. They are transcripts, types – the archetypes are in us, and eternal. How else should the recital of that which we know in a waking sense to be false come to effect us at all? Is it that we naturally conceive terror from such objects, considered in their capacity of being able to inflict upon us bodily injury? O, least of all! These terrors are of older standing. They date beyond body – or without the body, they would have been the same… That the kind of fear here treated is purely spiritual – that it is strong in proportion as it is objectless on earth, that it predominates in the period of our sinless infancy – are difficulties the solution of which may afford some probable insight into our ante-mundane condition, and a peep at least into the shadowland of pre-existence.

Even the wooliest metaphysics can be hard to separate from actual violence. Case in point: the night of September 22, 1796. Charles Lamb had his own brush with horror, when the future poet and author of children’s stories found himself removing a bloody knife from his sister’s hand. A spasm of matricidal rage that would land her in a mad house—and tending to prove, once again, the need for genres of terror and trepidation.  For a moment at least, Steele seems to agree, bowled over by the Lamb anecdote, literally screaming: “AND THAT NAME – LAMB – IT MAKES YOU THINK OF SUCH INNOCENT BRITISH LANDSCAPES!”  She’s a fairly solitary and introspective person on the one hand, capable of intense and unexpected eruptions of joy on the other, which may be why Italians have always embraced her—a shared gloomy zest for life, fatalism and pasta. There’s something intensely porous about her (as porous as film itself), which helps clarify her otherwise inscrutable tension with that shadow-self up on the screen, the one she so busily downgrades.

***

The thirties bustled with wise-cracking, fast-talking dames, probably not for any proto-feminist reason, but simply because the writers had a surplus of sassy talk to dispense onto the screen, and audiences liked looking at legs, so why not combine the two? Amid all the petite peroxide pretties, a few acerbic character actresses were allowed room, perhaps to make the cuties bloom all the more radiantly against them. Whatever the aesthetic logic, we can be grateful for it, since it gave us Ruth Donnelly and Winnie Lightner and Jean Dixon and a few other unforgettable shrews and wiseacres, adept as stage mothers, streetwise best pals of the leading lady, etc.

Aline MacMahon sort of fits into this category, but also destroys any category she sees with her laser vision. In Gold Diggers of 1933, she’s a Fanny Bryce type comedy showgirl, and in Heat Lightning (1934) she’s an ex-moll running a garage. In between, she played world-weary secretaries and put-upon mothers, taking any role and stealing the movie along with it. Rather than resist classification, she goes on the offensive, smashing down stereotypes and insisting on her own peculiar individuality.

Big and rangy in the body and hands, she had a strange, sculpted beauty, and was as luminous as Dietrich. Maybe more so: cameramen hit Marlene with brighter lights to make her shine out, whereas Aline was typically in the lead’s shadow. Her complexion is like the glass of milk in Suspicion in which Hitchcock planted a light bulb. That white. A sheet of paper passing before her face would appear as a dark eclipsing rectangle.

The law of photogenics insists that actresses hired to play the non-glamorous roles must be staggeringly lovely, but off-kilter and unconventional enough to fool the audience into thinking they’re seeing failed beauty. Aline’s unlikely photofit of attractive features resulted in a caricature of elegance and earthiness in precisely the wrong proportions, which makes her fascinating and alluring to watch.

The eyes are seriously big, saucers hooded by the heaviest lids since Karloff’s monster, resulting in long slits which strive to echo the even wider mouth, a perfectly straight line seemingly intent on decapitation. Like a horizon with lips. The chin cleft below catches the viewer by surprise. Were chin clefts on women more common then, or did studios screen in favor of them? The cheekbones have a graceful, yet powerful curve, so the face as a whole combines the qualities of an ice-cream baby and a crystal skull. All wrong, and alright with me.

Aline’s humor about her ill-assorted collection of perfect features was often played on in dialogue, so it’s pleasing when a role like the one in Heat Lightning admits that, for all her unlikeliness, she was indeed beautiful. More than a pretty face, too: her way with a snappy rejoinder distinguished her even in an era of exceptional wit and quicksilver delivery. And her essence, which radiated out whatever the role, was that of a philosophical, warm, smart, funny, sad woman: the essence of the age.

By Daniel Riccuito and David Cairns