#i dont even know if this was a deliberate choice or not

[ivymeadowzs]

and if im just thinking about how mark feels like broken puzzle pieces that dont fit together and oliver literally being INTRODUCED by saying he likes a puzzle and figuring out difficult things thats MY business

[starryeyed-seer]

As a bigender person who uses he and she pronouns with no preference for frequency of changing it up i am very defensive of the bazaar's pronoun usage. It doesn't give a shit ♡ however I still feel semi obliged to change it up and usually lean towards it/its because I need to assure everyone anxiously I recognize its crabgendered swag

But also i really do like how canonically the bazaar is referred to as he/she/it, most people have one set they lean towards, and the bazaar also is referred to with traditionally gendered titles like 'mother' and 'father'! And? Absolutely none of that is a reflection on what its gender identity is!

I think if the Bazaar wanted, it could communicate a preference, but doesn't— though I'm somewhat sure the Bazaar has never been referred to with 'they/them' (as a fellow person who simply isn't a they/them, I like this a lot. It isn't just 'the default pronoun for nonbinary people')

This has been 'the guy who really likes the bazaar, talking about the bazaar and gender a little, thank you very much'

[abirddogmoment]

today's hot take for dog people: management is not the same thing as training.

[electroniccollectiondonut]

I have not been in this fandom long enough to reasonably judge others' takes however. "EPIC fans are so silly to characterize odysseus as feeling guilty for his actions don't you know he's a war criminal" is definitely a wild one. like first of all to each their own so settle down and let people enjoy things ok. and secondly making choices with a bad outcome, even knowingly and deliberately, does not exclude the possibility of feeling bad about it later. in fact it makes for a much more in depth character because then you get to explore what he does or doesn't feel guilt over, and why, and if that guilt ever edges into regret or not.

[sieglinde-freud]

ok i think im done i think ive finally done it. i have completed the awakening ship chart with the second gen. except for nah sorry nah. yes i do love rarepair hell thanks for asking im never leaving

[slabmaxxing]

bro what is even happening in uu

[spitblaze]

there are ethical ways of making AI art though, i suggest you check out the tumblr site @are-we-art-yet!

Oh I never said there wasn't an ethical way to make AI art, or that it's inherently evil. I daydream of a project where I feed realtor photos into a generative image program and paint the weird dreamscape houses it gives me back. I think generative art programs are great for brainstorming and inspiration, good for surrealism and abstraction (I think about that 'name one object in this picture' image ALL the time), and good for messing around with- if you've never used one to make muppets that don't exist, I can’t reccomend it enough.

The issue comes when people use their prompt-jockeying as a means to, say, imitate an artist without their consent, or make money off of work made by countless other artists without their consent, or undercut the ability and economic wellbeing of REAL ARTISTS because they think being able to plug a handful of words into a generative program is a flawless replacement for a human being that can think and see and communicate, and doesn't just put pixels down in an algorithmic fashion based off of trends in the prompts entered into it.

A hammer has no moral weight on its own, it depends on who's holding it. You feel me?

[chiya-eltanin]

hm. dont usually put my own two cents for theories but somethings been kind of annoying me recently so yeah. ralsei thoughts.

i really dont like the idea that ralsei is a specific object. especially not with newer stuff from chapters 3 and 4.

For starters, most people that try to figure out what ralsei is in the real world are basing it off of this appearance

however, I feel like there's plenty of evidence to point to this not being his real form, right? People have already pointed out that his original shadowed form isn't fully consistent. It's possibly the most obvious when you compare his singing animations in both forms. His hat form makes what was later 'revealed' to be his ears look more like hair?,

Ears don't really split the same way that hair does, and theres other examples of hatsei having this kind of spikyness to his 'ears' that hatless ralsei doesnt have.

even the fangamer plush makes his ears spiky!!

its a pretty major part of how hatsei looks, and its certainly been talked about before. And then comes chapter 3+4. And we have plenty of evidence that ralsei is a shapeshifter, and I have seen literally nobody talk about it????? huh?????

Oh, and the hat casting a shadow on him makes no fucking sense because he goes onto wear SEVERAL hats in chapter 3 and he's normal????

also I know its like. A funny bit, but HE TURNS INTO A HORSE

WHY THE FUCK WOULD KRIS'S HEADBAND TURN INTO A HORSE???? WHY WOULD A GREEN CRAYON TURN INTO A HORSE???? WHY CAN HE DO THIS????? THIS ISNT A COSTUME THATS NOT HOW THEY WORK????? WHERE WOULD HIS BODY GO.

not to mention that changing shapes was literally his ability in the legend of tenna game???? he plays it off like 'oh every character has abilities i can turn into a box' but he can also turn into a dog? since ralsei was the only one who read the manual it very well could be an ability given to him since the real Ralsei is also a shapeshifter.

It would also explain why ralsei draws himself in his hat form

thats closer to what his natural form is. Dont have any screenshots on hand right now, but he's got two lines in chapter four (if you leave him lying on the ground for too long, and right before they find the first fountain) about how much longer he can 'keep this body for' that make it very obvious that he's only using a form that looks cuter to appeal to us. Him being a shapeshifter would also explain things like

His face being a deliberately made abstraction would also make this interaction make a lot more sense. Pre chapter three, I assumed Ralsei based his face on Asriel to either try appealing to Kris or as fanservice for the player/red soul, however, now that we've slowly started learning more about Ralsei, it's beginning to seem more like Ralsei just wants to have a face and more distinct appearance, like the lightners do. However, because of how dark worlds work, he can only base it off of what already exists, with that already existing 'model' being Asriel, although with modifications to make himself cuter— pink horns and eyes, and his usual glasses. It's why Kris is always quick to point out differences between them, and why Ralsei is embarrassed at being told that they look similar, he didn't have a choice other than be based off something that already exists.

Alright, so Ralsei is a shapeshifter. He still has to have some equivalent in the Light World though, since that's how Dark Worlds work. He was literally about to tell Susie what he was before getting interrupted, and Toby Fox is deliberately dancing around the topic.

However, I think the answer is actually pretty obvious. Ralsei is a being of 'pure darkness', which is why he can exist in any Dark World, unlike Lancer and Rouxls, who need to be objects that 'belong' in their respective worlds. His form is made up by the original dark fountain, and he describes himself as a 'Prince of the Dark'. Characters in the Dark World know about what happens to and around their real world equivalents, but Ralsei in particular seems to be especially aware of all of Susie and Kris's actions and movements. He doesn't need to be brought in by Kris like Lancer and Rouxls do, and he always appears in the Dark World a few moments after Susie and Kris do, while somehow almost always having pretty intimate knowledge of how the world came to be. Ralsei is also the most adamant on being depended on by Lightners, even more than people like Tenna. He talks about how a Darkners role is to be used by Lightners and to make them happy, and his character development in Chapter 3 especially goes into how he wants to be needed and how he's afraid he's slowly developing his own personality, and why he believes darkners shouldn't do that.

So, taking all of that into account, I feel like the most obvious answer for what Ralsei is is a shadow.

He's a literal prince of the dark. It explains why he can shapeshift, since shadows can be made to look like anything— I'm specifically thinking of things like shadow puppets, and why when he gets knocked out he seems to literally disappear, returning to the shadows. A shadow is also the most dependant on light, shadows literally cannot exist without light, or they'll just be darkness. It even explains his empty room.

His insistence that his only role is to help the Lightners, the way that people can never find anything notable about him (asking swatch for specials his suggestion for Ralsei is based purely on how he dresses and Queen literally forgets to get him a cage), and his ability to be in any dark world (since there's literally nowhere without shadows) all seem to point towards Ralsei being a shadow.

Ralsei being a shadow also means he's literally with you in the dark, could probably straight up not exist if the world was plunged into darkness, and also makes him a weaker version of a titan (explaining the 'prince' title. not quite king, but noble nontheless).

[kathaelipwse]

Paper Promises & Second Chances | L.Minho

Pairing: Lee Know (Minho) x Female Reader

Word count: 11,250 words | Reading Time: 40-ish mins

Trope: Marriage of Convenience | Single Dad | Bestfriends to Strangers to Lovers | Hurt/Comfort | Slow Burn | Emotional Redemption

Genre: Angst | Romance | Domestic | Slice of Life | Drama

Warnings: full angst to sweet happy ending | Emotional neglect | Mentions of infidelity (ex-wife) | Child emotional distress | Self-worth issues | Past trauma | Heavy angst | Mild language | Emotional breakdowns | Recovery arc | NO PROOF READING WAS DONE

Synopsis: Minho, a heartbroken single father, marries you for the sake of his daughter—nothing more. Once your best friend, now he's cold and distant, weighed down by past betrayal. But when old wounds reopen and soft hands start to heal, both of you are forced to face truths you’ve buried for too long. Can a marriage born from duty bloom into something real—or will it collapse under years of unspoken love and regret?

Author's Note: This one’s for the girls who loved too silently, gave without being asked, and still kept trying—even when it hurt. If you've ever felt like a second choice or a forgotten soul, this story will hold your hand and remind you: your love is not a burden—it’s powerful. Hello my lovies, sorry i was gone for so long, i dont think i can update on daily basis but i will try to stay active and keep updating!!

The marriage, which had been forced on both of y'll by your parents. Lee Know had made perfectly clear, was a strategic alliance. There was no pretense of romance, no whispers of forever exchanged between them. His words, delivered just days before the minimalist ceremony, were a familiar, cutting echo of the past, designed to sever any nascent hope.

"Look, Y/N," he’d begun, cornering you in the hushed elegance of his mother’s living room, where the idea had first been floated. His voice was flat, devoid of warmth, like a winter sky. "Let's be absolutely clear. This… this arrangement. It means nothing to me. Not in that way." His eyes, usually so expressive, were carefully shuttered. "Aera needs a mother. That's it. A stable presence. Understand?"

You’d simply nodded, your throat tight with a pain that was both fresh and agonizingly old. "I understand, Minho," you managed, the formality of his full name a deliberate barrier you hoped he'd feel. A phantom ache from years gone by, now brutally reawakened.

The small civil ceremony had been mercifully brief, a blur of officiant's words and a few polite, distant relatives. Your dress, a simple cream-colored shift, felt less like bridal attire and more like a uniform for a solemn duty. Minho, handsome in a dark suit, had looked impeccably composed, a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside you. There was no exchange of rings—only the signing of papers, sealing a fate neither of you had truly chosen. He had offered you a pen, his fingers brushing yours, a fleeting contact that sent a shiver through you, a sensation you immediately suppressed.

"Sign here," the officiant had prompted, pointing to the line.

Minho had signed first, his hand steady. When it was your turn, your signature felt alien, a stranger’s mark. "There," you'd murmured, pushing the papers back.

Minho had barely glanced at you. "Right. So, that's done." His tone had been purely transactional, a stark reminder of his earlier declaration. You were Y/N L/N now, soon to be Y/N Lee, but the surname felt like a costume you were forced to wear, a temporary, uncomfortable guise.

It was a cruel, almost unbearable irony, considering how your paths had once been so deeply intertwined. You and Minho, inseparable, best friends through every grueling university exam, every late-night study session fueled by instant coffee and shared dreams. You’d known the contours of his laughter, the slight furrow of his brow when he was concentrating, the way his eyes would crinkle at the corners when truly amused. He’d known yours too – your nervous habit of twirling a strand of hair, your passion for forgotten novels, the quiet way you processed the world around you. Your lives had been parallel, often intersecting, a comforting constant in the turbulent waters of young adulthood.

Then she had arrived – his ex-wife, the woman who had later shattered his world by cheating on him. Back then, she had been a whirlwind of dazzling smiles and magnetic charm, and Minho had fallen hard. You had watched, a silent, aching observer, as he drifted further away, consumed by a love that, unbeknownst to him then, would ultimately betray him. And just like that, without a backward glance, he’d cut you off.

"She doesn't like how close we are, Y/N," he’d said, his eyes distant, already elsewhere, avoiding your gaze. "It's for the best. You understand, don't you?"

You had swallowed the bitter pill, pretending understanding, while your heart fractured into a thousand pieces. "Of course, Minho. Whatever makes you happy." The lie had tasted like ash. As if your friendship had never existed, as if the years of shared laughter and confidences were merely a phantom, easily erased.

Now, years later, the universe seemed to delight in its twisted sense of humor. Their mothers, ever the masterminds of well-intentioned chaos, had decided your fates, orchestrating this reluctant union. His mother, concerned for Aera's future, and your own, perhaps hoping to see you finally settled. The rationale was simple: Aera needed a mother, and you, being a 'good, stable girl' who knew Minho, were deemed the perfect, convenient solution. You had no real say, swept up in a tide of parental expectations and societal pressures.

-

A month passed within the confines of the meticulously clean, yet emotionally sterile, house. The initial silence, thick with unspoken resentment and unaddressed pasts, began, almost imperceptibly, to soften. Five-year-old Aera, a miniature shadow constantly at her father's heels, initially shy and reserved, began to cling to you with an unexpected fierceness. She was a delicate thing, all wide, curious eyes and soft brown hair, and beneath her initial reticence, you found a playful spirit longing for connection.

It surprised everyone, especially Minho, who had cycled through countless nannies, each one met with Aera's stubborn, tearful refusal to trust. The child seemed to possess an innate radar for insincerity, sending nannies fleeing with her piercing cries and unyielding resistance. But with you, it was different. Slowly, cautiously, Aera began to unfurl. She’d crawl into your lap while you read her bedtime stories, her small body a comforting weight. She’d shyly offer you her favorite crayon as you sketched together, her hand reaching out for yours, a silent invitation you always accepted. Sometimes, she would just rest her small head against your thigh as you moved through the kitchen, a quiet presence that spoke volumes. Each small gesture felt like a balm to your wounded spirit, a tiny crack appearing in the wall of your resignation.

Even Minho's three furry overlords—Soonie, Doongie, and Dori—the regal, aloof feline trio who usually regarded newcomers with disdainful flicks of their tails, now purred contentedly around you. They would rub against your legs as you walked, settle onto your lap while you watched TV, or even allow you the rare privilege of scratching behind their ears. Minho, ever the doting cat dad, would sometimes pause, a flicker of surprise in his usually impassive eyes, as he witnessed their unusual acceptance.

One evening, he watched as Dori kneaded biscuits happily on your lap. "Huh," he’d said, a rare, almost unreadable sound. "They don't usually… tolerate new people that quickly."

You’d merely offered a small, noncommittal smile, not wanting to break the fragile peace. It was a small validation for you, a quiet acknowledgement that perhaps, you weren't entirely unwelcome in this new, strange life.

A fragile, bittersweet domestic tension began to settle in, a tentative breath of peace in a house built on obligation. The routines of breakfast, school runs, quiet evenings, and shared meals began to form a rhythm, punctuated by Aera's childish chatter and the soft purring of the cats. Minho remained guarded, polite but distant, a phantom in the hallways. "Good morning," or "Did Aera finish her homework?" were the most extensive exchanges. You, in turn, learned to navigate his silences, to exist in the periphery of his life, a role you thought you were accustomed to from your university days, but now carried the weight of a 'paper ring' and a silent promise of nothing. Each day was a tightrope walk between hope and resignation, between the past you couldn't forget and a future you couldn't quite see.

--

One crisp evening, the enticing aroma of roasted garlic and something simmering on the stove—a rich, savory scent—greeted you as you returned home from errands. The fragrance was a surprising comfort, a small, domestic whisper in the otherwise vast, silent house. It was a fleeting illusion of normalcy, one you clung to with a desperate, almost pathetic hope. Minho, having taken a rare day off to spend with Aera, was meticulously plating dinner in the kitchen. His movements were precise, economical, almost robotic, as he spooned pasta onto plates and arranged small, perfectly cooked florets of broccoli beside them. He wore a simple, dark t-shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal strong forearms, and for a fleeting moment, the sight felt almost normal, a fragile bubble of domesticity you desperately yearned for.

"Dinner's ready," he announced, his voice neutral, not looking up from the plates, his gaze fixed on the task. Aera, who had been quietly coloring at the kitchen island, a small, contented hum escaping her lips as she meticulously colored a unicorn, immediately bounced off her stool, her eyes wide with anticipation. "Yay! Dinner!" she chirped, tugging on his sleeve.

As the three of you sat down at the gleaming, expansive dining table, a quiet hum settled between you. The only sounds were the soft clink of cutlery against ceramic, Aera's soft murmurs to her imaginary friend tucked under the table, and the faint, residual sizzle from the kitchen as Minho finally turned off the stove. You watched Aera pick at her food, her small fork pushing around the vibrant green peas with an air of profound contemplation, as if they held the secrets of the universe, rather than just being, well, peas.

"Aera, sweetheart, just a few bites of your veggies," you coaxed gently, your voice soft, almost a whisper, reaching to help guide her spoon. Your fingers brushed her tiny hand. "They're really good, I promise. Daddy cooked them just for you." You offered her a warm, encouraging smile, trying to make it a game.

But the moment the spoon neared her mouth, a storm erupted. Her small face contorted into a defiant frown, every line of her five-year-old stubbornness etched clearly. She shrieked, swatting your hand away with surprising force, sending the spoon clattering against the plate. "No! I don't want it! I don't like green! It's yucky! I want noodles only!" A solitary pea flew across the table, a tiny green missile, narrowly missing Minho’s plate and landing with a soft plink on the polished hardwood floor.

Minho had been having an impossibly rough week. The significant deal, a sprawling, complex project he had poured months of his life, his intellect, his very essence into, had collapsed spectacularly earlier that day. Not due to his fault, but his company's egregious, sloppy error. He had spent hours trapped in scathing, unforgiving meetings, bearing the brunt of the blame, listening to veiled threats about future career prospects. It had left him with the unenviable task of damage control, a throbbing headache, and a bitter, metallic taste of failure coating his tongue. His patience, already stretched thin by the day's relentless frustrations and the suffocating weight of responsibility, snapped like a dry twig underfoot.

"Aera! Stop that right now!" His voice, usually a soothing balm when speaking to his daughter, cracked with a harshness that made you flinch violently. He slammed his fork down on the table, a sharp, metallic clang that echoed like a gunshot in the sudden silence. "Eat your food! You're five, you need to eat your vegetables! We do not throw food at the table! That's disrespectful!"

The little girl froze instantly, her playful defiance replaced by wide-eyed terror. Her lip began to tremble uncontrollably, a single tear tracing a path down her flushed cheek, before she burst into heartbroken sobs, loud and piercing, echoing off the high ceilings. She looked utterly bewildered by her father's sudden, explosive fury, a silent accusation in her tear-filled eyes, reflecting the shattered innocence of the moment.

"Minho, please," you started, your voice urgent, instinctively reaching across the table, your hand hovering uncertainly between them. You wanted to pull Aera into your embrace, to shield her from his sudden, chilling rage. "She's just a child. She's upset. Let's try to calm her down, maybe make a game of it, or distract her—"

But he cut you off with a sharp, angry glance, his jaw tight, muscles bunched along his jawline. His eyes, usually a soft, warm brown, were now cold, devoid of any recognition, like chips of obsidian. "Stay the hell out of it, Y/N." His words were ice, direct and devastating, each syllable a precisely aimed dagger. "This is between me and my daughter. You’re just some outsider. You don't get to interfere with how I raise her. You don't understand."

The 'outsider' comment hung in the air, heavy and poisonous, coating everything in its bitter taste. It wasn't just a phrase; it was a bludgeon, hitting you squarely in the chest. It was a familiar, painful reminder of your precarious place in this arrangement, a stark, brutal jab at the wound he'd inflicted years ago when he’d first cast you aside. It tore open old scars, reminding you of every moment you’d felt secondary, expendable. But seeing Aera’s crushed face, her small body shaking with quiet, desperate sobs, ignited a protective fire in you, extinguishing the self-pity, pushing aside your own hurt for hers. The anger at his cruel words for you was momentarily overshadowed by the fierce, burning injustice done to her.

You pushed your chair back with a violent scrape that grated against the floor, standing abruptly, your hands clenched into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms. Your voice trembled with the force of suppressed emotion, but it was firm, unwavering, born of a quiet strength he hadn't seen in years. "That is not how you parent, Minho! You’re terrifying her! She's crying because you're yelling, not because she's stubborn! Yelling at her like that will just make her fear you! She’s upset, not defiant, and she needs comfort, not a lecture on discipline after you've scared her half to death!"

His eyes, blazing with a fury that mirrored your own, met yours across the table, a silent, volatile challenge. A vein pulsed visibly in his temple. "Don't you dare teach me how to handle my own daughter! Who are you to tell me how to raise her?! I lost a major deal today, Y/N, I'm stressed beyond belief! She needs to learn discipline! You have no right to interfere!" His fist clenched on the tabletop, his knuckles white against his tanned skin. "You have no idea what it's like to be responsible for everything alone! You have no idea what my life is like!"

And then you yelled back, the dam breaking under the pressure of weeks of unspoken grievances and years of buried pain, the words tumbling out, raw and uncontrolled, laced with venom you didn't know you possessed. "Discipline? Or are you just lashing out because you're having a bad day and can’t control your own temper?! Is that it, Minho?! You’re acting like a stranger to your own child! Then you shouldn't have remarried me if you haven't moved on!" Your voice rose, raw with emotion, tears stinging your own eyes, hot and sudden. "You’re bringing your past hurt, your anger, your failed relationship into this house, and it’s hurting Aera! Your parenting is harsh, Minho, and you don't realize your words are like slow poison! They sting, badly, and they leave scars! On her, and on everyone around you!" Your gaze held his, piercing through his anger to the raw pain beneath. "You have no idea how much your words can sting, how much they can poison someone and lure them to their own death by making them feel like they aren't good enough! for you or for aera or for anyone!"

Aera, meanwhile, had scrambled from her chair, her small body trembling with silent sobs that shook her shoulders. Her face was blotchy, tears streaking lines down her cheeks. She pushed her chair back further with a pathetic squeak and bolted, a tiny, heartbroken blur disappearing into the sanctuary of your room, the soft thud of your room's door closing echoing in the sudden, suffocating silence that descended upon the dining room.

The argument had bled all warmth from the room, leaving only an oppressive, heavy quiet that pressed down on you both. You stood there, chest heaving, the remnants of your outburst vibrating in the air, your body tense, ready for another verbal attack, for the inevitable counter-blow. Minho remained seated, a statue of furious control, his face a mask of stone, his eyes fixed on the empty space where Aera had been, a flicker of something unreadable – regret? shame? – in their depths. The tension was a physical entity, suffocating you both, heavy with the weight of unspoken words and shattered expectations. You couldn't bear to look at him, couldn't bear the lingering echo of his words, the raw, unadulterated hurt they inflicted.

With a final, sharp, ragged breath, you turned, the sound of your own steps unnaturally loud in the silence. You walked, almost ran, to your own bedroom, the slamming of your door echoing the turbulence in your heart, sealing you away from the man you were legally bound to, and the relentless cycle of hurt he so effortlessly inflicted. You leaned against the closed door, your back pressing against the cool wood, tears finally falling freely, hot and unstoppable. The bitter taste of regret mingled with the lingering, agonizing sting of his cruelty, a reminder that some wounds, no matter how old, could always be reopened.

The sharp, insistent ring of the doorbell jolted you awake far too early the next morning. You glanced at your phone—6:45 AM. Too early for anyone, especially after last night's emotional wreckage. Before you could even process it, you heard Aera’s excited squeal from the living room, she was up way early….she had been sleeping besides you for the longest you could remember. Oh no. Not today. It could only mean one thing: Minho’s parents had arrived unannounced.

You quickly splashed cold water on your face, trying to erase the lingering traces of tears and the dark circles under your eyes. As you walked into the living room, a practiced smile plastered on your face, Minho's mother immediately enveloped you in a warm hug. "Y/N, dear! Goodness, you look tired. Minho is still asleep, I assume? He works so hard."

You forced a light laugh, your heart pounding. "Good morning, Eomma. Appa. It's lovely to see you." You subtly glanced towards Minho's closed bedroom door. "Yes, he… he had a very late night at work. I didn't want to disturb him." You avoided eye contact, hoping your feigned cheerfulness would mask the raw fight that had exploded just hours before. Aera, surprisingly, didn't say anything either. She just clung to her grandmother's leg, her gaze briefly meeting yours, a silent pact of secrecy passing between you. Perhaps the shock of her father’s anger had sobered her, or perhaps she sensed the fragile peace you were trying to maintain.

Aera, who had curled up with you in your room last night—a first, a small, comforting victory in the chaos—was now buzzing with excitement around her grandparents. She chatted happily, completely absorbed in their presence, making no mention of her sudden transfer to your bed. You spent the morning attempting to play the perfect host, brewing coffee, preparing breakfast, and engaging in light conversation, all while a frantic energy pulsed beneath your calm exterior. Minho remained conspicuously absent. Aera, after failing to rouse him, bounced off to join her grandparents in the kitchen.

Later, as the day wound down and the evening shadows lengthened, Minho’s mother made a casual remark. "Y/N, dear, Aera will want to sleep with her father tonight, now that we're here. And you'll need your own room, of course. It's only proper." Her words were gentle, but the implication was clear: you would have to sleep in Minho’s room. Your stomach churned. The thought of sharing that space, even platonically, after what had happened, was a fresh wave of agony. You simply nodded, forcing another weak smile. "Of course, Eomma."

You tried to delay the inevitable, helping Aera prepare for bed, tucking her in as Minho’s parents settled into the guest room. Minho was still not home. He had sent a brief, impersonal text earlier: Will be late. Don't wait for me. That was all. No apology, no explanation, just a curt notification.

You lingered in Aera's room until her breathing deepened, then reluctantly made your way to Minho's room. The air felt heavy, charged with his lingering presence, even in his absence. You changed into your sleep clothes, the silence of the large room amplifying the ache in your chest. You climbed into the vast bed, pulling the duvet up to your chin, trying to find a comfortable position on the very edge, as far from his side as possible. You tried to sleep, but the words from last night still festered, raw and stinging, replaying in your mind like a broken record. "You’re just some outsider." They were a poison, slowly eroding your already fragile sense of belonging.

Restless, unable to find solace, you eventually shifted, your arm instinctively reaching for the bedside drawer, expecting your own room's familiar collection of books and a comforting balm. Your fingers brushed against cold metal, then paper. You froze, realizing your mistake. This wasn't your room. It was his. Your hand paused, then curiosity, morbid and irresistible, compelled you forward. You pulled the drawer open slowly.

Inside, beneath a few neatly stacked papers, lay a silver photo frame. Your eyes fell on it, and your breath hitched. It was a wedding photo—Minho and his ex-wife, all smiles and starry-eyed adoration, captured in a moment of pure, unadulterated happiness. He looked so young, so in love. So happy. It was a stark contrast to the distant, weary man he was now. Aera looked so much like Minho, you realized, studying the tiny face in the picture. Her hair color was undeniably her mother’s, a rich, dark brown, but the shape of her eyes, the set of her lips, it was all Minho.

Below the frame, tucked away, were stacks of papers. You carefully picked them up, your fingers trembling. They were old love poems and song lyrics, handwritten in Minho’s neat script, overflowing with devotion and longing. For her. Each word was a sharp jab, twisting deeper into your gut.

It stung, a deep, twisting pain in your chest, radiating outwards. You had kept hoping, against all logic, that Minho might eventually like you, that he would move on from the phantom of his past love, or at least that you could somehow return to the easy closeness you shared as friends. His ex-wife was the very reason Minho had distanced himself from you in university, the reason he’d thrown away your bond. You had always loved him, a secret you guarded fiercely, unwilling to jeopardize a friendship that meant the world to you. And just like that, he had slipped away, as if your bond meant nothing. You hadn't attended their wedding; you just couldn't bear it. You had believed you’d moved on, burying the feelings deep, only to be proven wrong, again and again, with every quiet moment you spent under his roof, every silent hope you nurtured. And now, seeing this proof of his enduring devotion to a ghost, you hated yourself for still liking him, for allowing this agonizing vulnerability, for clinging to the idea that you could ever fill a void meant for someone else. You felt utterly, irrevocably unwanted.

You quietly, meticulously, put everything back, arranging the papers and the photo frame exactly as you’d found them. Tears rolled silently down your cheeks, hot and unbidden, pooling on the pillow. Getting up from the vast, empty expanse of the bed, you walked towards the small couch tucked into a corner of the room. Curling into its cramped space, you wrapped your arms around yourself, with Aera sleeping peacefully in the bed a world away. You hoped Minho wouldn't even realize you were there.

You couldn't sleep. The photo, the poems, his words, Aera’s tears after minho had yelled her like she had commited a crime—it all swirled in a tormenting vortex. Just as the first hint of pre-dawn light filtered through the curtains, the door swung open, and he walked in. Minho.

He didn't notice you immediately. He quickly stripped off his coat, tossing it over a chair, and walked over to the bed, his movements quiet, precise. He bent down, his shadow falling over Aera, and gently pulled her closer, kissing her head. "I'm so sorry, baby i was wrong for yelling at you…i shouldn't have taken out my anger on you," he murmured, his voice a low, raspy apology, filled with a regret you knew was solely for her. You pretended to be asleep, your breath shallow, your heart aching with a pain so profound it was almost physical.

He slowly got up, went for a bath, the sound of the running water a muffled background noise. When he came back, dressed in fresh sleepwear, he laid down beside his daughter, pulling the duvet over them both. His eyes, now adjusted to the dim light, drifted from Aera’s sleeping form to the far corner of the room. He saw your cramped form on the couch. That's when it hit him—right, his parents were here… you were here, not in the bed, but on the couch. A flicker of surprise, then something akin to confusion, crossed his face before he settled deeper into the pillows, his gaze drifting towards his bedside table. The neatly arranged items, the way the drawer had been moved by a centimeter or so… it was clear you had seen something, something he had been wanting to trash but hadn't had the heart to.

He hadn't meant to cause you so much pain. The thought was a weak, pathetic excuse, a whisper in the furious storm brewing within him, barely audible over the roaring self-condemnation. He watched you curled on the couch, a small, desolate shape in the dim, pre-dawn light that filtered through the curtains, painting the room in shades of grey. You looked tired, utterly exhausted, and undeniably, profoundly hurt. This wasn't the superficial fatigue of a long day at the office or a sleepless night; this was the deep-seated weariness of a spirit burdened, a soul bruised by repeated blows. Your posture, hunched and defensive, spoke volumes, a stark contrast to the vibrant, open person he remembered.

He sat heavily on the edge of his bed, the duvet still warm from Aera’s small, innocent body, and his gaze drifted back to the bedside table. The photo frame, the stack of papers. They were exactly as he'd left them, a testament to his own lingering attachment to a past he desperately wanted to erase. Yet, the slight displacement he’d noticed earlier, the tiny shift of a centimeter or two, spoke volumes, a silent accusation. You had opened the drawer. You had seen it all. The wedding photo with his ex-wife, her beaming, false smile a stark contrast to the betrayal that followed. The saccharine love poems he’d poured his naive, foolish heart into for a woman who had ultimately shattered it into irreparable pieces. The relics of a past he couldn't bring himself to truly discard, not because he still loved her, but because the searing pain, the bitter rage, and the profound, crippling insecurities born from that very betrayal, still clung to him like a suffocating shroud. They were a part of him now, an ugly, festering wound that refused to heal.

He hadn't loved her in years, not in the way he'd once foolishly believed was love. That emotion had curdled into resentment and a deep-seated fear of vulnerability. But the betrayal had warped him, convinced him that he was inherently unlovable, perpetually destined to be left, replaced, or cheated on. And those festering insecurities had, time and again, found an easy target, lashing out at the reader. A wave of shame washed over him, a cold, bitter tide.

He remembered the day in university, years ago. His ex-wife, then his dazzling girlfriend, had demanded he cut ties with his 'too-close' female friend. He’d barely hesitated, blinded by infatuation and his own desperate need for validation. "Just… fuck off, Y/N," he’d snapped, his own fear of losing his new, captivating love overriding every ounce of loyalty and genuine affection he held for his best friend. He’d seen it then, the instant flash of pain in your eyes, a bright, hopeful spark extinguished as if by a sudden gust of wind, replaced by a quiet, heartbreaking emptiness that had never truly returned. He’d justified it then, told himself it was for the best, that you should move on. Now, looking at you on the couch, he knew he had been a coward.

And last night. His words had been even worse, sharper, more venomous than anything he’d ever directed at anyone, let alone you. Calling you an 'outsider,' demanding you to 'stay the hell out of it.' His own fury, fueled by his humiliating professional setback, had found an outlet in the one person who offered him solace. He had failed you as a friend, as a husband, as a human indeed. The thought settled in his gut like a lead weight. He was disgusted with himself, truly, profoundly disgusted.

The woman who stood by him, who patiently navigated his moods, who had, without a single complaint, taken on the arduous role of Aera’s mother, was someone he had consistently, cruelly, pushed away. The irony was suffocating. The fact that she still kept trying, kept all the mundane details of their shared life running smoothly, kept a calm and happy demeanor for Aera’s sake—it was a testament to your quiet resilience, a quiet strength that shamed him. It twisted his gut with a familiar, burning guilt. You were suffering, he realized with a sickening lurch, probably worse than he could ever imagine, because you were always so acutely insecure about your whole existence.

He remembered your quiet struggles in university, the way your family had subtly, constantly, undermined you, with their casual taunts and backhanded compliments. "Why can't you be more like your sister, Y/N? She always knows what she wants." Or, "You're so quiet, are you even trying? You need to speak up more, get noticed." They had been like tiny, insidious cuts, wearing away at your self-worth, systematically eroding your confidence. You had been living in a subtle hell of constant comparison and criticism, and he, in his blind rage and self-pity, had only added to it. He had taken you out of one toxic environment and, in his arrogance, put you back into the same nasty rhythm of his own rage and insecurities, constantly reminding you that you are just here as a replacement, a convenient solution, never truly desired or loved for herself. He had broken the one promise he’d silently made to himself: to protect you. Just to be broken in the worst manner and hurt you in the worst way one could have even imagined.

The image of your small, trembling body on the couch, a faint tremor still visible in your sleeping form, merged with the memory of Aera's terrified sobs from last night. His words, he realized, were like acid, slowly eating away at the very foundations of your spirit, leaving you hollowed out and fragile. He had sworn to himself, silently, during their university days, that he would never make this girl cry. He had sworn to protect that quiet, hopeful spark in your eyes, the gentle kindness that drew others to you. And now, he was the one extinguishing it, systematically, with every cruel word, every cold shoulder. He had fallen in love with the manipulation, the subtle coercion from the woman he'd once 'loved,' who had asked him to cut ties with his best friend and probably the only person who wad truly ever seen him fully. He had been so blind, so consumed by his own wounded ego after being cheated on, that he hadn't seen the true, unwavering kindness, the steadfast loyalty, that had always been right in front of him, waiting patiently.

He knew, with a gut-wrenching certainty, that he didn't deserve you, you deserved something he had touched and lost in a matter of seconds. He was a mess, a twisted knot of anger, self-loathing, and unresolved trauma. He had used your gentle presence, your unwavering support, your quiet affection, to somehow convince himself he was still good enough, still worthy of someone's affection, even if that affection was born of duty and circumstance. It was disgusting. He was disgusting. Every breath he took felt tainted by his own hypocrisy and cruelty.

He rose from the bed, moving slowly, carefully, his limbs heavy, so as not to disturb you or Aera. He knelt by the couch, the worn fabric pressing into his knees, his heart heavy and aching with a pain that rivaled his own. You were so small, so defenseless in your sleep, your face still etched with the residue of tears, a tear track glistening faintly on your cheek. He gently, carefully, cradled you in his arms, lifting your feather-light body as if you were made of glass. He could feel the slight shudder of your breath against his chest, the warmth of your skin. He laid you on the bed, pulling the duvet over you, watching as you instinctively snuggled into the warmth, finding comfort in the familiar scent of the linens. You looked tired, exhausted, and profoundly hurt. He reached out a trembling hand, brushing a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his fingers lingering, wanting to smooth away the pain he had caused. He remembered their university days and how his callous words had destroyed your spark. He silently vowed to make amends, to somehow, impossibly, bring that light back. He would try, even if he didn't deserve it. He owed you that much. He owed you everything.

The next morning, the air in the house was thick with an unfamiliar quiet, a strained politeness that felt heavier than any argument. Aera, surprisingly bright-eyed and cheerful, announced with a giggle that she would be spending some time with her grandparents. Minho's mother, ever efficient, confirmed the arrangement. "Just for a few weeks, dear," she said, patting your hand. "Aera loves staying with us, and it will give you both some quiet time." The irony was a bitter taste in your mouth. Quiet time. Aera, seemingly having forgotten the previous night's tension, bounced between her grandmother and father, showering them both with hugs. She hugged you too, a quick, trusting embrace that felt like a lifeline. Then, with a final wave, she was gone, her cheerful chatter fading with the closing of the front door.

And just like that, the house had gone silent. Too silent.

It wasn't merely the absence of Aera's lively presence; it was a profound, suffocating quiet that settled into every corner, amplifying the unspoken chasm between you and Minho. The walls seemed to hum with the tension of two people meticulously avoiding each other. The mornings became a carefully orchestrated dance of near misses. You would rise early, perhaps make yourself a quick toast, and then retreat to the small sunroom with a book, hoping to be out of the way. Minho, it seemed, adopted a similar strategy. You'd hear the faint sounds of him getting ready, a cabinet closing, water running, but by the time you ventured into the main living areas, he would already be gone, the lingering scent of his cologne the only proof he'd been there.

Weeks passed, stretching into an agonizing eternity of carefully maintained distance. Three weeks, to be precise. Aera still didn't want to come back, delighting in the endless attention and treats at her grandparents' house. And with each passing day of her absence, the silence between you and Minho grew heavier, thicker, more impenetrable. It became a third entity in the house, a silent, oppressive companion.

You existed like strangers. Not just under the same roof, but in the same emotional space, breathing the same air, yet worlds apart. There were no more shared meals, no accidental brushes of hands in the kitchen, no fleeting glances across the room. You found yourself retreating more and more into your own world within the house. You spent hours tending to the small, neglected garden in the backyard, pulling weeds with a fierce concentration that masked your inner turmoil. You reorganized closets, baked elaborate cakes you never ate, and started learning a new language online or even force yourself to go meet your friends you had made after minho had left you in the university. Anything to fill the aching void, anything to drown out the silence, anything to avoid the man who was legally your husband.

He, in turn, seemed to retreat into his work. You would be asleep when he came home, the faint creak of the floorboards or the distant click of a lock the only indication of his return. And by the time you woke up, he would already be gone, leaving behind only the cold emptiness of the space beside you in the bed, a stark reminder of his deliberate absence.

It annoyed you, this constant, almost theatrical avoidance, but you kept yourself busy. You told yourself it was better this way. Less chance of another confrontation, less chance of his words wounding you again. Yet, beneath the busy veneer, a profound loneliness began to take root, nurtured by the silent, aching void where a relationship should have been. You were married, yes, but you were more alone than you had ever been. The house, once filled with the muted hum of your hopes, now echoed with only the sound of your own quiet suffering, a poignant testament to the unbearable weight of silence.

The quiet, which had initially been a suffocating weight, had morphed into a strange, unsettling companion. Three weeks of this strained existence had passed, each day a blur of work, domestic tasks, and the meticulous avoidance of Minho. He would leave before you woke, return after you slept. The house was a large, elegant shell, echoing with the silence of two souls desperately trying not to collide.

Then, one evening, as you were meticulously organizing the spice rack for the third time that week, Minho walked into the kitchen. He was dressed in a crisp suit, his briefcase already by the door. "I'll be leaving for a business trip," he announced, his voice flat, devoid of any preamble or desire for discussion. "Four days. If you need anything leave a message"

You merely nodded, your back still to him as you rearranged the cinnamon sticks. "Okay," you mumbled, not trusting your voice to betray the tremor you felt. You didn't ask where, or why, or if he’d be safe. He didn't offer. And just like that, with a barely perceptible sigh, he was gone, leaving behind only the lingering scent of his expensive cologne and an even deeper silence.

The first two days of his absence were surprisingly tolerable. You found a perverse relief in the house being truly, unequivocally empty. No more silent dances in the morning, no more listening for the faint click of his key in the lock late at night. You worked on your online language lessons, gardened, read, and even found yourself humming a little as you cleaned. It was a fragile, self-made peace.

But then came the third day.

The silence began to press in, heavier than before. The vastness of the house, usually a comfort, became a cruel, echoing reminder of your solitude. You found yourself pacing, restless, unable to settle into any task. Every shadow seemed to stretch, every creak of the floorboards sounded louder. You missed him. The thought hit you with the force of a physical blow, surprising and sickening. You missed his presence, even his distant, guarded one. You craved the casual background noise of another adult in the house, the faint scent of his coffee from the kitchen, the distant sound of his voice on a call.

You wanted to kill yourself for still craving it, for being such a needy, pathetic idiot. You were a grown woman, independent, yet here you were, consumed by a longing for a man who had made it painstakingly clear he didn't want you. The knowledge that he wouldn't be home for another day, maybe more, felt like a crushing weight.

Driven by an impulse you couldn't control, you wandered into his bedroom. The room was stark, masculine, smelling faintly of him, clean and crisp. Your eyes landed on his walk-in closet, and specifically, on one of his dark grey hoodies, casually draped over a chair. It was the one you always wanted to wear, thick and soft, the fabric looking impossibly comforting.

With trembling hands, you pulled it on. It was absurdly large, the sleeves falling over your hands, the hem reaching your mid-thigh. But it smelled like him. It was warm, retaining a faint residual heat from his body, and in that moment, you desperately wanted to believe it was how his body warmth would feel like, too. It was a pathetic comfort, a desperate mimicry of an intimacy you didn't have. And probably, you thought with a bitter twist, this was how his ex-wife had gotten all the attention, love, and affection you craved like a greedy, needy idiot. The thought was a sharp pang of self-loathing.

That night, you found yourself in his bed, not the couch. The immense space felt both comforting and vast, emphasizing your loneliness. You curled into the center, the soft duvet pulled high, clutching one of his pillows tight against your chest like a lifeline. It smelled of him, of clean linen and his subtle, unique scent. You buried your face in it, and the tears, long suppressed, finally came. You cried. You sobbed your heart out into the pillow, silent, racking sobs that shook your entire body, until your throat was raw and your eyes burned. You cried yourself to sleep, exhaustion finally claiming you, the hoodie a second skin, a substitute for the warmth you desperately craved.

Minho had finished his business early. The deal, against all odds, had unexpectedly pivoted in their favor at the last minute, and he’d caught an earlier flight, arriving back late on the third night itself, eager to finally decompress in the quiet of his own home. He opened his bedroom door slowly, not wanting to disturb anyone, and stepped inside.

He froze.

There, in his bed, was a small, unfamiliar shape. Not Aera. As his eyes adjusted, he saw you, curled up in the center of his large bed, nestled deep in his duvet, your face buried in his pillow. And then he saw it—the oversized dark grey fabric. His hoodie. You were wearing his hoodie, hugging his pillow like a lifeline.

He moved closer, his steps soft, almost reverent. The streetlights cast long, pale shadows across the room, illuminating your form. As he got closer, the light caught your face. His breath hitched. Your eyes were swollen, your nose red and raw, the delicate skin around them puffy. You had been crying yourself to sleep, god knows from how long. The sight was a punch to the gut, a visceral ache that resonated deep within him.

It hurt him, seeing what he had done to you, the silent suffering you endured. The countless promises he kept breaking, the wounds he kept inflicting, and you were still here, still loving him, still clinging to whatever fragmented pieces of him you could find. He wanted to shake you, to tell you to stop this, to tell you he didn't deserve it, that he was a mess, a broken man. But then, a sickening realization dawned. He had been enjoying it. He had been enjoying the attention you had been giving him, the quiet comfort of your presence, the ease with which you handled Aera and the cats, the unspoken adoration in your gaze. He had been a selfish, manipulative bastard, using someone's love for him to grow by himself, to believe he was good enough, to patch up his own gaping wounds….again and agian and AGAIN.

And it had costed you. You had become someone he couldn't even tell was the same happy, bright person who had been his best friend in university. The spark in your eyes, once so vibrant, was now a dull flicker.

He wanted to hold you close, to beg for another chance, to plead for forgiveness. He knew, with a certainty that shamed him, that you were too forgiving, too kind, too good. You would just say yes. He knew he didn't deserve your kindness, your patience, your affection. He was a monster who had systematically broken the one person who still saw something good in him.

Slowly, gently, he lay down beside you, careful not to disturb your sleep. He didn't pull you closer, didn't dare to. He simply lay there, facing your back, his arm tentatively reaching out to rest beside you, not touching. Good lord, he was an idiot a fucker to have used you in such a twisted manner to heal himself.

--

You woke up slowly, disoriented, a soft warmth enveloping you. For a moment, you thought you were still dreaming, wrapped in the comforting illusion of his arms from your tear-soaked sleep. Then, a shocking realization jolted you into full awareness. You were in Minho’s bed, not the couch. Your head was tucked against a solid chest, and an arm was draped loosely, possessively, around your waist. His scent, still lingering from the hoodie, was now undeniably close, warm and real.

Panic seized you. Your eyes flew open, wide and disbelieving. Had he come back? Had he… had he seen you? The thought of him witnessing your vulnerability, your desperate craving for comfort, sent a fresh wave of humiliation through you. You hadn't asked him if wearing his clothes, touching his stuff, was okay. You were an intruder, caught in the act. Your breath hitched, and your body went rigid, every muscle tensing, preparing for his reaction, for the cold dismissal, the cutting words.

Minho, who hadn't slept a wink, had felt the subtle stiffening of your body against his. He knew the exact moment you woke up, the slight intake of breath, the sudden rigidity that replaced your earlier pliancy. He kept his eyes closed for a moment longer, bracing himself. Then, he opened them, his gaze falling on the top of your head nestled under his chin. He felt your silent panic, the rapid thrum of your heartbeat against his chest.

He pulled you infinitesimally closer, a gentle, reassuring movement. His voice, a low, husky whisper, barely audible, broke the suffocating silence. "Hey," he murmured, his breath warm against your hair. "You're all good. Just… breathe." He didn't offer an explanation for his presence, or yours, simply the quiet comfort of his voice. He ran a hesitant hand down your arm, a light, soothing touch designed to calm.

You didn't move, still rigid, suspended between fear and a fragile, desperate hope. His arm remained around you, firm but not constraining, and you could feel the steady beat of his heart against your cheek. The world outside the duvet felt distant, irrelevant. For a fleeting moment, a dangerous, intoxicating part of you wanted to melt into his embrace, to lean into the warmth, to let the exhaustion finally claim you fully.

He was about to say something more, something perhaps apologetic, perhaps even a confession of his own turmoil, when the shrill, insistent ring of his phone shattered the fragile moment. It blared from his bedside table, a jarring intrusion into the hushed intimacy of the morning.

He sighed, a deep, exasperated sound, and reluctantly loosened his hold on you. "Duty calls," he muttered, the warmth instantly draining from his voice as he pulled away. He reached for the phone, his body turning away from you, the brief spell broken as quickly as it had formed. The sudden absence of his warmth left you feeling cold and exposed. You quickly rolled to your side, turning your back to him, pulling the duvet tighter around you like a shield, pretending to still be asleep.

The conversation was brief, clipped, all business. You heard snippets: "Yes, the Q3 report… confirmed… by noon… I understand I will be there." By the time he hung up, the moment was lost. He got out of bed, the mattress shifting slightly. You kept your eyes squeezed shut, willing him to leave, to disappear, to give you space to process what had just happened, what hadn't happened. He probably thought you were still asleep, and you desperately hoped he did. You heard him move around the room, the faint rustle of clothes, the opening and closing of drawers as he prepared for his day. He didn't speak again. Eventually, the click of the bedroom door signaled his departure.

You waited until the house was utterly silent before allowing yourself to fully breathe, tears silently tracing paths down your temples into your hair. The weight of what had just happened—the almost-moment, the broken spell, the lingering scent of him on the sheets—was almost unbearable.

Another week passed. Aera returned home, bringing with her the familiar, welcome sounds of childish laughter and bustling energy. The house, once again, hummed with a life that wasn't entirely desolate. Her presence was a comforting buffer, a shield against the suffocating quiet that still lingered between you and Minho.

But despite the return of Aera's vibrant energy, the two of you didn't talk. Not about that morning, not about the argument, not about anything that truly mattered. It was almost as if it had been entirely forgotten, a nightmare you had both silently agreed to erase from your shared consciousness. The polite, superficial exchanges resumed: "Did Aera eat her breakfast?" or "Are you picking her up from school today?" The facade was perfectly maintained for Aera's sake, a fragile peace treaty built on unspoken rules and avoided truths.

One afternoon, a faint, acrid smell drifted through the house. You followed it to the backyard, to the small, ornate fire pit that Minho sometimes used for grilling. He was standing over it, his back to you, watching something burn. As you approached, you saw the remnants of ash, and then, a corner of paper that hadn't quite caught fire. It was a faded photograph.

Your breath hitched. Your eyes widened as you recognized the faint outline: the blurred faces of Minho and his ex-wife, her long hair, his joyous, open smile. He was burning the photo. And as the flames consumed the last tangible pieces of his past, you noticed other fragments among the ashes – charred remnants of paper that looked suspiciously like old love poems. The ones you had found in his bedside drawer.

Your heart gave a strange, painful lurch. He was doing it. He was finally letting go. A part of you felt a quiet, fragile hope ignite, a timid flame in the vast emptiness of your despair. But another part, the one that had been repeatedly wounded, felt a deep sense of trepidation. What did it mean? Was this for you? Or just for himself?

He didn't acknowledge your presence, didn't turn around, didn't offer an explanation. You watched him for a long moment, the smoke curling into the sky, carrying away the ashes of regret, the remnants of a life that had wounded them both. You never questioned his actions, never asked him what he was burning, or why. You didn't want to hear something which would hurt you again, something that would dismantle the fragile, almost-peace you had managed to reconstruct. So you simply stood there, watching the smoke rise, and then quietly turned and walked back inside, leaving him alone with the ghosts he was finally trying to lay to rest. The silence between you, once again, remained unbroken.

The fragile peace, or rather, the carefully maintained truce, held for another week. Aera's cheerful presence filled the house with a comforting background hum, a much-needed buffer against the vast silence that still stretched between you and Minho. You went about your days, keeping busy, burying any stray thoughts or lingering aches beneath layers of routine.

--

One afternoon, a subtle ache began to prick behind your eyes. By evening, it had blossomed into a dull throb, and a shiver ran through you despite the comfortable indoor temperature. You felt a familiar tickle in your throat, the tell-tale signs of a cold, or worse, something more significant. You reached for the thermometer in the bathroom cabinet, a small, discreet gesture. The digital display blinked back a concerning number: 38.7∘C. A fever.

You pressed your hand to your forehead, confirming the heat radiating from your skin. Just a little cold, you told yourself, forcing a smile. I can push through this. You certainly weren't going to mention it to Minho; the less attention, the less interaction, the better. You swallowed a couple of over-the-counter pills, hoping they would dull the symptoms, and tried to act as if nothing were amiss. You went about your usual evening tasks, helping Aera with her bath, reading her a bedtime story, the words blurring slightly on the page.

Aera, however, with the keen observation skills only a child possesses, had noticed. As you were tucking her in, she had seen you briefly hold the thermometer, her small eyes widening with concern. "Mama, are you okay?" she’d whispered, her brow furrowed.

"Of course, baby," you’d lied, stroking her hair. "Just a little tired."

Later that night, long after you had put Aera to sleep and Minho had finally returned home from work, the fever began to climb. You felt a wave of dizziness, your limbs heavy, your head swimming. You had been trying to prepare a late dinner, a simple meal you barely had the energy to consider, when the room started to spin. The counter felt cool against your forehead as you leaned into it, trying to steady yourself.

Minho, having just stepped out of the shower, walked into the kitchen, drawn by the unusual quiet and the scent of… nothing cooking. He found you there, slumped against the counter, your head bowed, your body practically radiating heat. The prepared ingredients for dinner sat untouched on the counter, a silent testament to your sudden incapacitation.

His heart leaped into his throat. "Y/N?" His voice was sharp, laced with an immediate, raw fear. He rushed to your side, placing a hand on your forehead. Your skin was burning, dangerously hot. "God, Y/N, you're burning up!"

He quickly gathered you into his arms. You were surprisingly light, limp and unresponsive. You didn't stir, your eyes remaining closed, your breathing shallow and ragged. Panic, cold and sharp, seized him. He quickly carried you to his room, his strong arms cradling your feverish body as if you weighed nothing. He laid you gently on his bed, the cool sheets a stark contrast to your inflamed skin.

The next few hours were a blur of frantic worry for Minho. He rummaged through the medicine cabinet for fever reducers, then raced to the kitchen for a damp cloth, pressing it to your forehead. He called a doctor, explaining your symptoms, his voice tight with concern. Your fever wasn't going down; if anything, it seemed to be climbing. You hadn't woken up once, remaining unresponsive to his worried murmurs, to the cool cloths, to the medicine he managed to coax past your lips.

He watched you, helpless, as the night wore on. The worry was a physical ache in his chest, a suffocating weight that threatened to consume him. He sat by the bedside, his hand constantly on your wrist, checking your pulse, feeling the erratic beat beneath his fingers. He pulled a chair close, leaning his head against the mattress, his arm still outstretched, his fingers resting lightly on your wrist. He felt consumed with guilt, with a crushing sense of inadequacy. He had been so cruel, so blind, so caught up in his own pain, and now you were suffering, and he felt utterly powerless. The whole night he went around with that, watching your shallow breaths, praying for the fever to break. He fell asleep there, slumped by the bed, his hand still on your wrist, a silent, desperate vigil.

You woke up slowly, disoriented, a strange, profound sense of peace washing over you. The crushing ache in your head was gone, replaced by a dull, persistent throb, and the oppressive feverish heat had finally subsided, leaving a faint chill on your skin. The world wasn't spinning anymore, and the frantic pounding in your temples had calmed to a steady rhythm. You realized you were in Minho’s bed, the familiar scent of him comforting you, the soft duvet tangled around your legs. A soft weight was pressed against your side, and a quiet, rhythmic breathing filled the space next to you.

You opened your eyes fully, blinking against the gentle morning light filtering through the window. Your gaze drifted downwards, and your breath hitched, catching in your throat. Aera was curled up on Minho's chest, her small head nestled against his shoulder, sound asleep, her little hand gripping his shirt. And Minho himself, slumped awkwardly in the chair he had pulled bedside, had fallen asleep, his head resting against the mattress at a painful angle, his arm still outstretched, his hand resting lightly on your wrist. He was holding your pulse, a silent, desperate vigil from the night, a physical tether to your fading life force.

A soft, almost imperceptible warmth, fragile as a butterfly's wing, spread through your chest. Subconsciously, instinctively, your free hand lifted, your fingers gently tracing the lines of his disheveled hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. It was a tender, unthinking gesture, a quiet offering of comfort to the man who had tormented you, yet had stayed by your side all night. Your touch was feather-light, almost a whisper, yet it was enough.

Minho stirred, groaning softly, a deep, tired sound. His eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep, then snapped into sharp focus as they landed on you. His gaze was raw, vulnerable, etched with exhaustion and profound relief. He sat up abruptly, his earlier weariness instantly forgotten, his hand tightening almost painfully on your wrist, checking your pulse again. He leaned forward, his forehead pressing against yours, a frantic urgency in his actions. "Y/N? God, you're awake! How are you feeling? Are you okay? Your fever—" His voice was rough, trembling with a fear that startled you.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes scanning your face, relief warring with something fierce and uncontrolled – a desperate need, an unmasked terror. "You scared me half to death, Y/N! Do you understand? To death! Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you tell me you were sick? Why do you always… why do you always keep it to yourself until it's like this?" He repeated, his voice raw, thick with emotion, a startling vulnerability you hadn't heard in years. He put Aera down gently beside him, careful not to wake the child, and then pulled his chair closer, closer than it had been in weeks, his gaze locked on yours, searching, pleading. "You were burning up all night. I couldn't get your fever down. You didn't wake up once, Y/N. Not once."

You listened, surprised, a faint, almost disbelieving smile touching your lips. His scolding wasn't harsh or angry; it was laced with a desperate worry, a loving concern that felt foreign, unsettling, almost painful in its unexpectedness. It felt like a phantom limb, an emotion you had long since amputated from your expectations of him. "Why do you care now, Minho?" you mumbled, your voice still a little hoarse from the fever, weak but steady. You couldn't digest that he was worried for you, for your well-being, not just your utility. It felt alien, after so many years of being secondary, of feeling like a burden, a convenient solution. "Don't worry, I won't die on you. I have Aera to look after… the cats too. Someone has to make sure they're fed and get their daily cuddle quota. I'm useful." You tried to make it light, a deflection, implying your value lay only in your utility, in caring for others. It felt foreign to even believe anyone cared at all for her, for you, the person.

Those words hit him. Hard. The casual self-deprecation, the quiet resignation in your voice, the implication that your life only had value through serving others – it was a blade twisting in his gut, a direct reflection of his own cruel words that had sculpted this very mindset in you. His expression crumpled, the fragile control he'd maintained all night finally shattering. The worry that had been consuming him, coupled with the guilt that had been eating him alive, erupted into a torrent of self-loathing.

"Don't say that again, Y/N," he whispered, his voice cracking, eyes suddenly glistening with unshed tears, betraying the storm within. He took your hand, pulling it to his lips, pressing a desperate, almost bruising kiss to your knuckles, as if trying to brand you with his remorse. "Don't you ever speak of death again. Don't you ever say you don't matter. God, Y/N, I'm a dick. I'm a complete and utter bastard. I treated you like trash, like you were nothing but a convenience. I'm disgusted with myself. I'm so messed up, so fucked, a complete and utter mess." He pulled his hand away, running it through his hair, tugging at the strands, his knuckles white. "My past… it’s poisoned me. It’s made me blind. I'm so broken… and I love you, Y/N. I love you in the most twisted, messed-up way, because I’ve hurt you so much, and you still… you still look at me like this. I don't deserve you. You should just go away, leave me. Don't accept me or forgive me. I don't deserve it."

He was unraveling, the carefully constructed facade of indifference crumbling before your eyes, revealing the raw, broken man beneath. He was caught in a whole self-hate web himself, you realized, his own insecurities, his past betrayals, his deep-seated fear of being abandoned again, had convinced him that no one could ever truly want him, that he was unworthy of love that he was probably someone who would never be wanted or be desired for the man he is and that maybe he needed to be better and better and just better. He needed to save himself from that dark prison, but he was shattering right now, right in front of you, bleeding out all his pain.

Your heart ached, a different kind of pain, a profound, sympathetic pang for his profound brokenness. He wasn't the monster you’d painted him to be in your anger, not entirely; he was a man consumed by his own demons, suffocating under the weight of his unhealed wounds. You reached out, your hands cupping his face, feeling the warmth of his skin, the tremor beneath your fingertips. Your thumbs gently stroked his cheeks, wiping away the single tear that had escaped his closed eyes.

"Breathe, Minho," you murmured, your voice soft, steady, a stark contrast to his despair, a soothing balm against his raw edges. "Breathe deep. I am not going anywhere." You held his gaze, willing him to believe you, to see the sincerity, the unwavering truth in your eyes, to understand that your presence was a choice, not an obligation. "Not now. Not ever. We'll figure this out. Together."

A small, teary smile graced your lips. "You were hurting, and you lashed out. I understand. It doesn't make it right, but I understand."

He searched your eyes, disbelief battling with a desperate hope. "You… you forgive me?"

"I forgive you, Minho," you whispered, your heart aching with a mixture of relief and a new, fragile kind of joy. "But you have to forgive yourself too. And we have to talk. Really talk, this time."

He nodded, a silent, profound promise in his eyes. Slowly, tentatively, he leaned in. His gaze dropped to your lips, seeking permission. You gave it, a slight nod of your head. He closed the small distance between you, his lips touching yours gently, tentatively at first, a soft exploration. It was a slow, healing kiss, a whisper of understanding and forgiveness, not fiery passion, but a quiet, profound connection. He pulled you closer, his free hand moving to cup the back of your head, deepening the kiss, a gentle affirmation, as if tugging you fully into his orbit, finally bridging the chasm that had separated you for so long. You tugged softly on his hair, responding with every ounce of the love you’d kept hidden for so long.

Just as the kiss deepened, a small, sleepy voice broke the spell. "Ewwww, Daddy! Leave Mama!"

You both sprang apart, startled, eyes wide with mortification. Aera stood in the doorway, rubbing sleep from her eyes, her face a comical mask of disgust at your unexpected display of affection. The sudden, raw intimacy was instantly replaced by a wave of embarrassment. Minho’s cheeks flushed a deep red, and you couldn’t help but giggle, the sound bubbling up from deep within you, light and free.

Minho quickly scooped Aera up, pulling her into a tight hug, his eyes still sparkling with a newfound lightness. He walked over to you, gently kissing your forehead. "I love you, baby," he murmured, his gaze warm and direct, full of a promise that went far beyond mere convenience.

You smiled, reaching out to stroke Aera's hair, your heart overflowing. "…I too love you, dummy… both of you."

Aera, now thoroughly distracted by being held, beamed up at you, her face alight. "Love you too, Mama!!" she declared in a cute, loud tone, her little arms wrapping around your neck.

Minho chuckled, a genuine, unrestrained sound that echoed happily in the room, a sound you hadn't heard from him in years. You joined in, your own laughter light and unburdened. The last remnants of the scar between you dissolved, replaced by a warmth that felt like a new beginning. Their new beginning began—together, this time, with an open heart, and with love.

THE END

[alicentsgf]

im very set on there being 8 survivors now, anything else cheapens the story a little for me. i think it was always going to be 8, no matter what else changed. even before the writers were set on who the 8 would be they knew the 8 roles the characters would have to fill. this was always implied in the pilot, but now im convinced.

even just going off what we've actually heard via dialogue, any more than 8 feels unlikely. at lotties compound one of them said they were "all here" implying it was just the 6 of them left alive. the other 2 would then be travis and someone else who is either dead or assumed to be dead. i know people have speculated on that line in season 1 about some survivors living off-grid but personally i still think jessica just meant travis.

the number 8 has come up a couple of times in meaningful ways and its especially relevant to understanding why it matters that they're the Yellowjackets, a soccer team. it isnt just backstory, its like the key on a map, symbolic shorthand to help you understand the wider story. their on-field dynamics and roles so often mirror the ongoing dynamics and roles of the characters.

minus duplicates (like allie/akilah being nat's duplicate) there are 8 positions in a starting line up and we know via their shirt numbers all but 1 position is assigned to a specific varsity player. i know this is super hard to visualise if you arent a massive soccer nerd like me so i repurposed a graphic i made a while back.

in soccer specific jersey numbers are traditionally worn by particular positions, e.g 1 for a goalie, 9 for a striker, etc. every single varsity player in this show wears a traditional number. theres no way that happens by accident, it was a choice. the image above shows you what it tells us about their field position. as you can see the unassigned role is the attacking playmaker position, the person who makes the most pressurised, pivotal decisions. the real life or death stuff. misty fills this role, she has both ended and saved more lives than the rest and i'd say destroying the blackbox was pretty damn pivotal. in the pilot when the girls run out for the pep rally she is the only one thats focused on apart from the varsity girls and theres a player missing from the line up. that seems deliberate.

you can also see the only (teen) dead of the 8 are laura lee and jackie. this is where our reserves come in. sometimes also called substitutes or game-changers (subtitution is a major theme in this show just by itself but thats another post). when a player goes down you look to the bench to see who can fill their role. laura lee and jackie have both already been subsituted: travis takes laura lees place at lotties right hand, becoming her partner in the right side of defense, naturally protective but can progress with the attack to support his winger (nat), and then melissa takes jackies place as shaunas focal point, encouraging progression and driving the attack. however, even then travis and melissa dont fit quite right. simply put, people (and cats, no matter how similar they look to the original) cant be so easily replaced. travis, melissa, and misty are often othered. never accepted as part of the core team. (i have a suspicion van was meant to die and have javi take her place positionally. for a while he seemed like he might have a similar ability to deflect death against the odds and a closeness to the wilderness travis and lottie would want to defend. imo whenever the writers decided javi was dying or van was living, the others story inevitability changed too.)

the number 8 relates to the wilderness too. the 8 the knife made at the seance when javi asked if they were all going to die? the way the symbol of the wilderness has 8 elements?

(edit: meaning of the structure of the symbol has been revised in later meta - but it still remains representative of the team)

im not saying this diagram shows for sure which element represents who, but i thought i'd give you guys an idea of what im seeing.

to be clear, im absolutely not saying the survivors are all that the symbol represents. if an in-universe explanation is given it will obviously be something else (i.e. that its a map of some sort) but i think the creators of the show chose this design for a reason that perhaps relates more to the survivors than anything else. it being a map would be more of a visual backgronym, with the characters as the actual inspiration for it.

for me the symbol has to represent them because the entire point is that they and wilderness are indistinguishable. us not knowing whats the wilderness and whats them is by design. that promotional poster of the characters forming the symbol? sitting inside of it? supernatural force or not, its in them. like lottie said, "is there a difference [between it and us]?" thats the shows thesis statement.

it makes sense Tai's jersey number is the 8 when she most embodies what the wilderness represents. shes the central midfielder, equal parts attack and defense. two warring halves, neither one exactly good nor bad, just primal vs civil. as shes placed at the very center of the game she has to play equally in both her own half and the other. her finding a way to balance both sides is key and this follows because historically and mathematically 8 has often been the number that is used to represent balance, splitting evenly from 8 to 4 to 2 to 1. life vs death, creation vs destruction, spiritual vs physical. neither can exist without the other. "does a hunt that has no violence feed anyone?" = living requires killing. but too much of either and theres disruption, a hole in the ecosystem as a species exhausts its food source. I wonder if thats what the yellowjackets did. killed too freely and disrupted the balance. once again, tai would embody this. her arc this season would reflect the wider narrative in its entirety - the primal takes over and natures left unbalanced. its why i dont think any of the survivors end this show alive. not because of cosmic justice, this story isnt so much about morality, its about duality and balance. when the wolves are killing too many deer the only thing you can do to reset the scales is cull the wolves.

so yes, it always had to be 8. if the 8th survivor is melissa, then it was very likely decided long ago that one of the extras would eventually come to the fore to play this part. ultimately they were just waiting to see who they thought was the best fit (or maybe what big name older actress they might be able to snag and match to a teenager lmao). either way it always had to be someone who could step into the space jackie left in order to complete the team. no more practices or scrimmages, they know their roles now. the ones we met in the pilot; the butcher, the overseer, the shaman, etc. for so long they had no striker, no sharp point to their attack, but thats not true anymore. melissa subs in for jackie, but soccer is fluid. players can switch position due to substitution. now its shauna who leads the attack, becomes the striker, the captain, placing melissa in the space shes left behind. no more killing for necessity, this is killing for sport and every position is filled. the story until now was just match prep, this is where the game begins.

[mythalism]

i think what people need to understand is that no amount of essays assuring me of veilguard's strengths, of which i agree there are plenty, is going to change the fact that the emotional experience veilguard prompted within me (and for many others) while i played it was a deeply negative one. discomfort at best, painful at worst. im talking stomach aches. visceral, somatic creeping disappointment and dread that i tried to fight for hours and hours but eventually had no choice but to accept. i stopped wanting to play entirely around 30 hours. i felt vaguely ill. i felt anxious. i could not sleep for a few days. and im not saying i felt sick because it was so bad, but that i felt sick because of the sinking realization that i was about to be terribly, horribly disappointed after so, so long. you could call me dramatic and im sure someone will. idk what to tell you. my emotions manifest physically long before they become decipherable or understandable to me mentally, especially when they're 10 years in the making. probably an autism symptom. regardless, it was genuinely pretty awful, especially because i had immense good faith for this game. i was so hopeful and optimistic and generally thrilled and literally anyone who followed me before october 31 would know that. the emotional whiplash and crash was intense and devastating, and i was reeling for days. you cannot tell me that this experience was "wrong" or "toxic" due to it's negative nature. it was entirely involuntary and outside of my control, as i would expect many people's joy was. emotional reactions are not beholden to fandom discourse.

any post i have made criticizing the game since is attempt to make sense of the emotional roller-coaster of the past 10 years, this summer, and finally this game's release. i do not come on here and write out my criticisms of veilguard because i want YOU to dislike it too. the nature of my essays are not persuasive. if they do persuade you its just because i am a well-trained essayist. sorry. if they dont, great! that wasnt the point. i have no desire to change anyone's mind on the game, in fact i actually would not wish the disappointment i felt on anyone. the fact that i have a lot of followers who agree with what i say and who spread the thoughts i express across tumblr is literally out of my control. when i write out my long-winded criticisms, it is out of a need to express and externalize that sinking, cold feeling i had while playing, in pursuit of understanding exactly why playing that game felt that way to me. identifying, analyzing and verbalizing is the only way i have been able to process my experience. its confessional and therapeutic more than anything. it helps other people understand their own difficult emotional process with the game. its not an attempt to ruin your fun. my negative experience with veilguard does not invalidate anyone else's positive one.

i see so many posts acting like all criticism is an intentional, targeted hate campaign and i dont understand that assumption. to what ends? what would that achieve? why would i bother with such a thing? maybe that is some people's intention in the deep hater corners of this website, and im blissfully unaware. if it is, fuck them. its certainly the intention of annoying grifters, but i feel the distinction between transphobe grifters and devastated fans is pretty clear, so im not sure why the lines are deliberately blurred as if those groups are remotely similar. some of my criticisms come from a more objective place. the writing comes to mind, and it's a consistent criticism from thousands of players. but just because i consider it to be poorly executed, does not make it unlovable. and when i say that i think its poorly done, i am not saying that you cannot or should not love it, or that you are stupid for loving it. maybe someone out there is saying that!!! but i am not. things do not have to be perfect to be enjoyable. they dont even have to be well executed to be enjoyable. "i think x aspect of veilguard is poorly done for yz reasons" is a completely different sentence than "you should not like x aspect of veilguard for yz reasons". these are not the same statements. i see so many posts that are so vitriolic and acting like two experiences of this game cannot coexist, that one has to win and be objectively right, moralizing them on a false axis of positivity = good and negativity = bad, and acting like the existence of one negates the experience of the other. and why? why would that be true? i literally love so many things that other people think are absolute ass. i also love plenty of things that i myself think are actual ass. i love them anyway. this is allowed and really fun. i am not sure who told you that it is not.

however, i have just as much of a right to express my disappointment as you have to express your excitement. i am genuinely happy for everyone who loves the game, i am glad it resonated, or that you saw yourself in its characters, or that it just scratched your hyperfixation itch. but whatever je ne se quoi it had for you, it did not have for me. i have written out so much criticism about so many aspects of the game, but fundamentally what it comes down to and what i cannot express in words is that while i played after waiting 10 years for that moment, it felt wrong. it wasn't that i had specific expectations for game story that were not met, in fact, it exceeded my expectations in a lot of ways. i mean that in terms of how i felt, something was off. it did not resonate. it did not land. it did not hit the right cord with me. i did not have enough moments of joy to outweigh the feeling of emptiness. i did not walk away from it feeling the way that the previous games made me feel. and ive been trying to figure out exactly why that is for three months now by talking about it with people who feel similarly. i am not sure that i will ever be able to analyze my way into figuring it out. it might just have to simply be that it left me bereft.

and so my posts are not anti-veilguard hater propaganda to make you feel like shit for loving the game. rather, they are me verbally processing exactly why i feel like shit so i can hopefully stop feeling like shit. to assume that people who are trying to process these negative feelings are toxic and intentionally malicious is a projection made in bad faith. i love dragon age, and it is because i love it so much that it disappointed me, and it is because disappointed me that i have to verbally process it on tumblr.com so that i dont go absolutely insane. i tag my posts properly. i do not go into tags where i do not belong. i do not rage-bait. i am participating in post-partum dragon age therapy between me and my followers. if it ends up on your dash, sorry. my therapy is popular i guess. so please for the love of god enjoy the game, freely and enthusiastically. i am happy for you. i will sit here and be jealous that it spoke to something in your soul that it unfortunately did not speak to in mine, and nothing i say can take that away from you. please stop interpreting it as an attempt to.

[letyhide]

I might be too devotion pilled for this world. But I can't be normal about about how Flames whole server existence has revolved around Zam for MONTHS (Dont even talk to me about that book). And in a way, i could see a similar thing being said about Mapicc (not entirely. Or to that extent. But close to it).

The main reason Mapicc has logged on the server recently has been TO KILL Zam, or to work on some plan that will. The world is ending, there are crazy exploits all around, but the thing Mapicc is most concered about is Zam and her team.

When Zam took a break that is when Mapicc also lost all hope. And felt directionless. Even the times where he would log on prior to getting the mace, he would frequently lament about Zam not being there. Because at least she is "an enemy to fight" while other players (like Pangi, Derap, Squiddo) are "targets to destroy". And he would say how that makes things less fun for him. (He got some fire in him when he got the mace. But that was immediatly taken away when Flame void trapped him).

While she is by his side Mapiccs purpose becomes fighting alongside her. When shes against her, its to make her life hell.

When Zam said "you make everything so hard for no reason" to Mapicc, during their duel, mapicc replied "yeah.. thats the entire point". I think that Mapicc replacing himself to Flame in Zams eyes was his goal. That was a deliberate choice, as it makes playing on the server more fun for Mapicc too. Zam is everyone's purpuse. The heart of the server.

And it's so intresting to look at Flame, Mapicc and Zam, as players, and how they have interacted throughout the entire season, and then look at the point they are now. A few months ago we had a Mapicc that looked close to giving up on the rest of the season: only promising to help with fighting Flame alongside Zam. And now we have: Flame giving his entire inventory, enderchest and hearts to Zam, to go and fight Mapicc. These situations feel so similair but couldn't be more diffrent.

Flame didn't really care about fighting Mapicc, because to him, their teamup was never THAT real. It didnt matter that much. Mapicc had this whole talk about "Zam using him". But the one person who definitely used Mapicc was, in fact, Flame. Flame's whole purpose on the server was to mess with Zam, and that is the only reason he teamed up with Mapicc, he had ulterior goals, and USED Mapicc to get to them. And discared him once Zam was out of the picture + i think he realized hurting Mapicc would hurt Zam even more. (Mapicc says that he couldn’t really stop Flame from supporting him, as he was alone, and for stronger players than him Mapicc often has the mindset of "better with me, than against me" so yeah. Makes sense. Still not a good look from Zams pov)

But Zam saw things as they were. Flame was using Mapicc to get to HER. And that's also why he placed a lot of the blame of the Zaun warden attack on Flame... and forgave Mapicc (even tho he had a big involvement in that).

but later Zam killed Flame in the void to get revenge for Mapicc... and Mapicc didn't even acknowledge it much. She fought along side Mapicc again, for the creeking stuff. Just for Mapicc to be the one using her during it. And STILL she was the one trying to mend the relationship. Urghhhg.....

Again i also do see Mapicc pov in all of this. And I think being used by Flame hurt so bad, and made him feel so worthless that,, it kinda led to all the devotions mess we are in now (feeling used but not knowing where to place the blame). But all that matters to Mapicc is having fun, and if that purpose he was looking for is figting the most reliable teammate he has ever had, then so be it. They've both done this dance before. And neither of them are unprepared to do it again now.

[yanyandam]

Hmm HIII again saw your request are open and wanted to make a request because your Rindou art gave me a dream/idea… NOT JOKING but I was wondering if u could write a fic of him

It’s basically a happy ending AU where Rindou and Ran own a club and Rindou is DJing and one night he sees reader dancing and drawing a big crowd. He thinks she’s cute and ends up talking to her they hit it off and hook up (U DONT HAVE TO WRITE THE HOOK UP PART) But when the reader’s leaving, she bumps into Ran outside and have small talk and she heads back to the club after a few days to dance and later, she finds Rindou at the bar, and just as they’re talking Ran shows up being the annoying older brother is like “Hey I remember you You were leaving my little bro’s room,” and starts talking about how Rindou’s been all emo since his ex dumped him and hasn’t hooked up in months embarrassing Rindou BUT in the end it turns out that moment was actually Ran giving his drunken best man speech at Rindou and reader’s wedding being super inappropriate talking about not kid friendly things while Rindou’s losing his mind yelling at his brother and reader is just drunk and laughing while their kid (gender your choice) who they had before getting married, is sitting there stuffing their face with cake asking “What’s is a hookup?”

AHHH sorry its long… AGAIN PLEASE know u don’t have to write this (it would be nice) BUT DONT FEEL THE NEED TO u probably have a BUNCH of requests that have built up over the months <3 (also that other sanzu one I requested DONT DO THAT ONE I asked for that because I missed u) Anyways Love LOVE your writing it’s always *chefs kiss*and just seeing u post makes me smile anyways sorry the request is long :p

HIII SORRY FOR MAKING YOU WAIT SO LONG!! Thanks for the support, as for the sanzu fic, I had accidentally deleted the request but when i wanted to ask whoever requested whatever, i forgor the acc lmao. You can ask it again if you want!! Whatever, did my best here, love ya

That night, he’d been watching you pacing back and forth.

The club was chaos and velvet. Low lights, flashing reds, shadows dancing on sweat-slick walls. Haitani Club, yeah: a name that echoed through Roppongi like a dirty secret. Too clean to be illegal, too powerful to be innocent. People whispered yakuza affiliations, but what was the point of accusing a Haitani of anything? When your name carries weight, who needs backup? But that’s not the point.

Rindou was pushing thirty and still spinning like the world owed him something. He liked to say that real DJs worshipped the vinyl, not SoundCloud remixes from some TikTok-brained kid in Harajuku. There was a sacred art in beat matching, in crate-digging for forgotten records. Tonight, though, he was going through the motions; head bobbing, cigarette burning dangerously close to the mixer, watching the crowd lose themselves to a bassline he barely cared about. And then he saw you.

It wasn’t even your face that caught him first, just the way you moved through the floor like the music owed you space. Your body, loose but intentional. Your hair stuck to your temple, glitter under your eyes. A deliberate error on your outfit, like a name tag ripped halfway, a strap falling down just so… the kind of thing that made sober men double take and drunk ones trip over their own feet. Then your head turned. Those eyes. Sharp. Bored. Beautiful. “Not bad,” he muttered to himself.

He exhaled smoke through his nose, flicked the volume down just a touch, then waved over one of the juniors to take over the deck. He didn’t bother explaining. Didn’t need to.He stepped down from the booth, adjusting the cuffs on his black shirt, feet hitting the floor with lazy confidence. His tattoos peeking just barely beneath his sleeves, face unreadable but locked in. Target acquired.

You feel someone watching you before you even see him. Not in a creepy way : just that instinct, that flicker at the back of your neck, that quiet pressure like heat before lightning. You glance up from your drink. There he is.

He’s leaning against the bar now, lit from behind in a haze of red neon and cigarette smoke. His shirt is half-unbuttoned like he forgot about it mid-task. He moves like a man who doesn’t rush for anyone.

“Your boy out there?” he asks, jerking his chin toward the dance floor.

You blink, caught off-guard. “Who?”

“The one spilling half his drink every time he moves. Kinda tragic.”

You raise an eyebrow, already half-smiling despite yourself. “You always this nosy?”

He shrugs, lazy. “Only when I see someone dancing like they deserve better company.”

His tone isn’t even smug. Just matter-of-fact. You look him over; the faint tattoo ink creeping out from under his sleeve, the tired eyes that somehow still scan like a laser, the faint scent of something expensive and careless.

“You hit on people often while hiding behind DJ booths?” you ask.

He actually smiles this time.

“Only when the bass isn’t the best thing I’ve seen tonight.”

Your stomach flips, stupidly. It shouldn't be working. But it is.

“You’re not subtle, are you?”

“Nope,” he says, eyes on your mouth. “I’m efficient.”

You laugh; a little sharp, a little defensive. It’s been a long time since someone spoke to you like that without sounding desperate.

“You’ve got a lot of confidence for someone who hasn’t even offered a name.”

“Rindou,” he says, without missing a beat. “Now come on.”

He nods toward the quieter end of the club. There’s no pressure. No insistence. Just the expectation that you’ll follow.

The hotel wasn’t far, just a turn off the main strip, tucked behind a ramen joint that smelled like broth and cheap beer. Neon buzzed overhead, soft and sickly, casting the whole hallway in flickering pinks and greens. Rindou walked ahead of you, slow and unhurried, like he knew exactly where he was going. Like this wasn’t new to him. Maybe it wasn’t. His keycard beeped low and hollow. The door clicked open with a sigh.

He didn’t turn on the lights right away. The glow from the city outside filtered through the blackout curtains, just enough to outline his silhouette as he dropped his jacket over a chair and kicked off his shoes like it was his own place. He turned slightly, his voice low.

“You coming in, or…?”

You stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind you. It was quiet in here. Too quiet. You could still hear the pulse of bass faintly through the walls,  or maybe it was just your own heartbeat. Rindou didn’t say anything else. He just looked at you. Not with hunger, not even with heat, just with that slow, assessing calm of someone who knows they don’t need to rush. You caught your reflection in the mirror across the room. Smudged eyeliner. Slightly parted lips. A little dazed.

He was still watching you. “You okay?” he asked, finally.

You nodded. He cracked a smile. “Good. I don’t want you drunk and regretting shit.”

“I’m not drunk,” you said.

He raised a brow. “Sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

For a second, neither of you moved. And then he took a step forward. He reached out (not for your waist, not for your face) but for your hand. Just your hand. His palm was warm. Callused in a way that surprised you. “I don’t rush,” he said.

You didn’t pull away. You didn’t need to. Not for the whole night.

—-

You left the hotel with your jacket barely on and the taste of cheap champagne still hanging on your tongue. The air hit different outside. Like the city was reminding you that you weren’t in some dim-lit bubble anymore. And then, just as you were lighting a cigarette and pulling your phone out to check the time, someone spoke behind you.

“Well shit, you’re not limping. I thought my little bro had more stamina than that.”

You turned. Tall guy, smirking, gold rings catching the glow of a nearby vending machine. Haitani Ran?

“Excuse me?” you said.

“Relax,” he chuckled. “I’m just messing. Saw you heading out of the hotel. Rindou’s room. You were, what, up there an hour? Two?”

You stared at him. He didn’t flinch.

“You always this nosy?” Probably a good adjective for them both.

He shrugged, taking a lazy drag from his cigarette like this was just another Tuesday.

“Only when it’s about my little brother. He’s been acting like a kicked puppy for months. You’re the first person I’ve seen him even look at like that. Just saying.”

You rolled your eyes, but something about his tone wasn’t mean. Just blunt. Maybe he didn’t know how to be anything else.

“Thanks for the update, I guess.”

“Anytime,” he said with a crooked grin. “Name’s Ran, by the way. If he ghosts you, you can always call the upgrade.”

You scoffed, but maybe, just maybe, you smiled a little too before walking away.

A few days passed. The memory should’ve faded. It didn’t. So, you went back. Not to chase anything, that’s what you told yourself anyway, but just to dance, to sweat it out, to maybe see if it was all just a one-night trick your brain played on you. You slipped through the front doors like you’d done it a hundred times. Same red lighting. Same pulsing bass. But this time, he wasn’t behind the booth.

Rindou was at the bar, one hand around a glass, the other scrolling through something on his phone like he was trying not to look bored. He didn’t notice you right away: or maybe he did, and just waited. You leaned against the bar next to him.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he muttered, voice low.

“I didn’t think I’d come back.”

He looked at you finally, eyes heavy but a little amused. “So… you here for the music, or for something else?”

You gave him a look. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He smirked, raised his glass in a half-toast. “Too late.”

You were mid-sip, pretending not to notice the way his leg had been tapping under the counter since you showed up. Conversation was still in that awkward limbo between “was that a one-time thing?” and “so… now what?”

Then, the atmosphere shifted, you didn’t even have to turn to know it.

“Yo,” a familiar voice called behind you, smooth and loud like it was born to interrupt. “I remember you. You were the one sneaking out of my little bro’s room the other night.”

You glanced over your shoulder. Ran Haitani, grinning like he was about to drop a bomb just for the fun of watching it blow. Rindou visibly tensed beside you, glass pausing midair. “Ran. Fuck off.”

But Ran was already leaning on the bar, way too comfortable, already making it worse.

“Bro, chill. I’m just saying. It was kind of adorable. You haven’t seen this guy lately, all broody and broken-hearted ever since his ex did him dirty. I was starting to think he forgot how to flirt.”

Rindou exhaled like he was trying to stay calm, but his knuckles were white around his drink. Ran didn’t stop. “Then boom. You come along. He’s got a spring in his step again. Guy even shaved his neck for once. That’s how I knew it was serious.”

You tried not to laugh, but it cracked out anyway. Rindou shot you a betrayed side-eye. “Don’t encourage him.”

But Ran was already on a roll. “He hadn’t even looked at anyone since, what was it? I was getting worried, for real. Thought he might start writing poetry or some shit.”

You turned to Rindou, raising an eyebrow. “Poetry?”

“Don’t listen to him,” Rindou muttered through clenched teeth, glaring at his brother. “He’s drunk. Or high. Or both.”

“I’m not drunk,” Ran said, clearly lying. “I’m observant. And supportive. This is me being supportive.”

Rindou slammed his drink down and stood. “I’m leaving.”

“Aw, come on-”

“Nope. Not doing this.”

He walked off, dragging his dignity behind him, and Ran just looked at you with that same smug expression. “See? Told you he gets all emotional. You want another drink?” God. The wedding was supposed to be elegant. 

That was the idea. Clean black suits, soft lights, imported champagne, and a string quartet nobody could hear over the sound of distant laughter and clinking glass. And then later Ran took the mic.

The room quieted a little, half-curious, half-afraid. Everyone knew this man had a mouth on him. Rindou was already shaking his head before a single word left his brother’s lips.

Ran raised his glass. “To love, right?”

A soft cheer rose, polite. Safe. But Ran kept going. “You know… I remember when I first met you,” he said, pointing directly at you in your wedding dress like it was a roast. “Leaving my little bro’s hotel room, hair all fucked up, walking like your knees lost the will to live.”

The crowd choked on their drinks. Rindou physically lunged, grabbing the mic, but Ran twisted away.

“Let me finish!” he yelled, already laughing at his own mess. “I’m being heartfelt!”

“Ran, shut the fuck up—”

“Nah nah, this is important. Because that night, right after, this idiot- ” He gestured to Rindou. “This quiet, emotionally-stunted loser came up to me and said, ‘I think I actually like her.’ Which was nuts, because before that, he’d been crying about his ex for three goddamn months and not touching a single soul.”

“Ran,” Rindou barked. “Shut. The fuck. Up.”

“He used to mope on the fucking couch,” Ran continued, ignoring him, “like a little Victorian widow. Refused to go out. Said modern women had no taste. And then—boom. She shows up, and suddenly he’s washing his hair and trimming his nails and-”

You were crying with laughter, doubled over at the table, wine glass threatening to slip from your hand. It was chaos. The good kind. Your cheeks hurt. You didn’t care that the whole guest list was horrified. You’d been through worse. “Ran, I swear to god” Rindou was red in the face, practically yanking the mic away now.

“Oh shut up, you married her, didn’t you?” Ran shouted into the mic before it finally cut.

There was a beat of silence, heavy. Charged. Then your kid, who was sitting nearby with cake all over their cheeks, looked up from their plate and said, loudly:

“What’s a hookup?”

And just like that, the room exploded. Rindou buried his face in his hands, groaning so deep it was almost a prayer. You were wheezing. Ran threw his head back and howled with laughter, arms spread like he just pulled off the greatest performance of his life.It wasn’t perfect. But it was yours. And somehow, it felt just right.

[pritong-baboy]

(wires and cloth ch 8)

It's interesting how Shockwave's desperate to be understood by another yet is phisically unable(?) to wrap his head around others' headspaces. And the way Megatron offered him a false "choice", making bro think he's his saviour, and then allowing him to have (torment) Bee, which is again viewed as affirming his 'personhood'. Like he has this subtle theme of trying to break away from his og coding and being more than just a pawn but he's just doing it so wrong 😭😭 bro's actively going backward and patting himself on the back

It also makes me wonder what would happen if Bumblebee ever took advantage of Shockwave's vulnerability (made him realize it's a double edged sword) and verbally hit him where it hurts since regular insults don't do anything. He wouldn't do it out of genuine malice or even deliberately, I doubt he has the emotional awareness for that, he'd just use any info as a weapon when he's fed up/desperate.

something like

S: I'ts irrational how you still cling to those autobot scum. Have I not been good to you-

B: You replaced my pede and optic with fragged up 'con parts that mess with my transformation!

S: Your system will get used to them overtime. That won't last forever, I promise you.

B: You're right, it won't last forever 'cause you'll kill me-

S: Bumblebee, let's not be illogical now, you know I'd never hurt you.

B: ...All you do is hurt me! But why am I even surprised, that's what they created you for. Pretend to be safe all you want, you're not fooling anybody. Serving Megatron or keeping me captive won't magically change your coding, Shockwave. You say you've learned to choose but all you did so far was follow what your master intended like an obedient servant, be it Megatron or that mech from your memories.

and then he gets his voicebox ripped out :)

(sorry if this seems poorly thought out or ooc, I'm not good at writing characters that aren't my own.)

ahhh you hit the shockwave characterization pretty well actually, or at least, the way i like to characterize him and represent the point of his character lolll. but my god, you guys really like the idea of bee losing his voice huh....WHAT DID HE EVEN DOOOO.

but i think at this point of the story, and the way shockwave acts due to the plot being like this, i dont see him actually getting rid of bee's voice or really hurting him physically (other than the times he replaces bees parts, but thats different ASIDUHASDUH) shockwave only gets physically harmful like in my other shockdad fics is because hes not in control of the situation and hes desperate. for ex, in "in your crosshairs" he had no qualms with throwing bee and harming him, and that was because he KNEW the elite guard was after him and time was limited.

shockwave is still a lot more chill in wires and cloth bc well, hes in full control. the decepticons won and theres no one after him for having bee. he doesnt really need to harm him. sooo, i guess that scenario is plausible!! in a certain situation, of course.

[ajastu]

god okay. sorry for yet another text post. but i'm just still thinking about the argument that veilguard is bad because the only option re: morality of your player character that it gives is kindness.

Now, to preface. I understand where this criticism comes from. Veilguard IS a departure from the general scheme of the previous games, in several aspects. And i understand how people would be upset at not having quite the same kind of options/ways to influence the world. It took me some getting used to, also.

What i do disagree with, however, is using that to claim that the game is bad, irredeemable, and also meaningless n soft or whatever.

Because it's really not. It's just different, with a different narrative focus. I've played the previous games several times, and as i said before, origins is in first place for me. Veilguard is a very close second. And i'm not more right or wrong in this opinion than someone who thinks datv is the worst game in the series.

You can still make choices that will influence the world in wildly different ways, they're just not... ''genocide or no genocide'' kinds of choices. Which i can see how some people would not consider the difference significant enough to be interesting for them personally. Which is whatever, im not their dad, i dont really care.

However. I think it's kind of weird to say that ''the game made me resent being a nice person'' or that "kindness you dont have the choice not to offer isnt worth a lot"

Like, game criticism aside. That is just an objectively weird thing to say.

There are ways to phrase that particular dissatisfaction in a way that will not make most people side-eye you. This is not one of those ways.

The thing is, it was a deliberate choice in characterization. Since game development at AAA scale is. an incredibly complex beast, i suspect there were many different reasons for it, and not all of them purely narrative. It is also not 2009 anymore. We are not getting another Origins, like, probably ever.

But. Rook is established in the very second cutscene to care about other people. It makes sense narratively, too, with Varric being the one to recruit them. Their backstory also shows that they gravitate towards the 'moral' choices. It's not bad writing. It's deliberate.

That does not mean that everyone has to like it. And i don't think the people who are upset about the change in this gameplay aspect are stupid or wrong.

We are all different people with different preferences, and i really am sorry if the game ended up being a disappointment for you. I know how it feels, and it does suck.

But i also do think it might be worth to examine the way people choose to phrase this complaining. The claim that kindness is somehow diminished in value if you aren't offered the choice to be cruel alongside it. I just think that, like. misses the point of what kindness is?

I know what those people mean when they say it, i just...fundamentally disagree with the sentiment. And i think phrasing it in this way is incredibly weird. sorry 🤷‍♂️

There is a better way to talk about this particular complaint. I just never actually SEE that being done. and i do think a lot of it comes from not actually engaging with the source material people are trying to criticize. Like, the person i sort of quoted earlier explicitly said they have not finished the game. If you never give something a chance in the first place, if all the information you have is second-hand, then i do not find your criticism valuable in any way. There is no substance to it, no backing. You are not proving a point, you're just chasing your own tail at that point. There isnt even a bone to chew. You've only heard of the bone. you havent actually experienced it.

Another part is people being too twisted up in the emotion of disappointment to actually see that they're not making compelling arguments, necessarily, and that they're actually being a tar pit.

I know not everyone thinks as much about the push towards dismissing the value of kindness for kindness' sake as i do. But like. It really is very weird to see this insistence that game bad bcs it didnt have the option to do a murder to an innocent person, or something. While also dismissing the horrible things we Are shown as 'not in your face enough'.

And honestly, personally? I dont love origins or any of the other ones specifically for the ability to choose the evil options. It's never even been a choice for me, because you can very well play the games without having to make the bad choices. theres always a workaround. And that workaround doesnt even harm u in any significant way. there isnt an actual like. terrible complexity here. I enjoy the dwarf politics quest a lot but ultimately, knowing the outcome? its EASY to choose Bhelen. Unless you're playing a dwarf noble origin, i guess. Rip Harrowmont 🙏 you would have made a terrible king.

And again, my personal opinion is not more right or wrong than that of someone who adored the prev dragon age games exactly because they allow you to make some terrible terrible moral choices.

At the end of the day. why are people still so pissed about a game that came out almost 6 months ago that many of them havent even played in the first place? Relax. take a walk if you can. Maybe move a snail out of the road if you find one. There tends to be a lot of them after it rains. Think about the ones that didn't make it. Try to find compassion for lives so easily dismissed. Maybe that will make you think about whether or not kindness on its own really is so lacking in value.

[lifeafterpsychiatry]

i understand being against malpractice and unethical treatment of people who are struggling. at the same time, dont you feel like being anti psych as a whole feels equivalent to being anti science/anti medicine/anti vaccines because of the many systemic bad actors?

what i mean to say is that sometimes the means that treatment is delivered (often without informed consent and otherwise with a lot of dismissal and condescension of the patients' experiences) is often bad, but that doesnt mean the intervention itself is or even the prescriptions. my life changed from wellbutrin and it allowed me to find ways to stabilize my mental health and cope with the world around me. i had, fortunately, a psychiatrist who explained the side effects and the things to avoid and the best practices around increasing and lowering dosage.

i also recognize that my experience is rare.

i just feel like being antipsych is throwing the baby out with the bathwater, and may do as much harm if we end up discouraging and fearmongering around medical support when it can and does change peoples' lives for the better. what needs to change is the execution of how that support is provided, i feel. and at the same time, i see the amount of support your blog gets. and i understand why it's important for the purpose of informed consent that people know this mistreatment and malpractice can happen so they can decide if it's worth the gamble? i think calling yourself / tagging your posts "anti psych" is what felt a bit lacking in nuance and concerning, and i recognize that your actual posts are nuanced so maybe it's just a labelling thing.

idk. sorry for the long post. sincerely wishing you and all your followers well

Being anti psych is a deliberate choice on my part. I think the issues with psychiatry are systemic and go far beyond individual bad actors, and I don't consider being anti psych to be anti science because the "science" involved in the psychiatric field is notoriously bad, undocumented, theoretical and unscienitific when opposed to the rest of the medical field. Comparing psych meds with vaccines or cancer treatments doesn't make sense. We just do not have the same biochemical documentation for any kind of mental illness and the supposed treatment of it as we do for most physical health issues, not even close. A lot of people have a lot of interest in convincing people that we do, but that's not the same as good unbiased research. There is just not anything resembling the scientific foundation under traditional medicine when it comes to the field of psychiatry. Which is why I support both vaccines, properly documented medical treatments and the pursuit of scientific progress in health care, but not the field of psychiatry