#you just must be aware of it's shortcomings

[iguessthisisanewobsession]

Rent is a terrible musical and Jason will not be the first person in Gotham to voice this opinion

it's a musical that while having the backdrop of the story being about revolution against an upper class that refuses to make anyone uncomfortable. The status quo is not rocked so people with money can still relate.

The entire character cast are assholes, even the kindest of the main cast still murdered a dog and sang a catchy tune and had no remorse afterwards.

the show never really goes anywhere, character 's don't change and frankly don't care to.

It idealizes drug use and being poor, while there is a subplot for the homeless, there is no care shown for them and kind of implies a choice to be homeless.

That being said he was in the main cast as angel.

Jason is a hypocrite but is well aware of the fact unlike the rest of his family.

He doesn't choose the musical, the director did, and when he had a role time seems to slow down.

Being a vigilante, everything is fast paced, you need to get ducks in a row before one of the ducks takes out an third of the alley.

But to be able to shelf that mindset, even if only for the rehearsals it was nice.

That being said, artistic liberality is a thing.

To hell with angel going into the light peacefully, it ain't right for someone dying of a disease that can be treated.

If you wanted a show about romanticizing dying from a disease than you should go to the opera they tried to be with La bohème and tuberculosis.

No Jason is going to lasso his rage and put a pretty mask on it until he feels the need to put his own twist on a scene.

[taliabhattwrites]

My critique of cultural anthropology and academic transmisogyny, "The Third Sex", will be published in a few days. Here's the introduction.

This Machine Builds Fascists

Consider a mechanism whose sole function is to classify all inputs it receives as one of two categories: One and Zero. The inputs, it must be said, vary greatly in temperament, expression, embodiment, internality, and so on, but that isn’t as much of a hurdle for the machine as it seems. It has been programmed with a few simple lines of code that enable it to differentiate between Ones and Zeroes within acceptable margins of tolerance. Ones tend to look and behave like this, Zeroes tend to be like that. These truisms are crude, simplistic, and even reductive, true, but they work. As such, the machine chugs on, happily reducing complex inputs to a blunt binary classification, its delivery-day code having been deemed “good enough”.

Of course, there is still the matter of how the machine should behave when its schema fails, when it is presented with inputs that do indeed prove to be too ambiguous to easily classify. For however high the correlation between traits, sometimes a specimen that simply defies easy categorization will confound its decision-making, often enough to pose a problem. Does the code need to be updated? Almost certainly, but legacy code is a stubborn thing, mired in dependencies and versioning faff, deeply resistant to the most perfunctory of edits. Too many now rely on this iteration of the machine, on this particular instantiation of its logic, and it is almost universally agreed that any changes are best handled downstream—at least, among those with the power to change it.

The machine and its users are thus forced to consider: In the case of an “error”, a “mistake”, so to speak, is it better to classify something as a One or a Zero?

Well, that’s an easy enough decision. The Ones, you see, are quite important, are believed to play a rather critical role in the affairs the machine oversees. The Zeroes … sure, they’re certainly important too, in their own way, in the way everything worth categorizing is—but the Ones! It’s really all about the Ones. You can’t quite go around just calling anything a One, you have to be certain.

So the module is attached and business proceeds without interruption. The machine spits out Ones and Zeroes like it’s supposed to, like it always has and supposedly always will, a binary system choosing between two options. Yet, anyone who knows a little too much about its inner workings is perfectly aware that the machine’s neat bifurcation isn’t all that neat. Truthfully, the machine has three outputs: One, Zero (with a degree of confidence), and “NULL”. It’s just that the exceptions are caught and sorted into the Zero-category, because that method of handling the machine’s limitations still keeps things running smoothly. It’s not much of an issue at all, and there’s no real need to examine the machine any further.

No need to pay attention to the way its NULL exceptions keep rising in volume.

No need to examine it for any shortcomings, oversights … or any weaknesses.

[toxycodone]

𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 !

𝘤𝘸. 𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘦

𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘰𝘴, 𝘬𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘶, 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘤𝘩𝘶𝘤𝘬

Laios:

I genuinely think Laios is attracted to the unconventional or stereotypically attractive. Anyone with unique features, personality quirks, etc. If you don't fit in, you're more willing to catch his eye.

He finds it difficult to really like? Gain an interest in someone who doesn't really "stick out". I think it's clear with the way he treats Kabru that like! People kinda are a blur to him! So! anything that makes someone stick out will catch his interest and he'd be more willing to remember them + actually continue to think about them.

MUST. Share his interest in monsters/animals. This is very important. Like there must be a shared interest there whether its just about anatomy, behavior, etc. I just think he needs to be accepted to talk about this and share fun facts. He likes it. Cooking or an interest in food would also be another plus.

Also just? He likes really easygoing people who aren't super judgemental. Laios is really unapologetically himself and he gets chewed out for it by his friends enough. He's very self aware when it comes to his own issues (esp by the end of the manga) so. Yeah. Just someone who he doesn't feel the need to mask around.

Honestly, maybe someone childish would fit his vibe too? I mean this in a more lighthearted sense. Like someone he could play tag with or goof around in the woods with. He missed out on being a kid for a while, and he's still kinda interested in stuff like that (bug collecting, cool rocks, etc.). Even in post manga he still wants this.

Also uhhhh beastkin/monsters/whatever of any kind get bonus points. Do they have to be this way? No. But. It would definitely do some favors to be feral/wild in some way like this.

Kabru:

Okay I am not saying this is healthy or anything, but Kabru is ridiculously attracted to fixer-uppers. The main character/savior/hero complex kicks in and he cannot help it.

This can either be super good for him if the person is like. not terrible and is actually okay with this. but uh. that isn't always the case. Bro is often setting himself up for some sort of situationship most of the time. He cannot catch a break.

But he totally needs to be confronted about this to have a relationship work out. Hope you can be at least a little assertive!

Oh and the people pleasing. It's going so far. Please, I-....

He needs to be stopped.

Ultimately. He's gonna go after the people who show the least interest in him and this SPECIFICALLY comes from his own insecurities as a person.

But in the end he's gonna truly fall for someone who can put their foot down and confront him about these issues. He's so insightful and perceptive when it comes to others and can easily point out and help you with you're own shortcomings. But he is super blind to his own faults. Legit does not. Even realize.

He honestly needs someone to help him grow, because in my eyes I can see him like even post manga being pretty stagnant here so . Yeah. You don't need to be like some badass assertive person either. As long as you can just sit down and have a serious conversation w him about this I think it'd go well.

And he'd fall for you because I think it's the first time he genuinely sees someone who recognizes things that are bad about him + still loves him despite that + wants him to grow as a person and assert his own wishes and needs more. Yeah. I just have a lot of feelings about that.

Chilchuck:

This goes two ways.

Non Toxic Route

He'd easily see himself falling for someone mature and responsible. It would start out as just a professional admiration but it would slowly become more intimate as Chilchuck starts to enjoy their more unique personality traits (and even ones he'd consider annoying) --like being feisty, or maybe they're picky, or they can be silly sometimes. That type of thing.

It's a total slow burn with him.

But he also likes people who are more lowkey. Chilchuck is not a "falls for you immediately/puppy love" kinda guy. He's jaded and has a past and has KIDS so. He needs to be treated gently and not rushed into things. Anyone who lets him come to them and start to be more affectionate without demanding it...yeah. Handle him with care PLEASE.

And speaking of this...he wants to keep up appearances since he does value his professional life and has kids and an ex-wife. So he wants someone that can blend into this life without causing drama or more headaches (his party gives him plenty. pls.)

"Toxic"/Not Gonna Last Route

Chilchuck is easily motivated by the more basic pleasures of life, so I can definitely see him having a bootycall that becomes some weird "what are we" type of vibe.

He's like...in the back of his mind the type to enjoy a "dirty little secret". Something he thinks only him and this person know about. But as time goes on he eventually gets emotionally involved with them and is like "we need to cut this off".

It is an extremely painful breakup on his end for sure and makes him more jaded when its literally! His own fault.

[neonscandal]

Hello, I have a question about whether I considered Suguru's best friend because he didn't see that his best friend was sick, that makes me so angry. One thing I'm sure of is that if it were the other way around, Suguru would definitely help Gojo and that's the saddest thing.

I'll start by saying that, canonically, Satoru was Suguru's best friend and Suguru was Satoru's best friend. Gratuitous justification isn't really needed since it's in the source material and not just implied.

I agree that, had it been the other way around, Suguru would have noticed but that's because Suguru was the more emotionally intelligent person in their relationship. He was sensitive, humble and was able to put others at ease, earning the approval of Haibara, the respect of Nanami and, of course, his close friendship with Shoko and Gojo.

How did Gojo (and Shoko, for that matter) miss such telltale signs? Well, it happens all the time, doesn't it? Isn't that why people always say, "Check on your strong friends,"? The fact is, you don't know until you know. They never could have imagined he'd veer so far off path, Suguru was the very best among them.

How he goes off to spiral in the shadows alone despite Shoko and Satoru looking back - all the easter eggs will never not get me.

How could Gojo not see what was happening? The simplest way to explain it is... people can only meet you as deeply as they've met themselves. Gojo can have all the history and Digimon at his disposal but this abundance of information makes him a mile wide and an inch deep, emotionally. Even after Geto’s defection, his greatest loss, he still lacks the emotional intelligence to prepare Yuji for the pitfalls every sorcerer must learn to bounce back from. But now, he’s aware of this flaw, knows what can happen and he subsequently enlists the help of Nanami to proactively address that because he still isn’t the man who knows how to navigate that. Even then. Doesn't make what happened to Geto any less tragic. Also doesn’t change the fact that they were each others’ best friends because we accept the flaws of the people we love. Geto knew Gojo had the emotional competence of a spoon. It’s why he always had to nag him. Gojo’s persisting acceptance of Geto, despite everything, shows how deep their friendship was, reciprocally, despite his shortcomings.

If only Geto knew that.

[the-darklings]

──𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞 [𝐗𝐈.]

summary: "We begin... with a spin."

pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader

wc: 16.2k+

warnings: gonna break your heart one last time, Dream is still Dream (reluctantly affectionate)

notes: all good things come to an end : )

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ: Rule the World (Odyssey Version) by Take That

1:32 ───|────── 4:55

part one | series masterlist | ao3 |

PART ELEVEN: BEYOND.

“Who are you?” 

“I am Destiny of the Endless.”

“And who am I?”

“You are the one who wanders. You will do so until the universe ceases.”

“Why?”

“Because you have been cursed to do so. Because you chose no shackles, no roots. You wished, instead, to roam free. And now you shall.”

“Why?”

“Because all is as it is meant to be, Wanderer.”

“Why?”

“Because you wished to break your destiny. And so you did.”

.

“I knew a lad called Jack Constantine once.”

Book in hand, you step around Hob, licking the dryness from your lips. Copper lingers on your tongue. “Same family.”

He perks up at your subdued comment, arms unfolding from where they rested over his chest.

“Nah, really?” He mulls it over for a moment. “Wait, that actually makes a lot of sense. He was a bit of a twat.”

Johanna sniffs. “Piss off.”

Late evening sun streams through the blinds, bathing the dark wood office in syrupy, golden-brown light. Books and notes lay scattered everywhere you look, each inch utilised fully. Johanna leans her hands on the table, squinting at the grimoire laid open. She’s been chewing on her lip for the last five minutes. That doesn’t bode well. 

“No can do,” Hob replies, hitching his shoulders with a proud smile. “I’m here on strict business.”

Dropping the grimoire Johanna requested on the table, you shoot them both a look, “Are you two done?” Your attention swivels towards the necromancer despite your trembling hands, finding her delicate features pinched. “Can you find Jed Walker?”

She huffs, her brows folding inwards. “You’re asking me to find a needle in a haystack of seven billion, give or take. I’m not a bloody witch. I don’t just cook up locator spells. I deal with demons and the dead.”

Bracing your hand on the table to mirror her, you soften your voice, “I understand what I’m asking for.”

“I’ll need time to figure this out,” she admits tightly. 

Private displeasure colours Johanna’s voice, and you nod in defeat. It’s hard to admit any shortcoming, much less one rooted in one’s power. While Johanna may be more powerful than most mortals can comprehend, it’s not power without gaps. She’s still so young. But, as with all Constantines you’ve known, there now sparks that fiery, stubborn drive, seemingly blazing from within. This is a challenge and one she’s set to overcome. 

“What about the other?” she poses abruptly, turning several pages in the grimoire. Her index finger trails over the yellowed pages, glued to another spell. “Do you have anything of theirs? You said this one has magical protection?”

“It’s conjecture,” you clarify. “But he’s been able to skirt me for over a century, so I’m left with one conclusion.”

Hob whistles under his breath. “A century? Bloody hell, you must be eager to find him.”

Memories flutter to life, birds caught in flight. A tall man with blonde hair, a dangerous smirk, and your blurred reflection dancing across his shaded glasses. Nothing more than a twisted memory that’s all fangs and blood. To file this want under ‘eager’ would be insulting. This specific longing comes with both elation and dread. Horror at what you might discover. This ignorance is no more than a flimsy illusion. You’ve spent the last century following Corinthian’s every crime, experiencing it as if he executed them on you instead. 

“I can’t promise this will work,” Johanna continues, oblivious to your internal struggle. Your attention snags on Hob, who is watching you with deep creases denting his forehead. There’s old, shrewd awareness in how he examines your rumpled appearance. “At best, I might be able to cloak you. Again, locator spells are not my speciality. At all.”

You clear your mind, pushing away from the wooden fixture. “ What if I gave up an object? It’s old, full of history. Would I be able to form a tether?

You’ve seen such spells performed—you know they’re possible and incredibly advantageous when done right. 

Johanna glares down at the grimoire for a beat, silent. Her chin lifts suddenly, her narrow-eyed stare harsh and biting. There’s digging intensity to how she inspects your appearance from head to toe, and you bristle at the probing check. 

“You look like shit,” she says bluntly. “I don’t think you should be doing any tethering to anything.”

Your teeth gnash. “Can it be done, Constantine?”

Tension barbs through the room. Hob sighs, making you even more defensive because you can instinctively tell it’s about to become two against one. “We’re not daft, you know,” he says quietly. “It’s clear you’re unwell.” 

Your eyes flutter shut. Forcing your jaw to relax, you mull over the most palatable way you can deliver this information to them. It’s clear from their wonderfully human determination that they’re not going to let this drop until they have more context. 

“Fine.” Filling your lungs with oxygen, you hold your breath, gathering yourself. How difficult it is to draw oxygen should probably concern you. “Remember how I told you I’ve been experimenting? Well, I’ve exercised a degree of control over the curse. The travelling part, at least. I can force it to take me places I want, but it… costs me. Physically.”

Johanna folds her arms over her chest, humming in consideration. “Cost, eh? How steep?”

These damn Constantines. 

The setting sun warms your cool cheek, and some invisible restraint in you loosens your invisible cast dropping. “Internal injuries. Bleeding, tissue tears, organ failure, haemorrhaging. It heals, but slowly. Excruciatingly so. If I abuse controlled travel too often, I can pass out. Slip into a temporary coma until internal damage heals. Vomiting, mobility issues, dizziness, hallucinations—take your pick.”

You’re avoiding direct eye contact, but utter silence encompasses the office when your words sink in. 

Hob gathers himself first. “Jesus Christ.”

Shrugging, you say, “It’s fine. I’m getting better at controlling it.”

“Which part of that is fine?” Hob’s voice is barbed with horror. “None of that is fine.”

You wish neither of them were looking at you like this. Rattled, aghast, alight with shades of sadness. It's so much easier to handle this when no one is standing there reminding you of the ugly aspects of this curse.

“Can it be done?” you bite out. 

Johanna wipes emotion from her face, stretching out her hand, palm up. “Show me this item.” 

Without a preamble, you hand her the roughened wooden figurine. Your stomach roils at the sight. Desperately your fingers clench and unclench in the folds of your coat, blunt nails biting into your palms. The urge to snatch back the figurine is bone-breaking. 

Johanna rolls the item in her hand, scanning it with eyes that see far beyond its material form. She’s digging deeper into what history—power—the object contains. “It might work,” she muses pensively. “I’ll cloak you, but the spell will have a time limit. The further away you are from me, the shorter the timer will be. Whoever it is won’t see you coming, but I can’t promise you the exact location.”

The grim determination bubbling in your gut answers: “Just get me as close as you can.”

.

Swirls of colours and shapes; loud, jarring noises, spinning, spinning, nails raking through the skin—

“Make it stop, make it stop—”

It doesn’t stop. There’s only colour—sound—sound—breaking—madness. And it doesn’t stop for a very long time.

.

A thousand reflections stare back at you. 

“Coward.”

“Traitor.”

“Murderer.”

“I’m not,” you gasp. “I’m not.”

Do it, do it, do it—

A rat scurries past your arm, disappearing into the hoary mist, and you flinch. 

No matter how loudly you plead for forgiveness, for relief, there’s only endless despair and glass cutting into your palms. 

.

Flower fields. Sunshine. Peace. 

A tall, pale, looming man with twin stars for eyes stands over you. 

“What does the Lord of Dreams dream about?”

No reply.

But for the first time since you’ve woken up as you: hope. 

A beautiful dream. 

.

“Who did you say you were again?”

Mighty, leathery wings block out whatever light there once was, the newcomer’s pale hair shining like a halo around their fair face. 

“I am an angel, here to save you,” a benign, soothing voice coos, followed by fingers tracing over your bloodied jawline. “If only you help me.”

“By doing what?” you slur, blood and sweat trickling down your split brow. “By spying on the Endless? On Dream?”

“Do not fear. I alone can protect you. Your purpose is to merely… observe.”

Demons hiss and growl around you, and you flex your newly healed jaw. They broke it four times in succession. So much for talking back. Scorched dirt beneath your feet stains with your congealing blood, and you chuckle. The croaking sound grows in volume until your throat bleeds. 

It’s answer enough. 

Your bones quiver under the sheer power of Morningstar’s displeasure. “Take this one away. Make sure there’s nothing left.”

The demons make good on that order. 

.

Johanna pierces the world map with a letter opener, every inch cutting in with deliberate slowness. Candles flicker, settling after the spell, and you taste the magick at the back of your throat. 

“Georgia, U-S of A,” the necromancer announces, loosening a breath.

“Great,” Hob chirps, his arm brushing against yours. “That’s just brilliant. It’s across the bloody ocean, that is.”

Johnna shoots him a venomous look. “Oh, sorry. Were you hoping for a nice trip down Brighton?”

Hob stares at her blankly in the shadowed office. He turns your way slowly as if mutely asking do you believe her?

You do. You’ve dealt with enough Constantines in your lifetime to ensure their sarcastic, surly nature is no longer a shock. 

“You’re a highly unpleasant woman,” Hob concludes, though no real malice lingers in his tone or bearing. 

“Thank you, Constantine,” you cut in before they can break into another bickering session. “There’s one more thing.”

The brunette rolls her eyes. “Is there now?”

“Magdalene’s Grimoire,” you begin deliberately. Johanna freezes. “I want you to locate it and retrieve it for me.”

Your companions speak simultaneously:

“Why?”

“You believe it has something to do with your curse, don’t you?” 

Ignoring Hob’s incredulous outcry, you nod towards Johanna. Pain twinges suddenly in your core, and your breaths slow until you get a grip on yourself. But it’s slow. Numbing pain laps at your senses for a debilitating minute until it clears once more. The curse wants to drag you in a thousand directions, but you don’t permit it. 

You right yourself again, swallowing over your dry tongue. Your temples throb insistently. 

“I think it’s old—older than people assume and has spells that no mortal should have access to.” You lean towards the map, examining the range letter opener has offered. You’ve been to Georgia several times previously, but long ago. “Roderick Burgess might have gotten lucky, but the mere fact there’s a spell there that can help capture an Endless… I find that curious. Unlike what your records indicate, he was not the first Magus, but he was the last. This means the grimoire has to be with his family—likely his son—or someone relating to them. I’ll pay you.”

Somehow. 

“Are you joking?” Johanna scoffs immediately. “One of the most powerful grimoires known to humanity? I’ll find it for free. Imagine what I could learn from it.”

Your stare glides to her unhurriedly, fixing on her fair complexion. She visibly falters at whatever she spies in your cool regard. “Within reason… and for the good of humanity. Scout's honour.”

Hob squints at her. “You’re not even American.”

“Shut… up,” she mutters, shooting him another nasty look. 

You tug your coat free when it catches on a chair, slotting your hands in your pockets. “Thank you, both of you. Is the spell active?”

“Yes, but it won’t hold long at this distance,” Johanna warns. 

Your attention latches on the wooden figurine on her desk. It’s wrong—it feels so wrong to have it out of your grasp, to feel nothing more than Dream’s pebble warming your hand. You try not to think about him now or your last conversation together. Instead, you focus on the thread woven around your heart, tugging you away and over the ocean. 

“I won’t be back for at least two weeks, but see what you can discover in that time,” you tell them. 

Hob balances on his heels, presenting Johanna with a charming grin. “Well, I guess I ought to help you.”

The sorceress scowls. “I don’t need your help.”

“Everyone needs help,” Hob counters.

Levelling them with a fond look, you wordlessly head towards the door while they verbally spar. Your hand briefly braces your chest, feeling the unsteady thud beneath your palm. You’ve been jumping too often, too far, and too rapidly for your body to recover. But just a bit more. Then you can rest. 

You’re almost at the end of a darkened hallway before an urgent voice sounds behind you, accompanied by brisk strides in your direction. 

“Wait, wait…”

You’re not even slightly surprised to hear Hob behind you or feel his fingers wrap around your bicep. Street light filtering through the window paints over his taut features, creating a pronounced tale of two sides. Light and dark. Young and older than anyone can comprehend. Quite fitting for both of you. 

“Take me with you,” Hob says, imploring edge laced beneath his lighthearted manner. It pinches your heart. “You know what they say: two immortals are better than one, eh?”

If things were less dangerous, less volatile, if it were anyone but Corinthian, you would take him up on his offer. You would love nothing more—two immortals going on an adventure. Hob has known the same horrors, similar hardships, countless failures and highs. Together you’re as effortless as breathing, as familiar as old friends meeting after years apart. You’ve felt that kinship with him from the first moment you locked eyes in that overcrowded pub, sitting there soaked and miserable. 

But this is the Corinthian. Even if Hob is the one human with nothing to fear from the nightmare, this goes much deeper. Soul deep. Perhaps deeper still. This conflict is between you, Corinthian, and Dream. It’s always been a tale of three parts, interwoven into a single, unbreakable thread. 

“Hob Gadling, you are a gem,” you say softly, placing your hand on his warm cheek. An unsure smile forms across his mouth. “And maybe one day I will. But this… this is something I must do alone.”

“You don’t, though. You realise that, right?” Hob argues softly, fiercely. “There are people who care about you.”

You think about the Dreaming and its occupants, all the mortals and other beings you’ve encountered in your many travels. Friends and companions who have told you to visit, stay, there is always a place for you here even when they knew you could do no such thing without putting them at risk. You think about the Endless—your becoming and undoing.

Your hand slips away from him, your faint smile hollow. “I do. Two weeks.”

.

The Endless are formidable individually. The raw power holding this universe together, given form and reason. Their realms are kingdoms that put others to shame. You’ve visited plenty by now to draw the unsurprising conclusion. Dealing with each sibling is an exercise in patience, tact, and subtle respect in differing shades. 

Sitting in the same room as seven of them makes you want to crawl out of your skin and run for the hills. You’ve met them individually in the past. There’ve been a handful of occasions where you encountered several simultaneously. But never all together in the same room like this. 

They’re terrible and wonderful and so suffocating in their casual existence that every instinct in your mortal body warns you of one indisputable truth:

“I shouldn’t be here.”

Death shakes her head promptly, giving you a stern glance. “Nonsense, sweetheart,” she asserts. “You’re right where you belong. Isn’t that right, Destiny?”

Destiny of the Endless sits unmoving, only his mouth visible behind his flowing, beige hood. His hand rests on the Book of Destiny, pale but relaxed. Whenever Destiny does move, the chain connecting him to the book rattles through your bones. 

He hosts these family gatherings, though all Endless have equal prominence in this universe and its continuous function. Despite it, from your angle, it appears as if he’s the one at the head of the table. Oldest and certainly the most overwhelming in his sheer aura. It took him a simple swipe of his hand for an additional chair to materialise at the table for you. For his fluttering, eerily silent attendants to lay a plate and glass on either side of you. 

“All is as it should be, sister,” Destiny replies, his voice whistling wind through dry leaves. 

Your pulse beats against the curve of your throat. If your stomach weren’t already empty, you would likely be throwing up right now. 

Death grins brightly, pleased. Her smile is no doubt meant to be reassuring when she angles back towards you. “See, that’s a yes.”

Your words form clumsily on your tongue, “I didn’t mean to impose—”

Sitting on your left, Delirium tightens her grip on you, cutting your words short. Her chair had been dragged towards yours, your arms linked despite the uncomfortable angle. The scent of leather, sweat, and burnt sugar bites into your nostrils. Today, her hair keeps flickering between bright orange, yellow, and neon green. 

“Uhm… impose?” she mutters. Her words flow so swiftly that it’s an effort to keep up. “No, no, imposing to be imposed on, and, um, imposing is impolite. What is impolite?”

“To impose would be impolite, yes.” Your words come out measured. “Like that man. You went into his home.”

“Well, he, well, he wasn’t a very good man.” Delirium’s voice thins, frustration biting into each syllable. On your other side, you sense Destruction turning in your direction. Tension blinks out from Delirium’s lovely features, her different-coloured eyes shining in the dimly lit room. “I made him see colours. Really pretty, pretty colours.”

Yes, she certainly did. You’re hopeful the man received a swift death via villagers, others having no doubt concluded him mad or consorting with devils and demons. As if to illustrate her point, Delirium lightly positions her thumb and index fingers together, forming an O. She giggles, blowing air, and much to your unspoken wonder, multicoloured bubbles float through the air. Some remain bubbles, bloated and bobbing. Others shape into animals and birds. 

“I am not an Endless,” you remind, feeling foolish for doing so. As if anyone could mistake you for one of them. Your eyes briefly skim over each sibling, shifting in your seat for the dozenth time. “I don’t think it’s right for me to be here.”

Despair, sitting opposite to you beside her twin, hoods her eyes. The metal hook on her finger digs into her chin. Blood bubbles beneath the honed metal. “Yes. Mortal.”

Her whispering, thin voice blankets you, and your insides ball up. 

Destruction chuckles on your right, deep and echoing in the dining hall, smoothing over your suddenly chilled, clammy skin. “Sister, do you meet many mortals who live over three hundred years? I see no harm in you being here, dear Wanderer.”

Desire stretches indolently in their seat, candlelight washing over their indescribable features. Scoff ripples from their chest, their chin dropping in their open palm. 

“Right, is anyone else opposed to Wanderer being here?” Desire voices, sweeping a challenging look around the table. When no one speaks, Desire shrugs, arms open at their sides. “See, sweet thing, relax. Have some fruit.”

They pointedly push the fruit basket closer towards you. The fruit does look tasty, and you hadn’t eaten in two days, but don't think you can stomach it right now. 

Dream casts an inpatient glance Destiny’s way. In extravagant robes, Dream Lord appears the most disgruntled with being summoned. “Why are we here, Destiny? You do not call upon the family without a cause.”

Destiny’s answer comes predictably vague: “You are here, brother Dream. That is all.”

Despite your unease to be dropped into their family meeting, annoyance pinpricks you at his words. Always the same ambiguity, always what the book dictates, and never what someone might feel. Destiny is not human. It would be unfair for you to hold any of the Endless to mortal standards. For you to expect them to comprehend sentiments that are so far out of their reach. 

It doesn’t take away from the sting, though. At least this time, the curse was mindful enough to drop you inside Destiny’s stronghold inside the Garden of Forking Ways. Last time, you found yourself helplessly lost inside the boundless maze for weeks. Destiny did nothing to aid you—it was as it was meant to be. You associate him most closely with that wild animal fear and sheer helplessness. You can’t help it. 

“Why the rush?” Desire calls out, interrupting your thoughts. “Eager to get back to another failed relationship, sweet Dream?”

Shadows coil around Dream Lord’s feet, seated between Delirium and Death. You silently question if it’s a purposeful partition. 

“That’s enough from you, sibling,” Dream warns. 

Desire’s lovely mouth spreads into a quick, beaming smile; all teeth bared and tawny eyes aglow with sadistic amusement. A predator having scented blood. “Oh, come on now,” they coo. “We all come here to talk as a family; even lovely Wanderer is present. Yet you think yourself above everything. Your realm, your rules—we’ve heard it all before! You’re oh so dull.”

Despair slumps beside her twin, face downcast. “Dull. Yes, rather dull indeed.”

“And are you perhaps bored, my sibling?” Dream returns, a slight pinch to his imperious features. His voice remains perfectly aloof. From this outsider’s perspective, it’s easy to see why Desire views Dream as supercilious. “Did you run out of adequate ways to amuse yourself?”

Momentarily swallowing down your fear, you slant your head over to one side, “Dream.”

Dream pauses at your drawn, anxious expression. The ignited stars dim, draining away, but the hard slant of his broad shoulders doesn’t drop. 

“Oh, don’t run to his defence.” Desire’s voice is just edging on goading. Their nails tap on the wooden table when they cross their legs, leaning towards you. “This is quite characteristic. Surely you find him just as insufferable as the rest of us?”

Death’s retort is whip-sharp. “Desire. Shut up.”

Others around the table appear calmly accepting. They’ve seen this fight play out in the past a thousand times. While you’ve never demanded reasons for the bad blood between the two Endless, it’s clear it runs deep, a problem stemming from innumerable centuries long since past. And very clearly not a situation for you to get involved in. You’re not naive or arrogant enough to assume you can fix their problems for them. Neither Desire nor Dream seems particularly invested in settling anything, either. 

But inciting like this is dangerous. Desire has never attempted to spark arguments involving you in the past, no matter how spiteful the mood. 

As if mentally arriving at the same conclusion, Destruction’s rumbling words vocalise your unspoken plea: “Do not involve Wanderer in your quarrel, sibling.”

Delirium curls into herself, her legs raised on the chair and pressing into her chest. Her hold on your arm turns near painful. “Arguing, fights, it's not nice, but it… um… that’s not where Desire is supposed to be. It’s um… it’s somewhere else. It’s in Dreams.”

You’re not sure how to decode Delirium’s words. You once believed them to be mindless babbles. Then some phrases would come back to haunt you months or even years later. Whatever caused the turn in Delirium from Delight gave her foresight no other Endless seemed to possess. Save, perhaps, Destiny. 

Desire’s fingers curl beneath their pointed chin. Desire surveys you, then his older brother, with a feline's slowness. “Well, well. Aren’t you two sweet on each other?”

This time, the darkness curling beneath Dream’s chair becomes physical. Visible even to your mortal eye. 

“Cease your poisonous stipulations,” Dream says icily. 

Desire scoffs, dropping back in their seat with a graceful, seductive stretch. Heat encompasses your being, pouring in the crevices of your skin. Desire’s effect is all but impossible to escape this close. 

“Is it not my function, oh dear brother of mine, to sow desire in the hearts of all living things, mortal and otherwise? What are they without their desires?” The Endless straightens just as swiftly, their elbows digging back into the table while they eye you, chin back in their hands. Something cruel and fragmented, endlessly amused, slides through those golden irises—an intent you’ve never seen Desire direct your way until now. “Come, my sweet, doesn’t it get dreary? All those mortals set on your suffering? Surely you have missed the sweet, loving embrace of Desire? I could make you desire anything… even a kiss.”

And then…

The world melts away, and everything once making up your being bows and folds under the power pressing into you. You’re but a child. You are atoms. And you’ve forgotten how terrible their power could be once unleashed. 

There’s only cocoon and darkness and golden, glowing eyes beckoning you, warming you, bewitching you. Your limbs are too far away to control, your will dulled into thin, worn paper—brittle to the touch. Your skin is too hot, and the air in your lungs is insufficient. It feels so good. So good, so good—

Even a kiss, even a kiss, even a kiss—

Your limbs are on strings, tugged in one direction, then another. Distantly, horror chokes you, and you scratch at the walls inside your mind, clawing for some semblance of control, but there’s only a sultry embrace of desire. 

“Desire, no—”

“Stop—”

“Enough.” Something inside your chest trembles at that single word’s sheer, unbridled power. Your numbed senses are clear but not enough to free you. You're trapped, caught on the verge of awareness. “You dare.”

“Now, now, dear Dream. Did I get under your skin? It’s but jest. Lighten up.”

Few stars emerge in your blackened vision, guiding you closer. They urge you forward to safety, but you’re unable to move. It feels good to be here, so good and hot. There’s no pain, only desire and pleasure—

“We do not control mortals, sister-brother. Their will is their own. Release Wanderer.”

Destiny’s tepid command shreds through the heated, desire-filled veil. You return to yourself with a choked gasp, snapping into your tiny mortal body with a painful lurch. It’s overwhelming. Every sense was smothered to such a degree, it’s as if everything is twice as heightened now. 

“Are you insane?” Death snaps. You’ve never heard her this angry until now. There’s always a smile on her face and a playful gleam in her eyes. But you’re too busy shaking to be afraid. “What was that, huh?”

Your hands convulse. Bloody indents line your palms. Your nails must have cut into your skin hard enough to draw blood. You fought. But what can a mortal do when faced with an Endless? You were erased, folded down to nothing. You are nothing. 

Voices melt into one. You’re too shaken to separate them. When some semblance of awareness settles in, you realise how awful these… seconds, minutes, or hours have truly been. 

You’re half straddling Destruction, arms half wrapped around his broad shoulders, your mouth near his neck. Horror liquefies your limbs, rooting you in your spot. Too much—it’s too much. Humiliation leaves you immobile, but Destruction rests his hand between your shoulder blades, his gaze kind and concerned beneath his bunched eyebrows.  

“Are you well?” he asks quietly over the clamour behind you.

Your chin wobbles. Shame lashes your skin. You’ve been used as no more than a puppet to be thrown at him. On him. Like some mindless whore. A witless worshipper, begging for their chosen god’s favour, not understanding what they’re inviting. How the gods are never kind. How they only use and break for their amusement. 

Even though Destruction doesn’t appear angry, you can’t stop yourself from croaking out, “I… I… I’m sorry.”

His sympathetic frown is visible even beneath his thick beard. He cradles you to him but with gentleness indicating how fragile he believes you to be at this moment. “Do not fret. It is quite alright, my friend.”

“Can you…?”

Your words splinter. The burn behind your eyes turns painfully prickly. Destruction’s handsome face creases further. He nods mutely, carefully manoeuvring your body to a standing position. His large hand presses between your shoulder blades, steading and hot through your thin robes. His fingers fold slightly, protectively. Your gratitude for his unprompted support is immeasurable. An anchor while your knees shake.

“It was a joke,” Desire calls out over his siblings. “Desire is who I am. It’s all in good fun. Isn’t that right, sweet thing?”

Your shoulders spasm, your back still to them. Your insides churn at the prompt, and you’re unsure if you’re about to be sick, cry, or some horrific mix of both. 

You thought… you were foolish enough to assume… 

How many times have you landed in the Threshold, thrilled to see Desire? How often have you shared jokes, laughs, and peaceful evenings and mornings in the twilight land? What other touch or embrace have you known over three centuries that didn’t end in agony but Desire’s? You’ve told them numerous times you have no preference for any sibling in their family—that you cherish Desire’s company as much as others, perhaps even more so. Because with Desire, you could remember what it’s like to be human—to want and need. 

You had foolishly believed you were friends. 

Now you see the truth. You feel the horrible, numbing heat licking across your flesh—the aftermath of this ultimate betrayal. Desire’s power shimmers on the outskirts of your mind, ready to devour you anew. Rob you of reason and choice. 

“I—you… I trusted you.” Everyone falls silent at your frayed words, scraping through the eerily quiet dining hall. When you rotate clumsily towards them, you look only at Desire. You avoid others. Your humiliation burns too brightly for anything else. “You… just made me feel like nothing. You degraded me. I’m no more than a thing for you to play with.”

Some foreign emotion spasms briefly through Desire’s face—gone in a blink. Their answering smile is so patronising a deeper crack splinters your chest. “Wanderer. Be a good sport. It was simply a bit of fun.”

A bit of fun. 

Desire can be fickle, and it can be cruel. But you’ve forgotten just how cruel they could be. To Desire, this is no more than a practical joke. You’re only a silly mortal. No wonder you don’t get the joke. You’ll get over yourself soon enough. But no one else is laughing or smiling, either. Even Despair in your peripheral remains hunched and mute, typically first to her twin’s defence. 

“Fun.” 

The word shatters something between you the second you voice it. You can see it on Desire’s face. The realisation settling in. There is no regret, no apology. Nor will there ever be. It’s clear from the dismissive curl of Desire’s mouth. They don’t see anything wrong with what just transpired. 

It makes it worse. So much worse. 

“Wanderer, brother Destruction. Sit.”

Destiny’s perfectly poised voice shreds whatever little composure you’ve been clinging onto. 

“You knew, didn’t you?” The accusation rips through the room like wildfire. You shake off Destructions comforting touch, your lungs filling with air and spilling out fire. “You knew Desire was going to do that. That’s the only reason why you permitted me to stay. Do I not suffer every day? Or do you enjoy making me into your little plaything? Have I not been humiliated enough for your amusement?”

Destiny says nothing. 

You shove away from the table with disgust. Your feet tangle before you command your sluggish limbs. Death rise after you immediately.

“Wanderer—”

You flinch away from her extended hand, from all of them. You don’t care what invisible line you may be overstepping. “Don’t touch me,” you spit out. “I never should have stayed.”

Your feet carry you several paces until another, more resounding voice calls, “Wanderer.”

A part of you doesn’t understand why you pause or look back. Dream’s gaze sears into you. Yet you can’t untangle a single thing you see burrowed there. He’s standing as well, his hand flat on the table. Foolishly, you hope he will come after you, say something in defence of you. But Dream is Dream. He’s likely just as clueless about why you took this so badly as others. Perhaps the fury you see glimmering in those starlit eyes is but your imagination. Another pretty lie your sentimental, human heart would be all too happy to convince yourself of. 

He doesn’t move. You pivot away, your shoulders hunching. 

Desire’s chuckle licks at your back, silky and smooth. “So tense, that one. It was only a bit of fun.” 

No one laughs. No one responds. 

Only a bit of fun.

“Take me away, take me away from here,” you sob, stumbling into a shadowed hallway.

For once, the curse listens. 

.

Rivulets of sweat drip down your back. The puddle of blood at your feet is starting to go dark. These observations float from somewhere beyond the dense fog shrouding your mind. It’s so difficult to focus. Wiping across your sweaty forehead, you lean on your arm, breathing deeply. You’ve forgotten how suffocating the humidity could be here in Georgia. 

Mercifully only heat-blurred fields surround you. The vast, open stretch of highway is all you see on either side.

Lights dance in your vision, your ears ringing. Maybe it’s the curse and not the heat. Your limbs obey no command, barely held together by sheer stubborn will to follow the tether pulsing in your chest. The spell’s power is already dimming. You have no choice but to jump. This is your only chance to get to Corinthian first. 

“Come on… come on… I don’t obey you.” Your nails scrape on the heated metal, your head hanging low. “You obey me.”

Your tongue rolls the words clumsily. No matter how much you swallow, more saliva floods your mouth, causing your stomach to cramp. Your knees beg to fold beneath you. Lay down in this tall grass and wait for the inevitable that will never arrive. It’s foolish. Death is far from the worst thing that can befall an individual. It was the very first lesson you learned. 

Digging deeper, you claw and yank on the curse’s power, squeezing it until the bleed becomes physical. Until your limbs rip from one place to another. 

When you settle back into your body, skin stinging, your knees hit the ground immediately. Blood dribbles past your lips, your sweat-covered forehead pressing into the soft dirt. You pant loudly, blood trickling past your cracked lips. Pain is coming from everywhere. Sounds mangle into each other when you attempt to raise your head. Your stomach protests viciously, leaving you dry heaving. Nothing but more blood escapes your body. 

A hotel sign. It’s the first thing you register. You’ve landed near one, practically on it. Your fingernails dig into the dirt as you stumble into a standing position. The tether Johanna’s spell has threaded pulses harder and faster in your chest. There. Corinthian has to be there. 

Cradling your sore midsection, you painstakingly make your way towards the hotel. Relentless heat melts your already nonexistent strength reserves down to nothing. 

Several people glance in your direction when you push through the reception door. In this climate, your attire certainly raises eyebrows, but you remind yourself there’s no way Corinthian can know you’re here this time.

“Can I help you?”

You stumble to a stop, breathing heavily. A man with a tiny hat and a nametag reading Fun Land sits behind a table, his annoyance palpable while he stares at you expectedly. It takes considerable effort to gather the strength required to speak. 

“No.”

You turn to go. 

“Hey, woah! This is a convention-only area. Can’t you read?”

Following the direction the man is gesturing wildly towards, you find a board reading Cereal Convention printed in large, bold letters. The rest blurs, sweat stinging your eyes. You work your jaw. 

“No,” you repeat.

The man’s petulant glare would be comical if you were in a better mood. 

“You can’t go here,” he declares stiffly. 

Your fingers curl weakly, convulsing at your sides. You didn’t come this far to be precluded from finding Corinthian by a goddamn sign. By a cereal convention. Cereal convention. Cereal. At the back of your foggy mind, something nags at you. 

Your brows dip inwards, your gaze slipping towards the man. His bravado stutters, washing away from him. He shrinks backwards the longer you stare at him, his throat working on a gulp. Your lips compress into a stiffer line. Someone brushes behind you, stepping up to the table. Fun Land exhales in audible relief, serving them, pretending he’s too busy to pay you further notice. 

Fine. You’ll find another way. 

Stalking outside, you keep to the shade, leaning into the wall for support. It doesn’t take long to track down the delivery entrance. Every hotel has one, and depending on the time of day, they’re not the best protected. Like right now, in the afternoon, after housekeeping has gone home, leaving only a handful of staff on standby.  

He’s in here somewhere. The hotel corridors melt together. Beige walls and stale, humid air. They warp, smearing together into nothing but sensation. You’re a rat caught inside yet another maze. Sickness churns inside your stomach. 

And then, impossibly, you see him. 

A pale head of golden hair illuminated by washed-out light, his back to you while he strolls ahead and away from you. 

“Corinthian.”

The raspy exhale ricochets. The nightmare stops dead in his tracks. Until this precise second, he wasn’t there, wasn’t real, but with his name, the nightmare becomes a reality. Corridor may separate you, but the spell winks out, confirming your suspicion. 

Aircon buzzes through the long, otherwise vacant corridor. Your heart thunders in your ears. 

Then, Corinthian speaks: “You shouldn’t be here.”

A sob wells in your chest at his drawling, smooth words. Nearly two hundred years you haven’t seen him. Over a century seeking him out, having to live with the ramifications of atrocities he’s been inflicting. And now, here, it’s just you and him. You’re not sure which sensation pulses in you stronger: anger or relief. 

Your mouth quivers, your tongue dragging across your dry, cracked lips. “I searched for you.”

“I know you did,” he replies listlessly, his back still facing you. It hurts, because you were right. He’s been knowingly avoiding you. As if reading your mind, Corinthian raises his hand, and your stomach shrivels when you spot your ring firm on his finger. “I have this to thank you for, but it would seem you found me out anyway. Shame.”

The ring. Of course. 

A small piece of humanity for you to hold. I told you, they’re not all bad. I hope this can help you experience it.

And experience it he did. An essential part of yourself put away in that ring must have given him a sense of your presence nearby. He used your own present against you. 

The Corinthian finally turns to face you, all but unchanged except for his modern hairstyle and refined round shades. You want to say so many things to him that your tongue refuses to work altogether. A great chasm yawns between you, and you have no idea how to bridge it.

“What are you doing?” you ask at last. 

There’s no smirk or sly grin in sight. He’s as closed off as you. Despite his seeming indifference, you read the subtle tension lining Corinthian’s broad shoulders. He can hide from others, trick and lie to them if he pleases, but never you. 

“What I was made to do,” he replies tightly. 

“No. You’re hurting them.”

Corinthian’s jaw locks. “He made me in your image, Wanderer. Now I’m making the world in mine. I thought you’d be proud.”

A disbelieving scoff rips from your chest, burning your windpipe as if acid washed down it. “Proud?” you parrot. “You’re killing them.”

Your harsh condemnation dissolves whatever neutrality remains in the space between you. Prior uncertainty dashes beneath a strain of a century dripping in the blood of innocents. 

“Did they do less to you?” Corinthian’s voice is all nightmare; honeyed, cruel, and seductive. His head tilts playfully to one side. “How often did they torture you? Shun you? Sought to eradicate you? Still you defend them as you did him.”

Your sight muddies, and it takes a shake of your head to clear it. “You can’t punish all for crimes of a few.”

A snarl twists Corinthian’s mouth, his feet carrying him towards you in a measured, prowling stalk. 

“A few? They’re all the same: greedy, selfish, and cruel. The curse reveals. I reflect. They don’t change; they only learn how to hide better.” He pauses, licking his lips as he considers you. Something seems to occur to him, a faint laugh vibrating from his chest. “Do you have any idea how many times I stopped them? Punished them for hurting you? New Orleans in ‘31. Berlin in ‘43. Vienna in ‘55. Seoul in ‘62. Moscow in ‘71. Bangkok in ‘89. New York in ‘00. Why those were all me and then some. I was there. I’ve always been there.”

Each date punctures through you like a stray bullet. Honed and whetted for the single purpose of hurting you in a different sense. A fragmented nightmare. You’ve chased a mirage while the nightmare has spent a century mirroring your steps, keeping you safe from the shadows whenever your paths crossed unbeknownst to you. 

There’ve been times—

You thought you’d caught glimpses of him in decades-long since lost. But unfailingly, you’ve only ever found empty alleyways when you pursued these figments. Eventually, you stopped chasing these mirages. The pain was too great. But it’s never been just your overreactive imagination, has it? He was real. He was there. 

He’s spent a century killing indiscriminately while also keeping you safe. You want to scream at him for the evil he’s committed and cry from sheer relief he hasn’t forgotten you. 

“Then why hide?” you croak, stumbling closer. “Why not speak with me?”

“Oh, come now.” Corinthian clicks his tongue. He turns away, nostrils flaring, then turns to face you again. “You know why. You would have asked me to come back, and for you, I would have.”

His features blur, your words barely audible, “And would that have been so terrible?”

“Come back to what? Dream’s ball and chain?” Acidic words, despite their softness. His rage deflates instantly, a huffing laugh escaping him as if he’s surprised himself with the lapse. “You think he gives a fuck about either of us? He threw you out. You left.”

Indignation flares in your chest. “Not by choice.”

“Then you should have taken me with you. But you left me. All you ever do is play by Dream’s rules. I figured out how to leave the Dreaming back during Dreamfall, but I stayed. Wonder why.”

You have no response to that. You’re left standing there, gaping. For you. Who else? He had no one else there; no other reason to stay other than your presence. 

“So that’s it,” you begin shakily, your words rasping, sniffling. “All this because you believe I chose Dream and his rules over you?”

“What did you do to yourself?”

Corinthian’s voice has gone dreadfully quiet. Fiercely unhappy. Too late, you realise you’re sniffling because blood is dripping from your nose. Clumsily, you swipe the back of your hand over your chin. Crevices in your skin crack with dried blood. 

“It was never a choice, don’t you get it?” you whisper, your words pouring out thick and wet with emotion. “It’s always been you. Always. I was terrified the journey would destroy you. Had I known, I would have taken you with me in a heartbeat.”

Corinthian closes the remaining distance between you, grasping you by the forearms. It’s such a relief to have him near again. You sag into him, trembling. You try to raise your hand to wipe beneath your nose, but your limbs are too stiff to obey. 

“What did you do, Wanderer?” He sounds furious while he examines you, as if only now realising the extent of your deterioration. “What did you do yourself?”

“I had to get to you first,” you tell him. Blood smudges the lapels of his jacket where you grasp it. “Please, you have to stop. They don’t deserve this, Cori.”

He looks disgusted at your words, but your legs fail you before he responds. Corinthian catches you before your knees hit the carpeted ground.

“It hurts.” His words come out hissing, sharp with incredulity. “Why does it hurt?”

Your chin jolts upwards, your bloodstained smile trembling around the edges. “You know why. I’m inside of you. You can’t escape that.”

Neither of you can. You’ll carry him in you until your bitter end, as he will carry you until his. 

“Shh. I got you.” Corinthian tucks you into him when a whimper of pain escapes you. His hand cradles the back of your head. “I’m going to set us both free.”

And then, through horror, darkness closes in. 

.

Motion. 

“Who is that?”

A woman’s voice. Unfamiliar. 

“Oh, yes. This one is with me. Won’t you be a good girl and share that tidbit with others, so we don’t have any… complications. I appreciate it.”

“But I thought—”

Arms tighten around you possessively—the air coils, suffused with thick tension. 

“Good Doctor. No one touches this one. Or they'll have to deal with me. Personally.” 

Footsteps retreat near instantly, the atmosphere lightening in the absence. You’re resting on something velvety. You have no idea where you are, but you know you’re safe. 

“Cori…”

“Shh, I’ll be back before you know it.” Cold glass touches your lips. When your lips part, soothing water slips into your awaiting mouth. After several mouthfuls, the glass disappears. A cool hand traces your face. “Things will be different real soon, you’ll see.”

You reach blindly, seeking. “Don’t go.”

“Oh, don’t worry. After I’m done, we’ll have a Dreaming of our own.”

Then nothing. 

.

Anchor around your ankle. Plunging, bitter cold water, pressure, pressure, a hand reaching uselessly towards the shrinking light above, then nothing—

.

Ropes bite into your wrists, the pyre is tall, and the crowd jeers with open delight. They throw things at you; some hit, some miss. You don’t know if you hate them or pity them. Both, neither. Sahsin’s face is disgusted, filled with hate. She has positioned herself in front of the throbbing mob. When the fire comes, Sahsin enjoys it. When the fire comes, the agony devours all else—

.

Blank page. 

Blank page.

Blank page.

And beneath, a faint, pulsing power of Endless Destruction. 

“My lord.”

Urgent footsteps head in his direction. Morpheus raises his head, his grip on the tome in his hands white-knuckled.

Loyal Lucienne and a rather familiar figure a step behind her. 

“I apologise for leaving, Lord,” Fiddler’s Green begins, flustered but entreating. “But you must help. He’s killing them.”

.

You awake with a pained gasp. Your head swims, your fingers clumsily seeking purchase. 

An eerily silent hotel room greets you when your hiccuping gasps assuage into a steadier rhythm.  Corinthian is nowhere in sight. You wrench yourself from beneath the comfortable covers, stumbling. You grab your carelessly thrown coat on your way out, shrugging on the familiar weight. At least your vision is clearer than earlier. Pain remains undiminished by your fretful rest. 

The hotel is unnaturally quiet—your nerves prickle. Nothing good ever comes from places where there should be life, being devoid of it. Unease pools in your stomach while you stumble through winding corridors. Where did everyone go?

Outside, twilight has settled over the landscape. Your pace increases, your palms dragging across the walls to keep moving.

You find the reception empty, the convention table barren. Except…

“—a black mirror, made to reflect everything about itself that humanity will not confront. But look at you—”

Your body turns to stone mid-step. There’s no confusing that voice with anyone—the absolute power infused into every deliberate, low syllable. 

With a start, you realise your knees have bent, your coat pooling around your ankles. You’re scared. Dream wasn’t supposed to be here. Not when you’re not there to mediate. Clawing at the walls, you force your legs forward. Your bones quake in protest with each step. 

Shoving into the conference room, you find the room full. Hotel patrons sit in neat rows, their heads bowed and eyes closed. 

Dream of the Endless and the nightmare make for a lonely, contrasting sight on the stage: dark and light. 

Corinthian’s small smile is scornful. “I’m not the problem, Dream.”

“You’re right,” Dream Lord concurs quietly. “This is my fault, not yours. I had so much hope for you, but I created you poorly then. So I must uncreate you now.”

Dream’s arm lifts in the air between them. You lurch forward, stumbling up the stairs.

“No!”

You let out a dry sob, pushing past Dream to get to the nightmare. The contours of Corinthian’s face have begun dissolving, singed red at the edges, disappearing back into the sand he was fashioned from. 

Corinthian chokes out a breath, grinning widely, grasping your hand. “Hey, trouble—”

His hand in yours crumbles. A wounded, animalistic sound rips from you. There’s a futile, blind attempt to grasp onto his body as it slips between your fingers. Through your arms, and then out of your life. 

“No! No, no.”

Your knees hit the stage so hard the sound is a thunderclap through the hushed room. Sand lays in a golden pile at your feet. A tiny skull containing teeth for eyes is all that remains and—

Your ring. Corinthian’s faint warmth still lingers on the metal. Wet dots fall into the sand. Only then do you register the tears dripping down your face. Followed by speckles of blood. It seems appropriate that, in the end, he should have your blood also. 

Featherlight touch on your shoulder only registers after Dream’s voice floats through your agony: “Wanderer. I am sorry.”

Perhaps under different circumstances, you would have examined this moment closer—Dream Lord, an Endless, on his knees beside you, his voice impossibly soft. Instead, you want to disappear. 

“I know,” you sob, shaking, half leaning towards the ground. If it weren’t for Dream’s grip on you, there’s no doubt in your mind you would collapse right where Corinthian has. Something mangles inside you, far beyond physical. “I know you had to stop him. I… to me… he… to me he’s…”

Everything. 

Dragging your hands desperately through the slippery grains, you gather them in a smaller circle. 

“What are you doing?” 

Dream’s question is uncharacteristically gentle. There’s deeper awareness that a wrong question could shatter you completely. 

Past your raw vocal cords, you only manage: “I—I can’t leave him. I can’t leave him again.”

You’re not sure if you’re coherent enough for him to understand. Each word borders on a pained howl. Black is rapidly devouring your fading vision. Too much. It’s too much. You’re about to explode. Collapse like the nightmare did, utterly undone. 

Several scarlet drops drip into the sand, and Dream sucks in a deep breath beside you, his grip on you tightening. 

“You’re bleeding.”

He doesn’t get a response. Blackness devours you whole. 

.

Recovery takes three weeks. You’re unconscious for the first two. Another week crawls by until you can move again. 

The simple fact that it takes you so long to become functional only confirms that Dream brought back a broken soul into the Dreaming. You’ve survived limbs being severed. Past incidents where your skin was peeled off. But this goes beyond skin deep. 

You haven’t travelled since the incident. The mere thought induces a fresh dose of cramping terror through your system. The curse, wounded and worn, has retreated. Dormant. For now. 

“You mourn him.”

You jump in your spot. Your fingers close protectively over the ring in your hand. Dream steps into your line of sight, his coat fluttering around his lithe figure. His face is slanted away from you, observing the waterfront. You try to hide your surprise at seeing him. 

He’s been… distant these last three weeks. Not cold, but…

Sad. 

There’s no other way to delineate the forlorn stares that seem to follow you. 

“I’m not an idiot. What Corinthian was doing was horrific,” you say dully, tugging on stray blades of grass. 

Fiddler’s Green has returned, taking his post once more. It should make you happy. He apologised personally for his departure, but you understood his reasonings for leaving. Without his creator, Fiddler’s Green wanted to experience what it was like to be human. What right do you have to judge him for such a wish? Yet memory is a cruel mistress—the recollections of the one whose absence is so torturously felt are everywhere. 

“He took lives that were never his to take,” you continue. Anger bites into controlled syllables. “Not to mention his plan to have Rose become the new heart of the Dreaming. Did he realise the universe would have collapsed in on itself? He had to be stopped.”

It was what had awoken you back at the hotel. It’s only later that you learned the extent of Corinthian’s plan. Rose Walker was the vortex. Given enough time, she would have become the centre of the Dreaming, drawing dreams and nightmares to her. And collapsed this universe as a result. Dream would have killed her—it’s the only time the Endless are permitted to take mortal life, if they’re an active threat—but Rose’s grandmother had stepped in last second. A woman who should have been the vortex if it hadn’t been for Dream’s capture. If the sleeping sickness that swept through the waking world had not robbed her of life. 

“But you mourn him still.”

Unequivocal insistence. Your composed mask cracks around the edges. Lying would be pointless. 

“Of course I do,” you exhale, pained. 

Dream’s fingers curl at his side, but he doesn’t look your way. “This was my oversight, Wanderer. Do not bear the guilt for those lost.”

Trees ripple and shiver in the faint breeze. Waterfall roars to your left, while to your right, the dark shores of the Dreaming reflect sunshine like the darkest obsidian. You consider the Dream Lord while he watches the beach with a stony expression. Utterly closed off—same old Dream. 

Deflating, you struggle back onto your feet. 

“Their blood is on my hands, too,” you say, turning to go.

Guilt will follow you no matter what he maintains. 

“Are you departing once more?” he calls out, halting you in your tracks. He’s scrutinising you when you peek his way. “You are not fit for travel.”

Offering a throwaway smile, you shrug. “I’m a rubber ball. I bounce back quickly.”

“Stay until Dreamfall if the curse permits it.” Dream pauses after his brisk request, catching himself with a swallow. Awkwardness permeates the air. “It would mean a great deal to others if you celebrated with them.”

You loosen a reluctant breath, squinting at him. “Do you want me to stay?”

Something shifts between you at the forthright prompt; tightening, warming. Surprise collects in your chest at the fact you dared to ask. But you’re tired of feigning, acting as if you’re both not caught in some bizarre impasse. 

Dream’s lips part softly, his answer a mere exhale, “I would.” 

Light, tingling sensation webs through your chest. You hadn’t expected that. “Under one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Answer me something, Morpheus. Truthfully.” With deliberate slowness, you step into his bubble, so close Dream’s lashes flutter as he peers at you. There’s such unbearable weight to his gaze. There’s always been a raging storm brewing there, but this is more. Heavier. “Corinthian was convinced that you made him in my image. Is it true?”

Your jaw sets stubbornly, the nightmare’s name stinging your tongue. Dream’s eyes roam over your features, seeking some unknown truth. You’re not asking about physical similarities, but you permit him this moment. Because he digs deeper, because your heart is in your throat when Dream finally settles on his truth: 

“While I did not recognise it as such at the time, I believe I did.”

You’ve known, been aware of this fact for centuries. Since Corinthian shared his hypothesis, you’ve been unable to scrub it from your mind. But to have confirmation from Dream himself paints many past events in a different light. 

“I made you poorly then… a black mirror made to reflect everything humanity will not confront.” Recalling Dream Lord’s words, you stagger backwards, your mind whirling with thoughts. A startled gasp pushes from your lungs, your attention snapping back to the Endless. Suddenly all the puzzle pieces slot perfectly into place. “I had it all wrong. Corinthian was a manifestation of your anger for what humanity was doing to me. He was to be your mirror, your teacher, so humanity may choose to be better. So they may learn to overcome their darkest impulses.”

Staggering backwards, words escape you in a torrent, “But it went wrong, didn’t it? You gave him too much of that anger—the fury of an Endless and reckless, unshakable defiance of a cursed mortal. You created a masterpiece by giving him too much. By making something that is so much more than just a nightmare. A perfect hybrid between an Endless and a mortal.”

Dream says nothing in response. It’s the only confirmation you need. 

In the end, you stay. But this time, you’re the one who avoids the Dream Lord. 

.

“You’re always welcome in my chambers, sweet Dream. It’s lovely to see you. Can I get you anything you desire?”

Morpheus strolls through the glossy scarlet chambers of his younger sibling’s stronghold. Desire of the Endless curls with each word spoken, stretching indolently across their seat. Loving malice lines planes of Desire’s face, enigmatic and magnetic as their name suggests. 

Dream moves closer. “I desire nothing from you, save some answers.”

Desire pouts, sitting up, their hands in their lap. “Oh? Do tell. I love a test.”

He’s never understood Desire’s love for games. Petulant slights or wish to inflict harm. To manipulate and use. Once…

He supposes it no longer matters what their relationship might have been once—too many years arc between them: too much history and bad blood. Morpheus prowls through the gallery, briefly flicking his attention towards his family’s sigils. 

“Unity Kincaid should have been the vortex of this age. But someone saw fit to take advantage of my imprisonment and fathered a child with her, knowing full well that it would become the vortex and I would be left with no choice but to kill it.”

A mock gasp escapes Desire’s ruby-painted lips. Their golden eyes blow wide open, startled and innocent, while they monitor Dream. 

“Are you implying I meddled with affairs of another Endless domain, dear brother?” Desire’s pout wobbles when Dream doesn't respond. The faux innocence melts away in a blink, leaving behind nothing but conniving malice, peering back through a hooded stare. “Oh, fine, was I really that obvious?” 

A brief, cool smile touches Dream’s lips, his words coming out frosty, “No. You covered your tracks remarkably well.”

“High praise, coming from you,” Desire tuts, grinning sharply. 

“What did you intend?” Dream heads towards the other Endless unhurriedly. “That I should spill family blood? With all that would entail?”

“This time, it almost worked.” Desire’s grin stretches wider, pleased. “I haven’t seen you this worked up since my little wrangle with lovely Wanderer. How is she, by the way? Still coughing up blood?”

His younger sibling adjusts their position once again, sitting up straighter. Bracing for a fight, Morpheus realises belatedly. This is a sore spot that always elicits a reaction. But this time, Morpheus will not be giving his sibling the satisfaction. He’s observed Desire’s and Wanderer’s relationship—or what little of it remains—long enough to draw his own conclusions. 

“You do not fool me,” Morpheus begins deliberately. The corners of Desire’s mouth tilt downwards slightly. “I know your fickle heart, my sibling, and you resent the fact Wanderer forgives others but not you. But you fail to understand why that same forgiveness has not been extended your way. We of the Endless are the servants of the living, not their masters. We exist only because they know deep in their hearts that we exist. We do not manipulate them. If anything, they manipulate us.”

“Then perhaps I shall pay Wanderer a visit in person.” Desire drags their thumbs over the edge of their lips, sly in their wily deliberation. “I do, after all, wear your face now. But unlike you, I will endeavour to be a far more… devoted lover.”

Wrath kindles in his chest. Morpheus knows. He’s read about your and Desire’s encounter at the shores of the Dreaming while he was locked away. 

He shakes his head. “Still, you fail to see. We are their dolls, Desire. You and Despair, and even poor Delirium, will do well to remember that.”

Desire presents him with a dismissive shrug, their nose wrinkling. “Maybe I don’t understand.”

“No, perhaps you do not,” Morpheus agrees softly. Circling, he slips behind his younger sibling. Desire’s head wrenches backwards, their gulping gasp nearly lost when Morpheus twists the other Endless’ head back, peering down at the blonde coldly. “Then let me tell you something you will understand: mess with me or mine again, and I shall forget you are family. You lay a finger on Wanderer, and I will make every circle of Hell feel like kindness by comparison. Do you believe yourself to be strong enough to stand against me? Against Death? Against Destiny?”

Desire forces down a gulp, their breath stuttering at the creeping wrath, “No.”

“No, indeed.” Dropping his hold, Morpheus straightens, his jaw rigid as he stalks away, adding, “Remember this next time you’re inspired to interfere in my affairs.”

And then he’s gone. 

.

Translucent light kisses your shoulders as you stroll towards the looming stronghold, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Your fingers have turned numb from how tightly you’re clenching them. The impressive, stone-carved statues depicting the seven Endless guide your way. Well, six. You pause by Destruction, the only one facing away, unlike his siblings.

You don’t dare to stray from the path. The likelihood of finding your way out if you get lost in the maze again is non-existent. 

The ruler of this sprawling, eerily silent domain greets you at the foot of the marble staircase. 

“I welcome thee, Wanderer, Roamer of Realms, into my stronghold.”

Even at this distance, Destiny looms so impossibly tall, some forgotten human instinct sparks in a warning.

Undeterred, you halt before the imposing figure, bowing your head. “I greet and thank you for your welcome, Destiny of the Endless.”

Only Destiny’s lower face is visible behind his billowing hood when he speaks in a crackling rasp, “You have arrived here for a single purpose.”

No ifs or buts about it—he knows better than that, the book slotted neatly under his arm. 

“And here I was, ready to ask if you’re surprised to see me,” you shoot back jokingly. Destiny does not smile or construe entertainment from your words. You sober, your attempt at levity now abandoned. “Guess we both know the answer to that. I’m here to share some theories if you have time to spare.”

To your surprise, Destiny slips past you, heading in the direction you came from, deeper into his garden. His footsteps make no sound. His cloak whispers behind him, shimmering in the dim, muted light. On equal footing, you have to crane your head to see him. The devouring dark pooling around the contours of his pallid face reveals nothing beneath the hood, even at your angle.  

“You seek to ask questions for which there are scarce few answers, Wanderer,” Destiny says resolutely. “You are far older than most mortals can comprehend, yet your heart remains stubbornly mortal.”

You set out after him at once, your invisible hackles rising. “In what way? My defiance?”

Destiny does not falter, his pace remaining as steady as lapping waves. “That is not for me to judge.”

The garden is vast and a marvel to behold, but the temperature lingers on that unnatural lukewarmness that gives away how unorthodox this place is. The light is perpetually unfading, gauzy in the corners of your eyes. It’s a confusing, strangely profound place. It’s as if Destiny’s realm contains everything all at once but also nothing. A place of futures to come, lives unlived, and wilted pasts. There’s no point in attempting to unravel it. There’s only uncanny strangeness you’ve come to accept. 

“You will spend time in the realm of each sibling—you will dream, despair, desire, destroy, delight and otherwise, and, eventually, die—but you were his from the very first page, and only he will read how your story comes out, a long time from now.”

Destiny doesn’t pause at your reiteration. There’s no indication he even heard you, but you’re a step behind him. A thousand years of trying to get answers have taught you he would not be entertaining you if this wasn’t heading somewhere. The thought of another scrap of information sets your heart thudding. Haven’t you spent the last two centuries piecing things together? Attempting to confirm your speculations before you came here to confront him with them. Your past attempts may have ended in uniform failure, but today is different. You can feel it.

“You told me that when we first met,” you continue, keeping your nonchalance. You’re no more than a child to him despite your millennia of existence—this is the only way to get him to take you seriously. “When I awoke in your garden, alone and terrified, with no clue as to who I was or what had happened to me. I’ve been thinking about those words ever since.”

Destiny slows, then stops altogether. Your heart climbs to your throat. You've paused by his statue, standing at the foot of polished, pale stone. Destiny’s cloak whispers when he hinges in your direction, anticipatory. He already knows what you will say.

“It was you. You’re the one who did this to me.” 

The clarity that clangs through you with those words shakes your knees. Sucking down more oxygen, you add, “Not directly, maybe. I was cursed by mortal power. This much I know for certain. But you made it possible. You led me to this by the hand. Why?”

And like a dozen times you’ve tried in the past, you expect dismissal, or worse, silence with which he’s punished you often. Destiny would disappear from your sight altogether. His patience and unwillingness to give you clear answers are unmatched. 

But not this time. 

“Because you broke your destiny. Tore it to shreds. Painted it red.” Destiny readjusts the heavy book under his arm. “So you were allocated a new path. One of hardship and pain, but one that may lead you to salvation. Should you tread it mindfully.”

The roar in your head is so loud you barely understand Destiny’s low, equable words. 

“You could have told me this a thousand years ago,” you choke out. 

He remains a perfectly barren canvas, but in the tension pulsing between you, there now whispers a hint of displeasure. Sweat trickles down your nape. 

“I did,” he replies flatly. “But you did not listen. You instead raged and ran, and what came of it?”

Madness and despair. 

Stumbling forward, you bite out, “Why? What did I do? What could prompt eternity of this.”

All this pain for crimes you couldn’t so much as recall. Whatever it was, have you not paid back your dues? Have you not suffered enough to make up for your past?

“Forgetting is the only kindness you’ve ever been spared. Or ever will be. Treat it as such.” Cold needles your spine, and a terrible urge to fold yourself into a ball gnaws on your bones. Destiny’s pitch does not change, nor does his bearing, but it doesn’t need to. “In your quest to break, you reformed into something else.”

Your force down saliva, near choking. “Into what?”

“Challenger of the Unknown.”

Silence envelopes the garden. There’s little to no sound in the Garden of the Forking Ways to begin with, but those words blanket everything. Not even the wind seems to stir. No blade of grass moves. This means something; it means something crucial, but you have no idea what.

“What does that mean?” you beseech. Destiny doesn’t move, nor does he answer. Your voice cracks. “Please just tell me.”

But you already know it’s a lost battle. This is all too familiar—the cold, pitiless silence, utterly unmoved. He’s given you all he’s intended to. 

“I used to think you hated me.” You’re not sure why you’re telling him this. Destiny won’t care. Your feet carry you past him. Briefly, you pause by Dream’s statue, then keep going. “More than anyone else in this universe. It wasn’t until Destruction left that I finally understood your position more. It is a burden to know what others don’t but be unable to speak that knowledge.”

There’s no doubt in your mind that Destiny knows where Destruction is. 

The Prodigal’s statue pierces your vision, making you squint into the hazy skies above. Your following words slip out, each lilting with breezy ease: “But it doesn’t mean I’ll ever forgive you for letting Dream rot in a cage for a hundred years when you knew it was coming, when you could have warned him somehow. I know you have a duty, but he’s your brother. However, indirectly you let Dreaming decay—my home. You let humanity suffer. I figured it out, by the way, why it’s a loophole. Why my book exists in the library, but nothing in other dimensions does. Why I can sleep in the Dreaming but not anywhere else.” 

Destiny stands stock still, his bony arms close to his chest, clutching his book. He displays no outward reaction as per usual. It’s a relief to voice your thoughts. You’re utterly terrified of him, but he’s right—your heart is still stubbornly human, as brazen as the Fates accused you of being.  

“Because if my curse was the will of the Endless, if my path—whatever it is—is so tightly bound to your family, then it only makes sense, right?” You’re not looking for a response because Destiny will offer none. “The Dreaming is the only place where aspects of each Endless manifest. It’s a loophole. The curse goes dormant when I’m in the Dreaming because the only thing more powerful than the curse is the combined power of the seven Endless.”

You’ve waited to voice your conclusions for so long, it’s surreal to have spoken them aloud. You might fear Destiny, but not enough to continue as a coward. He can deny it, but you’re confident that’s the reason. It’s the only thing that makes sense. 

“My siblings have gained much from their companionship with you, Wanderer,” Destiny admits. You quell a flinch despite Destiny’s voice retaining its monotonous quality. “But you and I are antitheses of one another. My brother would not be who he is now had he not tasted that helplessness and sorrow. You are the ink and the quilt with which Dream will write his story.”

His words make little to no sense. Dream is… Dream. What could ever influence him? Much less you. He’s changed since his imprisonment, it’s true, but doubt still nestles in your heart. Had the situation with Gault not proven how those attempts to change come undone in a blink? Despite it, Dream is trying, and it’s more than enough. Change doesn’t happen overnight; not any profound version, anyway. 

You wipe across your face, schooling yourself. “I won’t stop trying to save them even if I’m punished further,” you assert. “I’ll always fight for humanity.”

Even over his hood, you feel your gazes clash, burning into one another. 

“I would expect no less,” Destiny assures. 

Squaring your shoulders, you’re halfway between dimensions before a thought occurs to you. “Just one more thing before I go.”

Destiny is as grave as usual, entirely inhuman in his foreboding silence while he waits. 

“It can be broken, can’t it?” you say, scrutinising him closely. “The curse. There are weak spots in its design.”

“That is for you to discover,” he replies, much to your surprise. It’s closer to a yes than a no. “But pay heed. This path will not be forgiving should you wish to pursue it.”

Icy trepidation creeps its claws down your spine. You don’t permit it to show. 

“Nothing in my life has been forgiving,” you say curtly. “I bid you good fortune, Destiny.”

“And I you, Roamer of Realms.”

.

“Happy Dreamfall.”

Slanting your head, you let your chin dig into your shoulder, smiling. You hadn’t seen the Dream Lord since you snuck back into the Dreaming, seemingly no one having noticed your momentary departure. Normally, there are someone’s eyes on you. But only Dream can sense your appearance and disappearance inside the Dreaming itself. So you’ve taken advantage of his absence. You’ve had too much on your mind since your return from visiting Destiny to seek him out yet. 

“Happy Dreamfall,” you say to the Endless, who comes to a halt beside you. “May Fates smile upon you, Dream Lord. And may your realm of dreams be aplenty.”

Behind you, the castle grounds buzz with activity. At long last, things were returning to normal. This is the first cause of celebration these dreams and nightmares had in over a century. Back home, safe and in a place where they belong. You hugged and drank sweet nectars with plenty, smiling and touching hands. Or claws. But it didn’t take long to slip away and settle out here. 

Perched on the castle staircase, you must make for an odd sight, but Gatekeepers straighten back into their patrol positions with Dream’s arrival. You had left the castle to enjoy the darkening skies, the dreams swelling and blinking in the pitch-black canvas, ready for their journey. The Gatekeepers had clustered close, and you had spent a while simply chatting. You’ve missed them. It had been harrowing to witness them turn to stone while Dream was missing.  

“Would you walk with me?” Dream asks.

Wetting your lips, you stand. “Sure.”

Without a preamble, Dream sets out. His gait hovers on ponderous this evening. You’ve gotten used to more hurried, curt interactions between you. Invisible tension stretched tautly. Will-o'-the-wisps dance and sway through the humming evening air. Flowers in your path bloom in different colours, fairy dust sprinkled through the air. You continue on the faintly lit path cutting through the heart of the Dreaming without a word. 

“Are you well?”

Dream’s sudden question shakes you from your peaceful stupor. 

“Busy, but good,” you answer. “And you?”

Dream halts abruptly. You pass him, then do the same, gazing back at him, confused. 

Dream Lord’s pale eyes dig into you. They steal from you, and they give more than words ever could. But this once, Dream also uses his words: “I wish for us to talk as we once did.”

Anxiety pangs through your belly. You hadn’t expected him to point it out. Your lips compress into a stiff, bloodless line. It would be a bald-faced lie to insist something hasn’t broken between you. Corinthian’s unmaking has driven a wedge between you that neither can overcome. The nightmare had to be stopped, but it doesn’t take away from the grief festering in your chest. Most believe grief is an absence, but you’ve found the exact opposite is true. 

Grief is a presence that should be there but isn’t. It’s a weight of memories, of possibilities, of life unlived. Corinthian has become your phantom limb, his absence invisible to all but you as is the bleed.

“We’re getting there,” you say lastly.

His wild hair covers his eyes when his head lowers. Subconsciously, you find yourself stepping towards him, folding your hand around his. Cool and silky to the touch. A breath, and then you feel Dream’s hand curl around yours. He doesn’t move otherwise, muscles sitting in rigid mass beneath his pale skin. 

“Dream,” you call his name gently. “You’re trying. I see that. We’re finding new ways. Now tell me why we’re here.”

Because this path is familiar to you as your own hands. Just over the dark treeline lays the beach. The docks you’ve visited every night in his absence. This path had been your pilgrimage once, and now he’s returned. The fingers folded around yours tighten. Dream wordlessly tugs you with him until soft sand cushions the soles of your shoes. 

“It is a night where anything is possible,” he says knowingly. 

Your heartbeat jumps when he leads you towards the pier, wood creaking under your combined weight. “What are you doing?”

Dream draws you both to a stop halfway across the pier, something close to mischief sparking in his gaze. It’s so bizarrely unwonted you do a doubletake.

“Giving you my present.”

With that, he strides closer. Your mouth dries when he gently curls his arm around your waist. He raises your joint hands, spinning you to the side slowly. Clumsily, your legs obey, your breaths escaping uneven gulps. 

“Are we dancing, Dream Lord?”

Dream bows his head closer to yours, his voice velvet, “We are dancing in starlight, you and I.”

It’s then you feel the tingling, reverent whisper of his power over your body. Your eyes widen when you see faint light needling the sturdy fabric, as if your coat has become no more than a window into the raw cosmos. Galaxies swirl in raging spirals across the once-dark material. Your head snaps to the side while Dream continues spinning you unhurriedly. Your coat is shrinking, reshaping to fit your body even better than it did up to this point. 

“Dream this is…”

The coat settles into actuality. Sparkling dust spills from the material when you shift. Your overcoat has shrunk to kiss just above your knees. More fitted but no less comfortable. And then there’s the way it glimmers like a precious jewel whenever moonlight hits it. 

“I had hoped to give you something more… fitting,” Dream murmurs. You look up at him, your noses almost touching. “It is only right for the one who roams the stars to wear a coat of pure starlight.”

“Thank you,” you whisper shakily. “It’s beautiful.”

Beautiful doesn’t do it justice. The midnight material shimmers with your movement, liquid starlight captured into tangible fabric, and your throat closes up as you examine it further. Dream slips his arm from your waist. He lifts your joint hands, comfortable in his own, and lays a light kiss on your hand.

“It becomes you,” he compliments quietly, releasing you. “Now… it’s time.”

Your brows crease. “Time for what?”

Was this not it? Thick emotions still coat your tongue, lodged deep in your windpipe. But Dream only devours you with quiet intensity. 

Above your head, dreams start raining down in shining beams of light.

“We begin… with a spin.”

Your heart stutters to a stop. Water roars behind Dream, wild spray flying through the air. The faint drizzle beats against your face, leaving you gaping. 

“Dream. I…”

He extends his hand your way. “There is no Dreaming without Wanderer Island. Should you wish it, I would like us to create another.”

Your features crumble, the ball in your throat robbing you of your voice. Indecision holds you captive—on the one hand, you want nothing more, but on another, you’re too afraid. What if it all ends up in the same place? You watching yet another part of you sink into those inky depths. 

But there’s something cautious, near vulnerable, to be found in Dream’s guarded features. It’s an effort for him to open up, but you can see the unsure way his hand hangs in offering between you. He’s bracing himself for rejection, for you to leave him alone on this pier. 

You grasp his proffered hand, fingers winding cautiously around his. Dream’s shoulders slump slightly from their rigid slant, relaxing at the contact. 

He guides you to an all too familiar position. You standing at the edge of the pier, him behind you, a hand on your shoulder. A disconcerting sensation of deja vu falls over you. 

“Describe it to me,” he prompts.

Black, foreboding waters of the Dreaming spin in ferocious whirlpools. Dream’s elegant hand pierces your line of sight, primed for creation. 

“There’s a small island.” Your voice trembles. You haven’t forgotten anything, down to the exact words used. You conjure the Wanderer Island in your mind’s eye as it once stood; brilliant and shining. The visual blooms bold and alive in your mind. “The grass that grows there is the greenest there’s ever been. And it tastes like sour apples.”

Dream’s hand on your shoulder squeezes lightly. Same amusement, even centuries later. You’re both changed, but a familiar outline of an island starts taking shape on the horizon. 

“The sun that shines on the island is never too hot. The air is sweet and light. The flowers never wilt, and trees never shed leaves.” It’s pouring from your mouth now, an avalanche of memory. You’ve missed the island so dearly, and details from five centuries ago come readily. “The sky is an endless periwinkle shade. There’s always food and drinks. Books and games. And…”

Your heart bleeds, fresh wounds gushing. But you push on because it’s not about you.

“And an old friend waits at the beach to greet you with a patient smile whenever you arrive. Because not everyone has a family, and not everyone needs a lover, but everyone should have a friend. The island will be there whenever someone feels lonely, lost, or desperate for an escape. It’ll be there to welcome you. To give you a corner to hide. There is no sadness there. No loneliness or confusion. Only…”

Dream’s lips tickle over the shell of your ear. “… hope.”

And then stillness. 

The water settles in a gurgling slosh. In the distance, a patch of land once again floats. There to welcome new dreamers. Wanderer Island blurs. The heel of your hand presses over your eyes, overwhelmed. 

Blindly, you tug on Dream’s coat; a mute request. Between one inhale and the next, wood underfoot is exchanged for sand. 

Everything is the same down to the last blade of grass and tree composition. Either your vision was so clear Dream could pluck every last detail from your mind or…

Or he remembered the Island with the same clarity as you. 

You sink to your knees. Sand crumbles around your digits when you dip them into the pliable sand. 

“Hi. There you are.”

Nothing, then…

Grass sprouts unprompted around your hand, tiny daisies twining across your thumb. Utterly impossible, yet tonight, here, anything is possible. A choked laugh escapes you. Your cheeks ache from your beaming smile. 

“She’s missed you,” Dream reveals quietly.

Your head lifts in surprise. You stroke the miniature, perfect blooms. “I missed you too.”

With another tickle, the flowers and grass retreat, shrinking into the golden beach. Several moments pass by until you unearth the strength to stand. Dream’s profile greets you. He’s turned away, giving you privacy, but subtle uncertainty lines his features. Sensing your attention, he peers towards you, then past you. 

“Thank you,” you breathe. Despite your verbal gratitude, Dream’s attention remains fixed over your shoulder. “What?”

His low words reach you over the sound of lapping waves. “Are you not going to say hello to an old friend?”

You follow his line of sight. Behind you, at a distance with falling dreams as his backdrop, stands a tall, pale-haired figure. 

Everything inside you falls very, very quiet—all those tumultuous emotions freeze. Your head snaps back to Dream with a stifled gulp. It can’t be real. Surely it’s some mirage, a feedback loop, a ghost conjured from your love for the now-gone nightmare. 

But Dream only slants his head in a marginal, affirming nod. You dare to peek behind you once more. There he stands. The nightmare. Not a twisted joke. 

Your feet carry you towards him without conscious thought; half-running, half-walking, stumbling all the while. Corinthian stands with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders in a slight slouch. His nude-coloured slacks and white shirt shine like beacons in the pale moonlight. Round shades cover his eyes, his blonde strands fluttering in the light breeze. 

He's a figment. Not quite tangible until your body crashes into him, your arms scrambling to hold onto him. “Oh, God!”

Dry, humoured, “Not quite.”

Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure he can feel it, if not hear it. A pained, whining sound bubbles up in your throat, gripping him closer.

“I… how…” You wrench yourself back, a horrible thought occurring. You search his handsome features. That infuriating smirk always curling his mouth is absent. “Do you remember me?”

Corinthian stands there, not moving, with no real emotion on display, either. Your heart sinks. Could it be that he—

Dull throb flares across your forehead. He’s flicked you—

A wide, toothy grin stretches across Corinthian’s mouth. “Gotcha.”

With a choked laugh, you punch his shoulder, hugging him close with a wide smile. “I hate you.”

A pleased hum. This time, the nightmare’s arm settles around you. “Hate you more.”

You’re not sure how long you both stand there. When you do part, reluctance keeps your hand on him. Fingertips connecting to some part of him. Remembering the Dream Lord you came here with—who gave you this, his present—you find Dream no longer on the beach. Or anywhere in sight. He’s given you privacy and time. Your heart softens further.  

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

Corinthian’s subdued question tugs your attention back towards him. You almost wish he didn’t remind you. Because now you’re faced with the reality that even though he’s been returned to you, there’s much you both need to overcome and fix. That losing him did not magically wipe away the wrongs he’s done. If you hope to return to the relationship you once had, you’ll need time.

You consider him for a moment. 

“You’re always forgiven,” you tell him honestly. 

Standing in the moonglow, you pretend you don’t notice how something coiled tightly seems to loosen inside him at your reassurance. Instead, you reach for his face. Your fingertips brush over Corinthain’s glasses, and his hand snap out, wrapping around your wrist tightly. Bones making up his jaw roll beneath the skin. Tension throbs between you while seconds tick by. Through clenched teeth, Corinthian unwraps his hold finger by finger. 

You tug his shades away from his face. He’s tense as a bowstring, his head slanted at an angle. The same jagged teeth sit where most have eyeballs. They’re hooded, though. His discomfort—and anger at said discomfort—couldn’t be more perspicuous. 

His shades close as you fold arm temples one at a time. You hold his stare, staring right at those jagged teeth with a slight frown. You extend his shades back to him mutely. 

“But my trust is something you will have to earn back,” you state earnestly. 

The nightmare hesitates halfway to reaching for his glasses. Those pale fingers dance over them before he plucks them from you.

“Sounds like a fair deal,” he muses absently. You expect him to put the shades back on, but instead, Corinthian hooks them on his shirt pocket. Turning to go, he calls out a honeyed, “You coming?”

He gazes at you over his shoulder, jagged teeth on full show, and you feel yourself smile.

“Always.”

.

Sun shines luminous and warm today. The Wanderer Island stretches as far as your eye can perceive, teeming with life and greenery around every corner. Flowers and trees bloom everywhere—an awe-inspiring marriage between tropical and temperate climates. The Island once again oozes a sense of magick and wonder that was once so prominent here. No place in the universe can compare.  

“Rebuilding is almost complete,” you begin conversationally. “The Dreaming is more beautiful than ever.”

The Endless keeps pace beside you, a pensive sound rumbling from him. “It was not without aid.”

A smile twitches your lips upwards. “You’re welcome.”

Two weeks have gone by since Dreamfall. Things have mended—between you individually and the atmosphere around the Dreaming. While Corinthian’s return was met with some side glances, no one discussed it further. Dreamfolk trust Dream to make the right decision. Or perhaps Gault was right; they’re wiser than to outright question.  

“The Corinthian has also been making progress,” Dream says. “I am hoping to place him under supervision and monitor his conduct. To make sure what happened is never repeated. Should the need arise, he will be allocated duties back in the waking world.”

Joy flutters in your heart. “Yeah? That’s great. Someone you trust, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“And?” you probe. “Are you going to tell me who or not?”

In your peripheral, Dream inclines in your direction. “Yours.”

You nearly trip. “Dream, I—” You clear your throat, pausing. “Are you sure? It didn’t exactly work out last time.”

Dream’s intent scrutiny slides over your facial features. “It was due to no fault of yours. And this Corinthian is the same in all but one function. He will not fail again. He has a different purpose now.”

There’s a solemn sort of finality about the way he articulates those words. A tiny shiver skitters down your spine. He will not expand further upon those words. Whatever that purpose is, you imagine time will reveal it. 

You chew on your inner cheek. “Okay. I would like that.”

You smile at him. But Dream’s expression stutters, overcome by some foreign emotion. His mouth parts, then closes, his fingers folding into white-knuckled fists. 

Just as you’re about to ask what’s wrong, Dream speaks: “Wanderer. Stay.”

You muster up an uncertain, perplexed smile. “I’m right here.”

Dream marches closer, sunshine caught in his onyx hair. 

“Stay however long you want,” he insists softly. “Stay forever if it should so please you.”

Shock envelops you, freezing you in your spot. You’ve told him, didn’t you? That you would stay forever by his side if only he asked. Now he’s asking. Except confusion and unease battle in your chest. Can you trust his word? Did Dream change enough? He brought back Corinthian. He freed Gault from the Darkness. He insists this is a new age. But…

“And if I wanted to leave?” you question. “If I chose never to return, what then?”

“It would sadden my creations—”

“I’m asking you.”

Dream falters, shackled by your insistence. His lashes flutter, his head lowering in near palpable struggle. You’re challenging him, but you refuse to continue with the charade. If he wants forever, you can’t live with the fear he might change his mind about it. 

“It would pain me, also. A great deal.” He hesitates again, and it’s bizarre because this degree of uncertainty is not something you associate Dream with. “But you are free. You've always been free. The Dreaming is your home. Should you wish to return, its gates will always await you.”

Doubt twists your mouth downwards. “I thought that once—”

“I swear it. No matter what the future may hold. No matter how angry I get, I shall never again take the Dreaming away from you.” Sheer power woven into those words leaves no room for doubt. It’s a vow. He will not break it. There would be a price to pay if he did. Dream’s fingertips ghost over yours, a graze leaving fire in its wake. “I read your book in the library. I did not wish to tell you sooner because I worried you would leave. Because… you were right. I could never understand the sheer devastation. Or the harm I inflicted.”

You drag your hand back, stepping away from him. Dream’s features fall subtly. You face away, giving him your back while you process. Raising the hand he was caressing seconds prior, you cradle it to your chest. Sunshine prickles your cheek, but you ignore it. 

“I’m not ashamed of my past,” you tell him, turning back to face him. “I always knew there was a chance you could read it. So, what did you think?”

He appears pained. At least now you know why he’s been so melancholy these last several weeks. “That I should wish for nothing more than for you to stay by my side.”

Those unadorned words devastated you. 

Smiling through your inflated, overjoyed heart, you mumble, “Stay forever… I can’t technically do that.”

But Dream is unruffled. If anything, you glimpse the beginnings of hope starting to take root in him. 

“I’ll seek a way,” he avows. 

“To what?” An incredulous chuckle escapes you. “Break the curse?”

Destiny’s warning jump back to the forefront of your mind, and you swallow thickly. You don’t dare to ponder freedom for longer than an indulgent moment. 

“Yes,” Dream replies. 

You stare at him. Tall and dark, sunlit and more open than you’ve ever seen him. Determined and golden. Your Dream Lord. He terrifies you. You love him. 

“You can’t interfere,” you remind him emptily. “And I might die.”

“Or you may live,” Dream argues. “Freely. And choose for yourself. Always.”

“Trying to bait me, Dream Lord?”

Sudden tension between you loosens around the edges. Once more, the susurration of the trees trickles into your mind, elevating the brewing anxiety. 

A thousand years. The curse has defined your existence and has kept you alive this long. What are you without it? There’s always been an unspoken acknowledgement that you could never break the curse without dying. Simply too much time has passed. No mortal vessel can survive over a millennium otherwise. When you asked Destiny, it was only to understand more about the nature of the curse. Not because you ever assumed you could survive breaking the curse. 

Dream’s mouth compresses as if he’s attempting not to smile. “I would never.”

“Stay by your side, huh?” you mutter, looking away while you mull over your conversation. “And what exactly would that entail?”

His response is immediate, smooth, “Whatever you wish.”

“A companion, then?” Your words pitch lower and silkier while you close the minimal distance with relaxed, unhurried steps. Dream’s eyes darken a shade. “An emissary? A consort? A queen?”

His black-clad shoulders lift with his inhale. 

“Those are but words,” he murmurs silkily. “For you would be all those things, and more.”

You examine his profile, those starlit irises, the doubt swimming there. Does he doubt you would stay? After such long years harbouring this affection for him? Silly, wonderful anthropomorphic personification. “I’ll stay, but only if you answer a question.”

“Even if the price were a hundred thousand questions, Wanderer, I would pay it gladly. What is this question?”

Narrowing your eyes, you scrutinise him. Dream does not balk under your exigent examination, waiting patiently. Biting back a smile, you permit your features to relax. He’s unfairly fun to tease. 

“What does the Lord of Dreams dream about?”

Relish bubbles in your chest at the way Dream’s expression comes undone. As if from a thousand questions he was bracing for, nothing could have prepared him for this. Birds chirp a merry tune somewhere in the tree line, a warm breeze ruffling Dream’s dark hair while he gazes at you with utterly confused wonderment. A slight, fond smile curls his lips.  

“A thousand years,” he begins in a bewildered drawl. “And still, you ask the same question.”

You laugh faintly, shrugging. “Well, in all fairness, you never answered me the last time. Which was very rude, by the way—”

In an inhale Dream of the Endless materialises in front of you. His hands slip to hold your face, cupping it with delicate hands as he tugs you closer. His kiss falls over you like stars. Silky, gentle warmth that washes over you with such fervent passion you gasp against his mouth. Your hands grasp onto him blindly. You part only long enough for you to gulp down oxygen before your mouths meet again, and again, and again, burning with need unquenched. Heat spreads through every inch of you. A thousand years being cold, floating unearthed, but now someone is holding you. 

Dream presses another kiss to your mouth, desperate and hungry, gentle in his handling, and you return it with equal enthusiasm, equal need. Dizziness envelops you, and Dream pulls back, his forehead resting against yours. You shudder, a delicious heat licking up your senses. This closeness hurts better than anything ever has. You remind yourself to breathe, to remember this is real, he’s here, holding you, and nothing matters in this moment. Whatever the future holds, you do not fear it. Because Hob was right: there are people out there who love, and that makes all the difference. 

Dream’s thumb grazes over your bunched-up cheek. Your smile is wide enough to light your entire face. 

It continues with a gentle, rasping: “I’ll tell you one day, stardust.”

an:

Never apologise, never explain.

I set out to write nothing more than a fun little story that I expected to have maybe 3-4 parts max. Something entirely self-indulgent and fun for no one but me and maybe one or two mutuals. I never quite expected it would become as beloved as it did. I suppose here, in the end, I would like to take the time to thank everyone who read this and supported it. Be it by commenting, making edits/art for it or just sending me encouraging/funny messages. You guys are the reason this story became what it did. I'm immensely grateful for each and every single one of you. It was a rough month, but I'm glad I could offer you this conclusion at long last. Thank you for being here, thank you for being kind, and thank you again for reading.

Goodnight, and see you all in dreams, wanderers ☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ

[thebadboyfanclub]

I Want My Life Back (Aemond x Reader)

As you guys have realised I adore writing morally gray moments and subtle scenes of endearment between the reader and the character so I hope you like it as well

Rhaenyra was furious, she had lost so much so fast, gave birth to a stillborn, her father was dead, Aegon was crowned king by Alicents command and now her daughter was nowhere to be found, what could she have done when Otto came to Dragonstone with “civil conditions” in order to negotiate but to also announce that her beloved daughter, her precious (y/n) was in Harrenhal with prince Aemond.

“You killed my daughter and now you dare to kidnap my dearest (y/n)?!”

“Nobody took your daughter princess, Aemond and (y/n) eloped”

“You expect me to believe that? My (y/n) would never do this”

“She is her mother's daughter, as you were forbidden by your father to marry Daemon she was also kept away from Aemond, no blood need be spilled, your daughter can create new lineage for the Targaryens, let us unite in harmony again”

“By harmony you mean we bow down to the drunkard bitch that you call king? (Y/n) is probably in some dungeon begging for mercy and you dare to indicate she went willingly? Let me make something clear to you Otto, if I need to kill someone, best believe I am going for Aemond first”

Daemon threatened in a hissed tone while he stood next to Rhaenyra, her hands formed fists from anger and agony, (y/n) was her only daughter, little raven-haired beauty with eyes at the color of the wooden tree she liked to rest under on the summer days in their garden, this was a calculated move from Aemond so Rhaenyras hand will be forced into violence… and he had succeeded.

“My daughter is not a broodmare, she is a princess, I will not allow you to force into squeezing Aemonds children just so you can have leverage over me. We are done here”

There was no way for Rhaenyra to predict this, she scattered her brain that night unable to sleep for glimpses of intimacy between Aemond and (y/n), (y/n) was a sweet girl and Aemond was a brooding prude that blamed his shortcomings on her sons, there was no way (y/n) could have fallen for him.

But (y/n) did, Rhaenyra might not remember though Rhaenyra was unable to see their hands intertwining under the table or how (y/n) looked at Aemond while at the training grounds, nor was she aware of the raven scrolls that were exchanged between them all these years, (y/n) was apprised of the consequences of her actions, she expected her mother to be livid, demanding her to come back home, she predicted everything apart of her grandsires death and the greens scheming.

“We must go back, my mother will listen to me, we can explain”

“My dear I always found your naive nature adorable besides this moment, Rhaenyra will ask for my head the moment she glances upon us”

“Then I shall go alone, Aemond your brother usurped her, if we declare for her perhaps Alicent will soften and bend the knee”

“That cannot happen, it is too dangerous, Daemon will throw me in the cells of dragonstone, is that what you want? To be kept away from me?”

Aemond reached for his lover's hands and brought them up to let them rest on his chest while he gawked deeply into her eyes with a pleasing look, the raven that was sent to them by Aemonds grandsire Otto should have been burned, foolishly he let her know of the events from Kings Landing, (y/n) was overcome by grief for Viserys even though it was Aemonds father.

Aemond was worried for the future with his intentions, not for kings or queens, they could kill each other for all he cared, in fact, what a bright idea would it be to see his lovely (y/n) wearing a crown while she stood by his side? A child or two next to them, the picture was rudely ripped from his imagination by (y/n) who paced around the room like a mad woman, whispering plans to go back, Aemond would rather eat dragon glass than see Rhaenyras face right now.

“No, of course not, Aemond, she is my mother”

“And my sister, my brother, my own mother, still I stand here by your side I do not whine and beg to run back to her”

“Whine? Is that what you think? That I’m simply homesick?”

“Truth be told I do not know what to think of you anymore”

“they need us”

“I need you, me! The one that came to your chambers and promised you a future as bright as the sun and children as many as the stars above, our families kept us from one another for so long I will not let them do it again”

Aemonds voice boomed through the room, (y/n) was left as still as a grain of salt, stiff as she lowered her gaze to the ground before she looked back up to him, fear and sadness written all over he faces, Aemonds deep breaths were the only thing you could hear at the same time that (y/n) was left with countless things to say, strangely she had seemed to lose her voice, no, he had taken it from her.

“I love you, Aemond, I love my family too”

“I am your new family and you better get that through your thick skull”

“You promised me that we would be happy”

“We will, once you give up those foolish ideas of going home”

“Aemond no, please”

She tried to run after him, instinctively she was sure of what was to come alas she was not fast enough, the door shut before her eyes and the sound of keys twisting was heard as she slid down the door to the ground.

Aemond stood on the other side, listening to her whimpering and (y/n) calling for him whilst she banged on the door in desperation, every fiber of his being was screaming to open the door, hug her, kiss her, give her everything her heart wishes, thought the fear of their families intervening and twisting their fate around until there was nothing left kept him from doing what his heart truly wanted.

“Please, I have never asked for much, keep her from hating me, in the Mother's name I pray”

Aemond had earned his piousness from his mother, the fear of the seven often sneaked into his consciousness making him beg for forgiveness for seeking the companion of (y/n) in a manner that was unbefitting his station, now he was left in his own devices to navigate his relationship and properly stir it to the safest route.

“Aemond, please, let me out”

Her voice cracked as her bangs on the door were becoming smaller, slowly giving up at the attempt to change his mind.

Aemond was the only man (y/n) ever wanted, she adored her mother as deep as bones so to run away with Aemond meant a lot, on the contrary (y/n) wanted to stand by her mothers' side, why must she choose between love and family?

Minutes passed, minutes turned to hours and (y/n) stayed on the cold floor while the sun said its goodbyes and was replaced by the moon, a serene night, sounds of nature filled her ears that usually calmed her, the wind passing through the leaves was melodic yet (y/n) felt like an empty shell of a person, weak from crying she dragged herself to her bed, she did not even try to take her clothes off, she just laid there, waiting for the sweet feeling of sleep to take her away, take her to her mother.

It was a pointless task, (y/n) could not just sleep like nothing has happened, besides, the bed was too cold for her liking, it was their second night away from home and they were spending it away since Aemond decided to lock her away like a child in punishment, safe to say that it wasn’t unraveling the way (y/n) had pictured it.

While (y/n) was dwelling over the bad turn of events a shuffling of keys in the lock forced her to raise from the bed and turn her attention towards the wooden door.

“(Y/n)?”

Aemonds voice was as light as a feather as he walked into the room, the candles snarfed out hours ago meant the only source of light came from outside which wasn’t that helpful, still as the moonlight laminated in the room Aemonds silver hair alerted her.

“You are being cruel”

“You mean everything to me”

“I want my life back”

“You chose to come with me”

“Not as your prisoner”

“Can you promise me that if I set you free you won’t try to run away?”

Silence, utter silence took over as (y/n) bit her bottom lip, Aemond waited patiently before a smirk appeared on his lips.

“I thought so”

“I still need you, intensely at that, my love for you is deeper than this, I just- do you understand why I am resisting?”

“I do, do you understand why I want us to stay away”

“Yes”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Lay with me”

Her voice was meek and hoarse from crying almost until this moment until the tears dried up and the gagging from the sore throat became insufferable, her eyes swollen and red, Aemond hated seeing her like this, he wanted to claw himself and rip his skin to pieces for putting her through such emotional suffering.

He complied by taking off his jacket, then shoes and pants, slowly to not startle her he crawled into bed with her, his arms snaked around her and his one hand found her thick strands of hair while the other ran circles on her back, (y/n) took a deep inhale at the contact, his touch always had a strong influence over her, Aemond was (y/n)s milk of the poppy, addictive, sweet and numbing to point of delusions, a faint smile appeared from (y/n) as she nuzzled closer to him, her hands clung on to him for dear life.

Aemond was her prison, he held the keys to her freedom yet she wanted to stay, to love him, some would call it the stupidity of a young girl, the poets would say that the love had poisoned her blood and (y/n) was letting the snake bite her because of how sweet the kiss was.

“I will always be here for you”

“I know, I just wish things had been different”

“They will be”

“You don’t know that”

“I will do my best”

“That is still not good enough, I am sorry but it’s not, Aemond we could-“

“I will not breathe more life into the matters of our families, the people that kept us apart if you recall, I just want to enjoy your presence for one night”

(Y/n) only puffed out a breath of frustration, she hated to admit that he was right, going over it again and again would not sway him to her side of things whatsoever, if anything it angered Aemond to a bigger extent and that would make things worst for (y/n).

“Hopefully one day we can look back on this time period and laugh, your hair will be great and our grandchildren will run around us”

“That sounds like a wonderful future dearest”

“Do you think we can make it?”

“I don’t know”

He was honest as he stroked her head and she inhaled sharper to take in his scent, a scent that soothed her, a scent that reminded her of a time that they sneaked around the castle at the hour of the wolf in Aegons chambers while he was already out of the gates doing Gods know what.

“What I do know is that I will not stop until I create a haven, for you, and for our new family”

“Until we can open our gates to our families”

Aemond chose to bite back his tongue, it irritated him that she always found a way to bring them up, Aemond was certain that this rivalry for the throne would end in a bloodbath for both sides, nobody could tell with certainty that Rhaenyra or all the others would survive.

Of course, it left him anxious as well, his lovely sister, Heleana, his adoring mother, Alicent, his sweet brother, Daeron, and even the agitating Aegon who had his moments, he had to give it to him that Aegon was the only one that helped him keep his affair with (y/n) under wraps.

“We should rest, an important morrow awaits us”

“Will you help me pick out a dress?”

“I have already arranged a dress for you, did you think I was going to let my bewitching bride wear a simple gown?”

Requests are open!

[excalibur-gone-missing]

Paring: wonwoo x fem!reader

Genre: lovers to exes

warning(s): angst

summary: wonwoo realizing that good things dont last unless one takes care of them.

words:750

a/n: I request each and every one of you to comment on this fic don't be a silent reader it helps me as an author to understand my readers and i would love to communicate with all of you. Constructive criticism is always welcomed by me so do talk about this fic or send me an ask.

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

Wonwoo had realized you were the love of his life from the prime age of fifteen. You obviously were not aware of this revelation of his, but you did not need to, he was fine with keeping it secret from you till he was comfortable with sharing it.

He had met you when you were six and though a series of unfortunate events, wherein you shoved his face in dog shit and he pushed you into the lake without knowing you could not swim, you both became best of friends, almost inseparable.

The first crack in your ever so strong friendship came with Wonwoo realizing his feelings for you, he stopped talking to you trying his level best to make sure it goes away. It resulted in you breaking into his house to inquire his sudden disappearance from your life and decreasing his life span in the process.

He had his first serious conversation with you about your relationship then. After spending the whole night talking, you both realized you were equally in love with each other and felt the innate teenage need to get into a relationship.

That was the second crack. Now that he thinks back to that day, he realizes the foolhardy risk you both took. It just resulted in a lost friend and a broken relationship.

That was five years ago, both of you were young and dumb, and did not know how to actually work out a relationship. Now at the age of twenty, both still young and dumb, but wiser than your fifteen-year-old selves stand in the living room of his college dorm teary eyed and exhausted from the conversation you just had.

"Maybe it's time we take a break you know experience the world, because I don't really have the energy to do a long distance anymore Wonwoo, not when it's just me putting the effort." You spoke.

That was the topic of the argument, 'his extreme ignorance to your presence', as you had stated, taking utmost care to point out all the time when he went wrong and how you are the only one putting enough effort.

In return he had used up his energy to point out valid reasons as to why he was not able to be available for you in his schedule. His head is throbbing, and he would very much like to have a glass of water but alas the predicament he is in refrains him from doing so.

"let's break up then, what are we waiting for", he says.

All he gets is a scoff from you as a reply. You turn around while running a hand through your hair, you mumble something that sounds similar to 'prick' and walk out of his dorm slamming the door shut.

Maybe if he would have tried to understand where he went wrong instead of making excuses, maybe if you would have tried to understand his predicament or maybe if you both would have sat down for a discussion, you could have salvaged the broken relationship of yours.

But that was not the case here, you both were too deep in your emotions to even try and feel the others, the years in uni had made you both incapable of accepting the changes you both went through. It has made you both hardheaded souls who refused to accept their own shortcomings and blame the world for everything when they could easily fix the problem with accepting their faults instead of defending them.

You were Wonwoo’s first love, and he knows he was yours, but maybe good things do not last long or maybe to make them last one must put in effort, which you both just refused to do. He knows before anything else you both were friends; he does not know if you will be anymore, but he sure does hope that the friendship stays.

Maybe he is a prick he thinks, but you are no less, he knows both of you are equally at fault here, but he will take the easy route this time too, he will blame you because it takes too much courage to blame one’s own self.

He just hopes when the storm dies down you come back to him maybe not as a lover but as a friend because you are too precious for him to lose, and he hopes you think the same as him. Because at the end of the day, you are best of friends.

[velvetvexations]

I'm not saying the real thing doesn't happen, maybe it does often — and I just haven't seen it much because most irl trans spaces I've been to were over mostly trans fems and they usually asked us about trans masc stuff when they didn't know — but I feel like there's a possible other side to the issue of "afab trans people using their agab against trans fems" which is that online at least trans masc experiences are way too often just assumed. Both cis and trans people who don't want to listen to us love to talk about which issues we do and do not face, how we did and did not grow up and how it did or did not affect us.

So that's how you get TERFs assuming that we must have been raised to believe that girls can't do things boys can and that's why we think we aren't girls and some trans people assuming the opposite, that we got to wear and do whatever we wanted and never had to experience misogyny because our masculinity was seen as superior and encouraged.

But if you make assumptions, you will upset people whose experiences you're misrepresenting and you may get pushback from said upset people.

I think we all know how hard it is to put the transmasc experience into words in a way that doesn't imply that female/male socialization is a real and universal, so I can imagine why someone who's upset might say some things in a way that could make trans fems feel attafked and invalidated in their femininity.

There are trans mascs who weren't allowed to do or wear anything masculine whatsoever as children, there are afab trans people who were beaten for wanting to do things boys do and forced to marry and have children young, there is still systemic misogyny that affect all trans people who happen to have been born with a uterus and vagina, girls and "girls" are still more likely to be paid less for the same work and less like to be encouraged to be good at sports or math, more likely to be murdered by romantic partners etc.

I can't blame random normie trans people just living their life for not knowing how to explain all of this in a way that couldn't possibly be interpreted as radfem rethoric implying "trans fems aren't oppressed/don't know what it's truly like to be born a girl" for example in an emotionally charged situation where maybe someone told them to shut up because they don't know what it's like to experience misogyny.

The solution imo is to keep working on developing trans theory to make it more inclusive so that we can find ways to express those ideas and spread awareness in less confrontantial ways. So much time & effort is spent just pushing back against transphobia, which don't get me wrong is important but I hope we get to a point where we (trans masc & other gender diverse ppl) can just talk about our experiences and have people listen and vice versa we would enjoy reading transfeminist theory a lot more if we could expect it to be inclusive or at least not to be making up falsehoods or generalizations about our lived experiences.

But I can see why disciplining people with an overtly transphobic 4chan insult is much much easier & satisfying for people who refuse to acknowledge their shortcomings.

Honestly, I love you, and I love this analysis, but I think you're being too kind. I think at some point some people have to just...be better. I know I say a lot I think a lot of transradfems are just genuinely awful people - certainly I refuse to be swayed the ones at the top are anything else, to say nothing of the explicit tankies - but even if someone has sympathetic reasons for their transandrophobia and exorsexism, it's like, okay, yeah, we should keep trying to do better at outreach, but at the same time it's absolutely on them to stop coping with trauma by hurting people and ignoring that that is in fact what they're doing. It's not on transmasculine and non-binary people to be their therapists.

And the lengths I've seen people go to, like this very ask, to try and be as patient as possible yet still get met with immediate dismissal and readings that sound like Christian moms explaining how the names of Pokemon are Satanic codewords just boggles the mind.

Like, if I were to say "I disagree" it isn't that I think people should stop trying to be nice, I do think we should be doing what you're saying we should be doing, but at the same time it's their responsibility and can only be forgiven up to a point. No matter what they may have gone through or still go through, they have a responsibility to their fellow human beings let alone trans people to be better.

I'm for sure also not trying to say you're implying otherwise, I don't believe you were saying we should totally let them off the hook and coddle them until they stop being bigoted, but I just feel very strongly about stressing that they have to fix their hearts.

But that's also why Velvet Nation is composed of so many better activists than me. At most what I can do is bite someone's head off and maybe make some people feel like they have a supporter that's passionate enough to get that angry on their behalf. I'm not nearly as constructive as yall and that's more important than me and my woe unto the wicked thing.

[akunoniwa]

Reconciliation

AN: i really like the priest trope y'all and dottore continues to plague my being.

Synopsis: In which you confess to your earnest, local priest about your most wretched sins...

Pairing: Priest!Il Dottore x fem!reader

Warnings: MDNI, he's a priest all of the sudden... for some reason..., dirty (blabbing) talk, mutual masturbation ig, you two just drive each other mad

WC: ~2.7k

Also, if anyone is interested, for the last couple years I have been curating a playlist of Evil, Macabre, Scheming classical that I usually write to. You can find it here! (Spotify :/)

Dottore himself may possess a universe-worth of deranged secrets, but his malevolence was the most obvious truth of all.

He’d be a resourceful and dutiful liar, a rehearsed cosmopolitan who knows what to say to get not just underneath your frail blouse, but your skin. He’d often get hyperboles thrown his way, how he must be able to read minds… Surely… That is impossible, right?

How Dottore managed to slip in through the ancient cracks of the Church of Favonius, one could not trace with their finger alone, as he found a special way to bypass the seminary. Growing morbidly bored in his lab as his segments took care of the more ‘menial’ things, he had a thought, twisted and contorted as usual: Where could he get a true, mouth-watering taste of humanity, bare and earnest before him? Naturally, a church is a place where sin may be denounced, but in a sense is romanticized and encouraged in its fashionable banishment. How he’d not considered this his first time around was… Perhaps a symptom of his inability to have all of himself in one place, both cognitively and literally speaking.

Dottore couldn’t merely walk into the cathedral in search of employment, however. The fame he’d acquired was not for his victories, but rather his shortcomings, though the public wouldn’t discern them beyond atrocities, successful or not. While the Fatui had strange footholds in every part of Teyvat, his presence would not be shrugged off, especially should Seamus get word of his meanderings.

His plan, then, was simple– dispose of a working, familiar priest, and he could replicate him as he’s done before in Inazuma, promptly and quietly taking his place. The edges of his ears tingle with anticipation as he imagines all of the degeneracy and blasphemy he’d bear witness to in confession, perhaps he could absorb some inspiration for other projects… Or so he initially thought before you started coming to him for ‘advice’, blotting his mind with a different genre of filth.

In the confessional, he’s able to indulge in hearing various grim sins and tales, his tarnished soul getting off on the compiled suffering in one way or another. His coos of nurturing advice would aptly dilute any evidence of that, though, as he had a reputation to maintain. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to hear your most vile fantasies should he somehow get removed.

You came in routinely, your voice shrouded in its faux shame, so close to his ear as it was only separated by a mere wooden screen. He could damn near feel your tongue as it pushed your impure thoughts to him on its crests and troughs. He was well aware of your intentions, convinced you’d not step foot on church grounds were it not to hand-feed him samples of your depravities. The image of you kneeling, in such a decadent position while you granted him whispers of obscenities, made it hard to restrain a grin of utter, vulgar satisfaction.

Knowing who was approaching next, he allowed himself to loosen his grip on his character only slightly, “My… I never would’ve expected your prompt return…”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…” Your voice crept beautifully through the holes of the screen like a miasmic mist. He allowed his still-unfamiliar title slipping past your lips prick chills all over his body, the blatant implications of hierarchy stoning him.

This was all between you two anyhow, so he decided to play with you to his content, “I can only imagine.” His true voice, too, lingered like smoke through to your ears, dense yet airy, “Perhaps the Lord will find it within His grace to admonish you of your consistently licentious behavior… Tell me, dear, what ails you?”

“I just can't seem to stop thinking about you, Father…” You always had a hard time dropping the guise immediately, as if you haven’t shared these thoughts with him numerous times before.

You heard him shift, his robes moving slowly about his tensed, upright form, your voice drowning him when it was shaped in such a needy tone, “Ah… Quite the predicament, indeed. You know this is a safe place for you to air your sins out into the open, you must proclaim them clearly to Him.”

Your light giggle sent wakes of delirium through him, “I could never conceal my true self from you, Father… Although, I find myself wondering if you’re really an envoy of God or a spawn from Hell.”

“You wound me, darling, deeply so, though that will not divert my faith and divine purpose to ensure your merciful forgiveness.” He improvised artlessly, your implications alone rustling his guts, a friction he was growing addicted to. His entire being salivated at the thought of what mangled ideas you’d bring right to his feet. How you returned to him, beckoning for attention like a crow as you’d gift him with gleaming desire.

“A true messenger of God’s word would surely not get giddy at the thought of fucking one of their devotees… Wouldn’t you agree?” Your words were somewhat daring on your part, as you couldn’t entirely surmise just who was inches from you, but he has more than revealed his insatiable lechery.

You swore you could feel his breath through the screen as he pushed out an arrogant chuckle through his nose, as if there were no other place for you but the palm of his hand, “It’s that very thing, your passionate devotion, that compels Him. Though it seems you’re trying to parry attention away from your misdeeds…”

You noted, much to your pleasure, how he didn’t deny your accusation, “It’s just… Often when I go to pray before bed, I get distracted…”

“It’s entirely normal to get distracted,” He briefly paused, you could almost feel the breath that was perched in his throat in your own, “Perhaps you’re neglecting a piece of your conscience, an inherent part of yourself that you’ve yet to reconcile with.”

An inherent slut, that’s what he thought. How you come in here weekly only to tempt him, your mind is devoted to nothing nearly akin to a god. Truly exquisite.

You continued a bit more blatantly, toying with him, “That could be… It’s so hard to not lose my train of thought when I’m on my knees and can’t think of anything but your voice in place of His.”

His body was bleeding soot, he felt a build-up of carnal animosity trickle into his veins as you spoke, “Is that so… Was I not conveying His word as I usually do, darling?”

Your knees were quickly growing sore from kneeling, but the pain was blunted by the dull buzzing in your abdomen, “If His words are usually detailing what terrible things he’d like to do to me, but I can’t be so sure…”

His legs inadvertently parted, weakening upon your implications, a heat radiating between them that he wished was due to your body being between them. He was trying with every atom that built him to keep his hands in a neutral position on his thighs, but so desperately wanted to alleviate the growing strain in his slacks, “Terrible, indeed… I think you’re not truly allowing Him to touch you, darling, letting Him resonate deep inside you…” His veiled smirk ought to run laps around his entire face as he shuffled through his deck of delirious innuendos. He just enjoyed the theater of it all as his hands clawed at polyester.

While his acting was laughable from a more rational perspective, you were too intoxicated with want to mind and his prods were becoming too potent, “You may be right, Father,” You hoped to any higher power that calling him that was fucking with him. Not being able to see him was making you spiral, the need to merely touch him was stacking as you were beyond yourself before even making it to the church. Being that his voice was all you knew, you were sure that should he actually graze your skin, you’d be all the more susceptible to his antics.

As much as he likes to indulge in teasing you, he so badly wanted to drop the act that you’ve both rehearsed so many times before and insist that you meet him on this side of the screen. Your honeyed voice is always shredding him to dust, his mind disintegrating at the thought of how reprehensible it’d be to take you right here in the confines of the confessional box. Look him in the eyes from your precious, kneeled perspective and tell him how far from God you’ve fallen, how your repentance can only be properly demonstrated on his cock. Your delectable moans would drip right into his ear as he takes you, making your sex the only sacrament you’ll ever require.

“Father?” You called to him through his mental escapade delicately, his silence unsettling in several ways, though it seems you’d successfully wedged your way into his head.

“Yes, darling.” His ability to respire becomes all the more taxing, the facade threatening to shatter as he almost forgets his role for a moment.

“Could you… Do me a favor?” Curling, winding, your vague presence was constricting around him so deliciously.

“What is it…?” You already had him at the heel of each consonant. You debated in your fantasies what you’d lose yourself over more: Being told what to do, or telling him what to do… Did you have to choose?

You bared your fanged will, “I know you want to touch yourself desperately, if you’re not already…” You began, confident in your assumptions as you heard an eroded breath tumble from his lips, “Could you do that for me…?”

His brows collided in a furrow, dumbfounded with how forward you were finally being, “Of course, darling…” He easily committed, “Anything to bestow God’s love, even to the undeserving…”

He didn’t care to hold back his heady exhale upon finally kneading a palm into his already well-hardened cock, cuffing it now and then to outline the silhouette through his pants. You, too, let him in on your movements, ensuring he heard your sweet, lofty mewls as your fingers padded your clit ever so slowly.

“How do you feel, Father… Tell me…” You sang to him, oh how he wished he could see your flushed face, how you urged him to pleasure himself.

“I know it wouldn’t compare to your vile little mouth.” He groaned through another wavered exhale, “I would go as far as to guess you were wet before you got down on your knees, before you got to this Church, thinking about how badly you want to be fucked in such a sacred place…” Saying this knowing damn well how his body faltered at the sight of your name being rightfully branded on his list for another confession.

“Maybe that’s just how I show my devotion, Father…” You bit your lip as your clit gradually stiffened with need, cycling just the right spot, hardly able to resist rutting into your hand.

“Fuck, and you keep calling me that,” His grip tightened, though he’d not let himself free from his constraints yet.

“Is that not what you are? Or are you, God forbid, hiding something?” You pressed him in unison with your hand.

Him revealing his true identity would benefit no one, including you, but something about being able to fuck you as his true self set him ablaze. His expression tightened into one of brief apprehension, he could feel the knocking of his heart in his throat– There’s no feasible way you’d know who he is…

“Of course,” He assured himself more than anyone else, “But when you say it the way you do, in that sickening little whine of yours… It’s too good, darling, too much.” You reeled as you could hear the grin that tugged at his lips, though the struggle to maintain composure between you is what spoiled you.

“Are you moving… Fast or slow?” You forced him to elaborate, though your voice only continued to dwindle.

“Painfully slow…” His hips instinctually rose and fell in his vice grip, “I wish it were any part of you, darling… Your hand, your pretty mouth… Maybe you’d be sitting in my lap…” He mused wickedly.

You hummed in a whisper, “I wish I could touch you…” You decided to admit, “What would you want me to do to you, Father…?” You dug your interrogation into him as you wandered to your cunt, overflowing with slick need as two fingers dove inside in a curl. How you could have his cock pushing through you right in this moment but you both opted for this pitiful demonstration instead…

He adored how you were tearing yourself apart for him, desperation infecting your words, “Perhaps I’d want you to start with your hand in place of mine so you could realize how utterly insane you make me feel… How hard I am for you with just your voice alone, darling.” The rhythm of his breaths was becoming more hasty, the timbre of his voice growing more tangy as his lust snuck through the confines of his weakening dignity.

“Fuck, I really just wanna feel your hot lips wrapped around me, that filthy mouth of yours… Your flattened tongue running against the underside…”

You egged him on with a moan of approval, his mental painting distracting your movements from exceeding a slow massage inside you, “That sounds so good, I want to be the one making you feel good…”

On that note, he found himself needing to corrupt you. Requiring it. It was a perfect setting to do so, beheld in the eyes of sanctity at its most intense. It made him want to rip his own heart out, how this feeling ravaged his entire being. He wanted to be the only one who could make you feel like you served a purpose, symbiotic destruction as he’d fuck you until you could recall nothing else but the sensation of his cock filling you to the most dizzying brim. As much as he wanted you to worship him, he found the prospect of making you ascend with pleasure more gratifying.

“I bet you’d be the kind to get off on me fucking your mouth, neglecting your aching little cunt…” He loved denying himself the raw contact with his cock, but it was becoming quite the task to uphold as he moved to fumble with his belt buckle.

Your face managed to insulate itself with a blush that, should he have seen it, he would’ve taken you upon first notice, “I’d want you to grip my hair, forcing me to keep eye contact…”

“Good, darling, now you’re imagining… How I’d make you gag looking right into your eyes, as that’s only what you deserve for punishment’s sake.” He managed to free himself from his slacks, with no patience to adjust himself beyond his length protruding through the opening of his fly. Your shallow pants were so close to his ear, through the fine holes of the screen he hallucinated a face to imagine. He watched the apparition of you sway and twitch as you were barely able to remain upright while your fingers pumped inside you.

“Do you often touch yourself in prayer, darling?” He ventured.

“Only if it’s to you… Your voice truly haunts me, especially when you tell me all of this worthless shit, I just… Can’t help myself, Father.”

“I think of you all the time, how close we are right now, how I could fucking destroy you but we continue like this anyway.”

“Why don’t you come out of your little box and fuck me then?”

His damned laugh that drove you up the vaulted cathedral walls sounded once more, wondering how long he could be stowed away like this. It is Sunday after all, but perhaps this schedule 10 minutes before mass was intentional. Dottore was adeptly full of himself as he’d not mind if your screams were heard over the choir, in fact, that’d be ideal. While the confessional wasn’t in the main hall, it wasn’t secluded enough to dampen how his hips would assault the skin of your behind as he took you…

Your offer was too divine to refuse.

[possessesnightshift]

i'm not an eloquent political speech person so im just gonna be direct about this

americans, please please fucking register to vote and vote for joe biden in november

and before you jump to whatever policy thing or weakness of his to counter this plea, just stop. it doesn't actually matter. trump is worse. trump is fucking so much worse

our job from here on out is not only to hold our noses and vote for biden, but also to convince all of our friends family and whoever else to also vote for him in spite of all of his flaws. yes all of them

we need to make the fucking argument that trump is so dangerous, the country would be better off with a drooling old genocide lover whose mental faculties are drying up faster than the sahara desert. we need biden voters to be keenly aware of his shortcomings and refuse to back down. there's no use in pretending biden is still sharp as ever or has this mass grassroots support (he does not). he sucks. he is probably the worst democratic candidate in the party's history.

don't care. trump is worse. he needs to be stopped from taking power by any means necessary. he needs to be STOPPED.

from a non-republican pov, democrats constantly leaning on the "but the other guy is worse" argument is frustrating as all hell. i certainly hate it myself. but what gets lost in the conversation is that the republicans are essentially so beholden to this principle nobody even notices.

i know plenty of small town midwestern republicans who were embarrassed to admit they voted for trump. they voted for him in spite of his nastiness and blatant buffoonery (not in spite of his racism bc they're likely ok with that) because he was on the republican ticket, and to them any republican is better than a woke liberal who wants to take away our gas stoves and force drag queens to read us stories at bedtime

so yeah i kinda don't fucking care at this point

biden is a laughably bad candidate for the election of 2024. any other time he could've run (including 2020) is completely different than now, when he's just too fucking old. so should we just roll over and let him lose? just for trump to finish his term, be biden's current age, and either run for a third term or just stay in power bc the supreme court is on his side and they've been preparing for this for decades? fuck that

actually i think a rotting, pulpy corpse would make a fine president compared to dumbass donald "reality gameshow host" trump. literally if biden dies the day of the election he's still got my vote because it is not for him

the left has to learn to have the tenacity that republicans have. we emulate the right in the worst fucking ways (e.g. closing the southern border for no reason) but we never emulate their pettiness. we never say 'i hate the republicans so much i will willingly vote for someone i kinda hate to spite their smug asses'

remember when trump used to be a joke? remember when he was a giant embarrassment? remember the memes about his illiteracy and his lack of awareness? (see 'covfefe' for more info) trump may have the means to become a brutal dictator, but he relies on people smarter than he is to pull it off

if trump continues to hype up his project 2025 and his fascist ambitions with the swagger and confidence of fdr running against herbert hoover, what does it signal to the rest of the world for that man to LOSE to a corpse with the stamina of a wet flounder? it could stop the fascist momentum in its tracks by associating it with weakness and incompetence (you talk up all this hype and you lose to THAT man?? i guess you must be full of shit huh)

these are fraught times. there's no way to get out of this without letting go of our ideals of a perfect candidate who responds to the political desires of the people. that candidate does not exist and never will

right now we have not just an opportunity to preserve our rotting democracy for a little longer, but something much more special. we can fucking put an end to the trump experiment once and for all. we can make trump wannabes like ron desantis scramble to dissociate their image from the toxicity of the trump administration. we can turn him back into a joke.

at this point im screaming into the wind. no person who isn't already voting for biden is gonna read this far. but i want these words to be here anyway because i think they have value. 2024, 2028, and 2032 are all going to be pivotal election years. we can't wait around. we have to act NOW.

vote rotting fish 2024. i will plug your nose with a clothes pin if you refuse to do so yourself...

[general-cyno]

Hey hey have you ever thought about how zoro breaks his body again and again for Luffy gaining scar after scar loosing eyes and shit trying to keep up with Luffy and his devil fruit and sanji with his genetically modified body. Do you think zoro wonders what will be the thing that tips him over the edge into death??? Do you think Luffy does???

well hello to you too, anon! sorry that it took me a while to answer but I love this and ended up typing a lot. so, I also apologize in advance for the long-ish read.

but yeah! actually I was sort of thinking about it thanks to some twts I saw discussing thriller bark again. I gotta say, perhaps I have a bit of a less angsty view? because the thing is... zoro's a pretty straightforward and single-minded character, which doesn't mean he's flat or lacking in depth, but his overall thought process isn't extremely complex.

though zoro treasures his life (just like his swords, both which he needs to achieve his goals), he's not naive. he knows death is a real possibility, more so in the pursuit of his dream. zoro says as much to sanji back in baratie:

zoro doesn't seek death, the opposite actually, and he refuses to die in situations he finds dishonorable or out of his control, but he's come to terms with the idea of his own death. aside from that (or additionally), zoro's most prominent traits are rooted in his deep sense of commitment, devotion and loyalty to what he wants and believes in - namely his dream and his promise to kuina. this aspect of his character doesn't change imo, rather it broadens to encompass luffy and the crew as well.

all this to say that albeit I've called it a sacrifice myself, I don't think what zoro chooses to do for luffy or the crew would count (for him) as such. it's just what he believes he must do - to achieve his personal goals as much as to ensure luffy gets to fulfill his own and to protect the crew as a whole, because they've all become intertwined with zoro's dream to begin with. especially where it concerns luffy. what good is ambition if I can't even save the life of my own captain? indeed, for someone whose end goal is to become the strongest, what's the point of doing so if his strength doesn't allow him to protect those who are important to him? the person who is most important to him?

so when zoro chooses to keep pushing himself to train harder/become stronger, to do the exchange with kuma, beg mihawk to train him or agrees to do crazy stuff like take the drug that will help him recuperate enough to fight but will worsen his injuries/pain tenfold the moment the effect wears off in wano - they're not sources of regret or decisions he sees as tragic sacrifices. he's quite like luffy too, who's made similar choices along the story.

the angst of moments like "nothing happened" for me lies more on the implications of what could've happened (zoro dying for real), what eventually did (almost getting killed in sabaody, the crew's separation) and what luffy's reaction would've been if he'd found out. I do agree luffy would ultimately respect his decision, what I don't usually agree with is that he'd be immediately okay with it. the last thing luffy wants is to lose someone he loves, less so if they get hurt trying to protect him. points at his backstory, marineford and post marineford. this is exactly why sanji insists on not letting him know.

on the other hand, imo, zoro's not trying to keep up with luffy per se... how I see it, it's more like meeting him halfway. when you're faced with how powerful luffy's become nowadays, it's easy to forget he's not infallible. luffy has weaknesses and shortcomings too. post TS zoro is even more aware of both of their limitations (he's the one who's literally experienced luffy's pain as if it were his own) though he's also become more confident in their strength and the crew's as well. zoro will do his best to stand by luffy's side and protect him/their crew, but luffy has to measure up! zoro has no qualms about reminding and demanding him to get his shit together. zoro might not reach luffy's levels of raw strength (and I'd argue he doesn't need to), still, there's other ways in which he makes up for what luffy lacks or can't do in certain circumstances. so if you ask me, it's not about keeping up - it's meeting each other in the middle and striding forward together.

as for sanji, a similar thing applies. for all their petty rivalry and their roles as crew combatants, it's important to remember sanji's more of a nurturer (he is the cook, after all) and his dream of the all blue has little to do with strength, unlike zoro's. his genetic modifications don't really become an issue (for the crew) until wano and if anything, rather than this setting him above zoro in terms of power/abilities or turning into something zoro has to catch up with, sanji relies on zoro to keep him in line if he ever endangers the crew because of it.

all in all, I don't think zoro's the type to wonder what's gonna make him kick the bucket, though he knows dying is a realistic possibility. plus, he's not the only relatively Normal Guy who's ever become crazy strong among DF users and other enhanced characters. rayleigh is a very good point of reference as to what zoro is capable of becoming or achieving, and it's no coincidence they share a bunch of a similarities too.

AND FINALLY LUFFY. I rambled about this in the tags of a post a while back but luffy is a bit of a more complicated case imo. the manga doesn't exactly provide insight on luffy's inner thoughts/feelings (he voices most of them anyway) and though he's not naive in this aspect either, especially not post TS, the story rarely lets him witness situations in which zoro's vulnerable or in real danger of dying. this leads to him sometimes coming across as insensitive or being unfair (by having almost unrealistic expectations wrt zoro) but part of it is that he sees zoro bouncing back from the seemingly impossible more often than he sees him down.

however, the way he loses his goddamn mind when mihawk hurts zoro at baratie, when kizaru almost kills him and as kuma sends him away in sabaody, is a very good indicator of how he handles the idea of losing zoro which is - not well. at all. OPLA also gave us a more blatant example of this with the near dissociation, panic, losing his appetite and actively refusing to eat etc when zoro's wounded and unconscious after his duel with mihawk.

whether he thinks about zoro dying or not is probably more headcanon/fanfic territory, since it hasn't come up in the manga itself. even so, I do believe luffy's the type who... deliberately does Not ponder about sad or potentially upsetting things. one very brief moment that stood out to me while reading was this:

luffy not wanting to remember when garp left him on his own as a kid and straight up getting mushroom-high after being separated from his friends? man.

despite his cheerfulness and confidence, luffy is at his innermost terrified of losing the people he loves and hates the idea of being alone, ever since he was a kid. he begged ace not to die, has fought time and time again to rescue his friends and bring back those who've left. zoro's not just his first crew mate but he's also been the most long lasting and steady throughout the story. as some people have pointed out - zoro is the only one of the east blue gang who's never left the crew, even if the rest all had very understandable reasons for doing it each time. so on a more speculative note, after all the losses luffy's suffered, I'd say wondering when or how zoro will die is something he'd very much avoid. the thought's likely pretty devastating. instead, it's easier to put his entire trust and faith into believing zoro will pull through anything, like luffy says in dressrosa, and zoro would accept no less than that imo - because that's the kind of trust/faith he places in luffy as well.

lastly, about the scars and such... this is where zoro and luffy's similarities are highlighted. when it comes to all the choices they make wrt their dreams or protecting their friends, those luffy understands well. he's pretty much the same as zoro in this regard. that's why he refuses to let buggy interrupt zoro's fight with cabaji and stops johnny and yosaku from interfering in his duel against mihawk, even if seeing zoro get hurt upsets him greatly. zoro and luffy match in many ways, their dreams and determination to fulfill them is one of them, no matter what they have to do or how many scars they collect along their journey as a result.

[demonslayedher]

Hantengu: As Bad As You Can Get Without Being Muzan

I've touched on this in old meta entries and I'm just going to wind up linking them here, but a friend got me going on this again today, so I'll state it again: Hantengu is one of the most insidious characters in this whole series, if you're going by sweeping themes of self-mastery which Gotouge may or may not have consciously intended.

For starters, I'm going to compare Hantengu to his polar opposite, Rengoku Kyojuro, mostly by referring you this post where I already explained how Kyojuro displays samurai-style idealized virtues of self-mastery, stoicism, and inner peace about death or aging. A common theme in oni lore is how letting one's passions run amok is what brings out the demon any person has potential to become, whether these passions are greed or worry or even joy. Kyojuro is very clearly a passionate person, but he's self-aware enough to know that his passions must be kept in check in order to benefit from them, and that means putting effort into maintaining them. He's seen how that can lead to burn out as in the case of his father, so he maintains his own balance by recognizing and accepting the harsh truths of any situation with as much grace as he can muster, recognizing and taking steps to overcome his own shortcomings, and recognizing and making a choice to "set his heart ablaze" instead of getting lost in frenzy.

Hantengu, on the other hand, lets his passions run so amok that they take their own physical forms, and even then no single one of them is ever consistently powerful enough to be sustained for long before he's spawned something new based on whatever new frenzy he's in. It's his reckless abandon of self-control that made him so demonically powerful.

There are other characters who lack self-control, though--Inosuke and Zenitsu are who they are because they are the perfect agents to introduce chaos to any scene. They gradually take steps to learn self-mastery, however--Zenitsu is hyperaware of his own failings, to the point of rumination, and Inosuke is hypoaware. However, at their core, their desire to do better by other people leads them down paths of self-improvement, a path which keeps them aligned with humanity as opposed to the allure of powerful demons.

Demons in this series display similarly admirable traits, though--Kokushibo and Akaza have striven as hard as any Corp member to improve themselves, for instance. Gyutaro and Daki might have had blatant disregard for others due to a lingering jealousy and hatred for how much better everyone else always had things than they did, but they have always taken active roles in standing up for themselves and trying to improve their circumstances.

If we dive into more loathsome, demented demons, we still see that they know themselves enough to own their faults, whether they see them as faults are not. Douma is quick to recognize his own lack of passion, Enma is unashamed as about what gives him pleasure and uses his underhanded, self-protecting tactics in order to play the long game in his strategy, Gyokko is an artist, and Muzan is perfectly clear and at peace with who he is and what he wants. Muzan's desires are so plain to him that it even opened up a believable opportunity for Tanjiro to feel sympathy for him in their final encounter, though Tanjiro made the choice not to.

Tanjiro never even entertained the notion of pitying Hantengu, though.

I'll come back to Tanjiro, but to borrow from this post about themes in KnY as they relate to oni lore: In many philosophies, even an excess of positive emotions can be detrimental, and people who follow those philosophies are instead encouraged to not given into any emotion too strongly. Likewise, the lack of a virtue can be bad, but an excess of it becomes a vice.

While the Ki-Do-Ai-Raku fearsome foursome represent the danger of unchecked, excessive emotions, Zouhakuten represents an excess of virtue, which turns it into a vice. From an outside perspective, of course Tanjiro was doing the right thing attacking a tiny oni, because this oni will go on killing people if he doesn't, but Zouhakuten focuses so intensely on the injustice of attacking the small and weak that he is ignorantly convinced of his own self-righteousness.

The other demons don't do this, particularly--they justify what they do, like Daki saying how this is just the way the world works that beautiful and powerful oni can do whatever they want because that is how the world works, but she doesn't claim her actions are righteous. Muzan also makes rational points--which Zouhakuten echos--about how the demon slayers drive a lot of the violence due to their own inability to make peace with their lot in life, and going out of their way to attack demons. However, as much as Muzan believes he is superior, he doesn't belief he is a god who can cast moral judgement on others, nor is he interested.

Zouhakuten, taking the form of a deity that fiercely protects the precepts of Buddhism and threatens those who defy it, makes the daring claim that he is just.

The Demon Slayers Corp members, at least those like Tanjiro, are guilty of the same thing. The difference, however, comes back to self-awareness. For example, Tanjiro is confronted with the question of whether Zouhakuten/Hantengu has ever eaten anyone in Tanjiro's life, and as he has not, Tanjiro must at least question if justice is on his side anyway in attacking Zouhakuten. It was an easy answer, but being mortal and easily killed for sticking his neck out by picking fights with demons, it's something Tanjiro continually has to question and reaffirm.

Yes, the answer is always easy for Tanjiro, and yes, there are Corp members who are only in it for the glory or the money (and these characters are not treated as heroes). However, Tanjiro must also continually self-reflect on his own weaknesses and failings. Taisho Secrets tell us he's even reviewing his training and battles in his sleep to analyze and learn from them, and we see his continual efforts to improve no matter how beaten down he's gotten. In the heat of battle he has to keep himself confident and focused. He's got to keep from beating himself up unfairly, and he's got to keep from getting over-confident, it's a balance to maintain and it takes practice to read oneself with clarity.

He's constantly having to practice self-mastery, which means Total Concentration of whatever strength he needs to pull from, including passions like righteous anger that make it feel like his heart and/or forehead are ablaze. It takes him practice to be able to keep rebounding, but he's got humility to be able to learn from others, take criticism, and analyze himself with clarity.

These are the virtues which Kimetsu no Yaiba extols, and which most separates the paths of righteous from the paths of those who who gave into their passions.

As a few other examples: --Nezuko retains her virtues by recognizing her own weakness and focusing on self-mastery --Rui lost himself in a feeling of entitlement, conviction in his own sense of justice, and disappointment in his parents. Or so he thought! That was all the result of running away from a truth about himself he didn't want to face; the fact that he was the one responsible for breaking his family bonds. --The Pillars, with all their human faults, remain righteous because they could easily succumb to their own sorrows, angers, and self-loathing. The fact that they do not--however much these things have messed them up--and they keep striving to better themselves, for the sake of a conviction in something difficult to achieve otherwise.

Zouhakuten, instead of rising above his own shortcomings, is a deeper concentration of, a wallowing in those unbridled passions. Being so convinced of his own righteousness, he does not have any clear self-understanding, and therefore, has no inclination toward self-mastery.

He is, after all, Hantengu.

Hantengu made himself into what he is because he convinced himself of his own lies about his own helplessness, and this utter lack of self-awareness and his unchecked passions are what make him a demon. By doing nothing to improve himself, he grew out of control. And, ultimately, Hantengu is selfish. Everything must revolve around him and how he is the most wretched creature, the most powerless thing to ever have the harshness of the world thrust upon it. Among a cast of relatable demons, made victims of their own poor luck or circumstance or a desire to amend some wrong done to them, Hantengu is the worst because he got himself there for nothing but his own self-centered lie.

While all the demons have relatable traits which have flown out of control, he's the most realistically like someone we all know or have met. He's the most benign and hardest to catch, one whom many philosophical, religious, or therapeutic texts try to warn against for how his insidious fleeing from truth grows into something monstrous.

The scariest part is that the wallowing Hantengu might be closer than we think.

[arainbowofchaos]

Forbidden Euphoria [Chapter 1]

As you have been working diligently for three years at a prestigious company, a new younger colleague is recruited into your team. Despite his inexperience, it seems that his natural charm allows him to receive forgiveness for any shortcomings. As you find yourself growing more and more obsessed with him, fate pairs you together for a business trip.

Or : During a business trip, you realize that Jungkook does indeed have experience in a non-professional domain, and it doesn't bother you in the slightest.

Tags: Jungkook x Reader, Jungkook isn't monogamous, Reader has fallen hard for him, future smut and futur angst

Length: 2.4k words

A/N: This is a first part and if you like it I'll add the next part soon. Let me know what you think.

Next chapter

...

As he just arrived in the company, it's as if Jungkook had always been there. He has this way of fitting in effortlessly anywhere he goes. At first, you had your doubts. His attractive appearance seemed suspicious. However, as the weeks went by, he managed to convince you otherwise. He always showed small gestures of kindness at work and didn't hesitate to stay late with you to help wrap up projects. This man was eager to learn and always willing to lend a hand. 

When your boss assigned you to team up with him for a two-day trip to Seoul to secure a crucial deal, you were afraid of being alone with him. It wasn't about mistrusting him; it was the growing awareness of your own feelings that made you nervous.

So perhaps you have become somewhat obsessive, and you must admit it. You can't recall the last time you thought about anything other than Jungkook. But it's safe to say that it's been quite a while. You're aware that it's not the healthiest lifestyle, but you don't care. If God has placed this man in your life, it must be for you to enjoy yourself. Or, to torture your mind, it's either one or the other. 

The way he constantly lingers in your thoughts, you can't seem to move on. If you were to let him know what's truly on your mind, he would probably run away. You're so overwhelmed by his presence that you don't even know what you truly want. But you know that you'd like to find out. You've never felt this way for any man before him.

…

And there you are, making your way to the hotel lobby, feeling uneasy. Jungkook stands at the entrance, he’s on the phone with someone. He is dressed in a loose white shirt and leather pants. He looks ridiculously handsome. You can hardly believe that such a man could be single, but then again, you don't know all about his private life. You're not interested in the details. You don't care if he's in love or not. You don't want to feel your heart breaking. It might be selfish, but you believe it's better this way. He's already out of reach as it is.

As you descend the steps and reach his level, his eyes light up. You hear him murmur a goodbye, immediately hanging up his phone. He greets you with a big smile, "You look beautiful," he compliments you. You pretend that his words don't affect you, but inside, you're boiling. The natural way he makes you feel important, for some reason you know he's sincere. 

"Thank you, you don't look bad yourself," you reply. He chuckles softly and comments, "That's a start. We should get going; they're waiting for us." Of course, you have work to do: it's not a romantic date but a business dinner. You're getting paid tonight, and your role is to secure the contract under favorable conditions so that your boss praises you.

As you look at Jungkook, you could almost believe that you're about to have a romantic moment. Why does he need to make you feel special? You've never had any colleague like him. You try your best to maintain a professional distance between you two, but his eyes shouldn't be looking at you with so much interest.

You both exit the hotel and head towards a taxi. Of course, he opens the door for you before getting into the car himself. Can he ever lose his manners? If he were at least rude, it might help you a little. While on the way to the Korean barbecue restaurant, you see him tapping on his phone. His eyebrows slightly furrow. You're not sure if he's focused or upset, but it's none of your business. You sigh and look out the window, watching the city lights pass by. It's been so long since you've been in Seoul; you've missed it without even realizing it. Suddenly, Jungkook breaks the silence and interrupts your train of thoughts: "Do you think we'll close the deal tonight?"

"We don't have a choice," you affirm. "Our boss will kill us if we mess up this deal. Follow my lead, and everything should go smoothly," you want to reassure him. 

He nods, a smile on his lips. He looks at you intensely before retorting, "I'm lucky to have you with me, you have so much experience."

His words make you blush slightly, as you sense a double meaning. You're tired of holding back, and you want to wipe that smug look off his face. "I do have more experience than you, indeed. I'm older, and you've only just arrived, so listen to me carefully when I give you instructions," you calmly respond. 

"Are we still talking about tonight's deal?" He playfully asks. You roll your eyes and pretend not to listen to him anymore.

But after a moment of silence, he slowly moves closer to your side of the seat, and you can almost feel his breath on your ear. Your eyes are still fixed on the road through the window. Jungkook's next words leave you speechless as he whispers softly, so softly that only you can hear: "I do have quite some experience."

You turn towards him, slightly flustered, and he decides he enjoys seeing you like this. He chuckles and moves away again. You swallow hard and try to calm yourself. He doesn't know how you feel. As long as you manage to remain professional, you should be fine. You may carry some emotional scars from this. You'll have to replay his words in your mind later, imagining the kind of experience he could have been referring to. With an angelic face like his, all fantasies are allowed.

…

The evening went very well as planned. To your great relief, Jungkook and you make a great team. He handles the clients in his own charming way, and it works like magic on them. When you finish, Jungkook is almost tipsy. He's the one who drank the most; this way you didn't have to force yourself, and you thank him for that.

You both respectfully say your goodbyes to the clients as they leave. Jungkook looks delighted and congratulates you, "You were so convincing, it was remarkable."

"It was teamwork, and I have to admit you did well," you honestly reply.

Jungkook looks at you with his big round eyes, surprised. "Does that mean you're finally happy to have me as your partner?" he asks. You avoid the question with a laugh, but you realize that he sensed your initial reluctance to go with him. You feel a little guilty. You want to be honest with him, but something holds you back; you're afraid of saying too much.

"Come on, let's have one last drink," he insists. You want to tell him that it's more reasonable to go back to the hotel, but you don't feel like it. You want to enjoy his presence a little longer. He's had some drinks and is even more cheerful than usual. "Okay, but just one, we have an early flight tomorrow," you agree, trying to be cautious about the situation.

As he takes your hand in the street to lead the way to the next bar, you convince yourself that it's because he's drunk. You decide to follow him. His hand is warm and soft, and it paralyzes yours because this simple touch makes your head spin. It's so natural for him to touch you, while you're not used to it. For you, it's overwhelming.

…

The music is in full swing, and Jungkook is even more charming when he's tipsy, if that's even possible. The pink light dances on his face. You can tell he's in high spirits, and you enjoy seeing him having a good time.

You talk about work, but not only that. He tells you about his latest trip to the capital and the restaurants he got to eat at (this man loves food!). You can't help but smile as he passionately talks about fried chicken. Due to how adorable he looks, you've certainly let your guard down.

"Do you want to go outside for some fresh air?" he asks, a bit shyly. 

You accept his proposal, the air inside has become stifling. Together, you head towards the exit. He has already paid for all your drinks, like a true gentleman. It's hard for you not to consider this evening as a date.

Once on the sidewalk, you watch Jungkook take out his pack of cigarettes and place one between his perfect rosy lips. He exhales the smoke, and you find it strangely alluring, even though you usually dislike smoking.

His phone vibrates. Throughout the evening, you couldn't help but notice that his phone kept lighting up every five minutes. You don't understand why he's ignoring it. Finally, you ask the question that's been bothering you, even though you already regret being intrusive, "Is it your girlfriend texting you?" You try nonchalantly. 

"It's not my girlfriend. Not officially," he admits. Your heart skips a beat in your chest. Of course he's seeing someone. "Now," he continues, "what I really want to know… is why you care." you fear that the pounding of your heart might give you away.

"I'm just trying to make conversation, you should probably answer her, though." 

You know you're getting involved in something that's none of your business, but the way things have unfolded forces you to defend yourself.

 "You pretend not to like me, but I'm starting to think otherwise," he says with confidence, and he's absolutely right.

You remain silent, simply gazing at the dark sky, feeling embarrassed and unsure of how to respond. Suddenly, you feel a hand grabbing your wrist. Once again, his touch burns your skin. You can't contain yourself anymore. He has a way of pushing your buttons.

"Is that why you took me out for a drink tonight? So I could tell you what I really think of you?" you retort.

"Yes, I want to know," he admits. He looks shy, and so young. Your stomach knots at the thought of him knowing how you feel.

"I think you're the most exasperating colleague I've ever encountered.” You begin. “You believe everything is owed to you because you're charming, and everyone overlooks your mistakes because of that. Even tonight, you only convinced them with your natural charm." You pause to catch your breath, the emotions swirling inside you."What drives me crazy is that you've wrapped me around your finger too. It's impossible to resist you, apparently."

He responds, his expression softening. "I didn't expect that," he confesses, looking genuinely surprised. "I didn't realize how much my actions affected you.” His voice has changed in tone. He looks almost sad, and you already regret your words. 

You take a deep breath, trying to gather your thoughts. "It's been quite an intense evening, and I need some rest, let’s go back to the hotel," you suggest. 

Jungkook agrees and lets go of your wrist. He remains silent. The journey back to the hotel is filled with an awkward tension, and neither of you says a word during the ride.

Upon arriving at the hotel, you head straight to your floor and your room. You quickly bid Jungkook goodnight and retreat into your room, wanting to put as much distance between you and him as possible. Inside, you're filled with a mix of emotions, and shame washes over you for having such feelings for him. 

...

After a brief moment, there's a gentle knock on the door, causing your heart to skip a beat. You peek through the door's peephole and confirm that it's Jungkook standing on the other side. Your heart races as you debate whether to let him in or not. After some hesitation, you decide to open the door just a crack, enough to see him properly but not enough to invite him in fully. "What do you want?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

You can't help but notice how beautiful he looks, and his intense gaze makes your heart flutter. "You said you couldn't resist me," he begins, "I didn't expect to feel this way about you either, but I can't deny it anymore. I want to be more than just a colleague to you." His vulnerability surprises you, and you can see the sincerity in his eyes. But you're torn between your feelings and the fear of getting hurt. "Jungkook, I..." you start to say, but the words get stuck in your throat. What do you want to say to him?

The moment becomes too intense for words, and before you know it, his lips are pressed against yours. The world around you seems to fade away as your tongues intertwine with passion. The coolness of his piercing, combined with the warm wetness of his tongue, sends shivers down your spine and causes goosebumps to form on your skin. He pauses in the midst of your kiss only to invite himself into your room and close the door behind him. 

He steps forward, backing you against the wall and your whole body is trembling with lust as you want more of him. You feel so vulnerable. You've longed for this moment so deeply, and you want to savor every second of it. Jungkook is a great kisser, and after all, he has already proven to you that he excels in everything he does.

He gazes at you tenderly and utters, "I can't believe this is real. Look at you.” His hand caresses your face, and you know exactly how you must look. You’re a mess already. He softly trails his hand from your face down to your neck and then to your chest and you gasp with excitement, your face flushed, completely at his mercy

"I'm gonna make you feel so good." He promises. As he takes you in his arms and carries you gently to the bed, you already know that you're doomed forever. Not only could you not resist him, but you'll never be able to live without him again.

[sparkandashes]

As I sit here, lost in thought, I can't help but mull over a question that's been lingering in my mind: How do people manage to spend every waking moment with the same person, day in and day out, without ever losing that spark of love? What is it about the love that lasts, that makes it so resilient, so enduring?

Is it simply a matter of commitment, a promise exchanged and sealed with vows? Or is there something more profound, something intangible that keeps two souls bound together in a bond that withstands the test of time?

What does it mean to truly commit to another person, to promise to be there for them through thick and thin, in sickness and in health? Is it a conscious choice, made once and never questioned, or is it something that must be reaffirmed, day after day, in both words and actions?

And what about loyalty? How do those who are truly committed manage to stay loyal, not just in body, but in heart and soul? Is it a matter of willpower, of self-discipline, or does it require a deeper understanding of oneself and one's partner?

I imagine it must take a great deal of self-awareness, a willingness to confront one's own shortcomings and insecurities, and to work through them together with honesty and vulnerability. It's not always easy to lay bare your deepest fears and desires, to expose your vulnerabilities to another person, but it's in those moments of raw honesty that true intimacy is born, perhaps!

And then there are the small, everyday gestures, the whispered "I love you's" and the tender caresses that serve as constant reminders of the bond they share. It's in the shared laughter, the inside jokes, and the quiet moments of togetherness that the magic of love reveals itself, raw and unfiltered. isn't it?

And perhaps, just perhaps, it's in the messiness and imperfection of it all that the true beauty of love lies.

@sparkandashes via tumblr

[algumaideia]

Jason Grace was the bastard son of King Jupiter, which was far from being an impactful information. The King was known for his affairs and the amount of bastard children that came from them. The only unusual thing about the situation would be how Queen Juno dealt with the situation. She liked to be in charge of all of them. The boys became guards. The girls cleaners. All of them being supervised by the Queen constantly, working in the palace. She had trusted people in charge of them, reports were sent weekly. They could amount to no problem with the Queen herself controlling them.

It was because of this situation that Jason found himself in the Queen’s presence. He was a kid. Maybe twelve. Maybe younger. He had barely seen the Queen throughout his life. He had seen his father even less times. This was all to say that the kid knew something was wrong, he just had no idea what.

Jason was standing straight, not looking directly at the Queen. He hadn’t received enough instruction on how to behave. What if he made her annoyed and she asked to decapitate him? Could she do that?

“Your performance has been unsatisfactory.”

The Queen looked at Jason like she expected an answer. So the boy gave her one.

“I.. I don’t understand, Your Majesty. I’m as good as every other boy.”

“Exactly. You need to be better. No one can think the bastard children are being favored. This situation is already messy, don’t make it worse.”

The Queen waved her hand. Jason should go. How could he do what the Queen asked?

…

Nico di Angelo was the son of Hades. There weren’t many of them. The King loved his spouse dearly and it was very rare for any woman to catch his attention enough to be made concubine. Maria di Angelo was one of these rare women. Nico was one of the rare children. Persephone, Hades’ favorite woman, treated the situation with grace. She made sure all children received the same education and treatment, it didn’t matter who the mother was. Some people said she treated the combine’s kids like hers out of kindness and generosity. Others said she was only aware that the King wouldn’t see any sort of discrimination with good eyes. In the end the reasons didn’t matter, not to Nico anyway.

When a little boy he was allowed to be as hyperactive and enthusiastic as he wished. After the death of his mother and sister he was allowed to be as quiet and alone as he wished.

…

Some years later, Jason Grace was summoned to the Queen's chamber again. He was taller, bigger, stronger. No one could call him a child, but he was still a boy. He couldn't be more than 17 years old.

It was the second time Jason would have a conversation with the Queen. He was analysing his behavior in the past months, had he committed a great mistake? Was it a problem with his performance again? Someone heard that one time he complained about his father?

Regardless of all that, Jason was a boy with a mission. He would ask the Queen about his mother.

The Queen stopped working with her papers when Jason entered the room.

"You must be aware that Hades' ambassador is coming." Jason nodded. "He will bring his own personal guards, but whenever he leaves the palace he will have our guards to protect him. You'll be one of them. I believe I don't need to tell you how important this is."

"I'll do my best, Your Majesty."

The Queen seemed satisfied and went back to her paperwork without waiting for Jason to leave. The boy took a deep breath.

"Your Majesty, I do not mean to bother, but I was wondering if you could tell me about my mother."

"What about her?"

"You keep track of all the King's lovers, right? I wish to know what happened to her."

"Didn't your sister tell you? She died less than three years after you left."

Jason wasn't sure what to do with what the Queen had told her.

"I met her. You don't find many people who are not only aware of their shortcomings, but also honest about them. I admired her for that."

If you asked later, not that you'd know about it, but if you did Jason wouldn't know how to explain why he did what he did. But he'd tell you he was satisfied with the results.

"Aren't you like this, Your Majesty?"

The Queen blinked. She looked more amused than annoyed. Maybe Jason was lucky, maybe the Queen wasn't so bad.

"I'm not allowed to make mistakes. This whole deal with you and the other bastards… Sometimes I think that if one of you steps out of line, Jupiter will divorce me. I know in some moments it looks like I want to punish you all, and I'm gonna be honest sometimes I do, however in the end I just want to keep it up together."

…

The ambassador was handsome or so would Jason tell his sister. He had black hair that fell to his shoulders when free, olive skin, deep brown eyes, slim figure.

…

On his visit to Olympus, one guard caught Nico's attention. Hazel, his sister, convinced him to describe the guy to her so she could draw him. Nico spent an embarrassing amount of time starting the ready drawing.

…

Hazel loved horses, she would ride them as much as she could. Sometimes Nico would go with her. It was in one of those moments that Nico told the news to Hazel.

"Father wants me to become a permanent ambassador. He said I looked happier after the trip."

"Does he know about the guard?"

"He wasn't…. I didn't…"

"I'm just kidding Nico. I do think traveling to new places would be good for you. Would you take me to some of your trips?"

"Of course, as long as you want and Father allows, I'll be more than glad to have you with me."

…

Whenever Nico went to Olympus, which happened once every couple of months, Jason would be assigned to guard him. Some years have passed, they were both men now and Jason had guarded a lot of information about the ambassador. He enjoyed learning about the differences in cultures, didn't talk much until he did, he enjoyed playing games, silent places, liked listening to music more than going to the theater, had a specific taste in clothes, adored his sister, was good at sword play and could be really threatening.

Nico, on the other hand, knew nothing about the knight. He liked to imagine what the guard did on his spare time.

…

There was an attack. Long short story, they ended up locked in a room together in silence. For hours. Until Nico couldn't deal with it anymore.

"Can we please talk?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but this could distract me and endanger your life."

The guard wasn't even looking in Nico's direction.

"Please, I'm going crazy."

With a sigh, the guard nodded. Nico was surprised it didn't take any longer to convince him.

"What do you want to talk about, sir?"

"I don't know, anything. What is your name? What do you do in your spare time? What do you like? What do you dislike?"

"My name is Jason Grace. I like to read, tragedies are my favorites. I enjoy when we go to work on some construction, it makes me feel helpful. I like the rain. I don't like swimming."

"You did answer them all."

"I did as you asked."

Without knowing, Jason killed the opportunity to continue the conversation with the ambassador. Nico didn't want to feel like he forced Jason to do anything. So the silence came back.

…

On the next visit, Jason fought with Nico daily. He was the best sword fighter and therefore was chosen as Nico's partner when the man showed desire to train his skills. On those days they talked. Both men thought about the conversations all the months they spent away.

…

The next time Nico went to Olympus, the Queen asked to talk to him privately. He never told anyone about it. The effects of it were felt regardless. The Queen started playing matchmaker and the result was Nico and Jason spending more time together.

…

It wasn't a normal relationship and maybe it would never be. But it made both of them happy.

[ruan566]

Am I the only one fed up with the constant comparison between mdzs and tgcf?

When I first found out about tgcf I checked the comments to see how it was recieved by the other readers and oh my Xian Le! The whole review section was filled with people saying that it wasn't on par with mdzs! Mdzs was the first danmei book I read (couldn't ever finish it I just can't read after the confession scene I did not like the romance part a lot) and while it isn't my favourite I liked the plot so I kept myself away from tian Guan ci fi. And then after 2 years I saw its donghua airing and I thought if a donghua was being made then surely it couldn't be that bad and that was when I actually fell in love with the masterpiece this book is. I wouldn't mind if people had any actual complaints about the book but just because it's theme are not similar to mdzs that's insane. It's like you hate a mango for not being an apple. I'd like to hear everyone's opinion since I've seen this happen for way toooo long and heard absolutely no one complain against it, so is it just me who finds it problematic?

(Sorry for the rant it's just been upon my chest too long.)

both the books are brilliant in themselves and have their own shortcomings. I've never been much of a fan of mdzs but it's plot it's characters and their motivations are brilliantly written is something I would never counter. Tgcf on the other hand is not so based on people's motivations rather their reactions. How they react in certain situations and what those reasons cause. As much as I am in love with tgcf it has its own shortcoming but the very reason I love tgcf is that even with those shortcomings it makes itself a very very enjoyable and through read.

Both the books may appear similar at surface but they have very very different themes. As I said previously mdzs is more on people's motivations to do what they must. It's like you have to do what you must to survive it raises questions such as if you did what you did to survive then can what you did really be condemned since that at that point of time was the only thing you could've done. So condemning that is not right.

While tgcf on the other hand is more based on the reactions people have with their own situations and then those reactions affect things. It raises questions as what is truly correct? How do you condemn someone when what they did was truly justified by their point of view during the time that decision took place. Do you punish them? But if they were not even aware of those matters then how can they be at fault? Being oblivious while cannot be a defense in law it's a huge set back in life.

(Sorry for the rant~ haha I swear there's something wrong with me just can't seem to stop typing about books once I start.)

(I posted this on reddit too but ....people just don't stop the comparison, in a very unhealthy way.....)