#if I cried trying to render water that is between me and this image

[miramizar]

You may forget but remember me

1.VII; Suho

✫ image credits: x x x x x x x x x x x ✫

Summary: In which Junmyeon finds both Jongdae and the Frost King.

Genre/Category: Fairytale!AU (The Snow Queen)

Characters/Ship: Suho, Chanyeol, Luhan, Chen, Xiumin, Suho/Everyone

Word count: 2397

AN: Junmyeon definitely cries a lot in this story, but so does the MC in the original story and since tears are also made of water I thought - why not? Also, regarding the split, I was thinking that the ones belonging to different worlds couldn't see each other unless Junmyeon was with them? He's a special case since he's the one who unites them... or something hahah (*^.^*)♡ Anyways, I hope you like this part as well~

They found a house the next day, right after the sun had started to rise, and when Junmyeon knocked on the door he was hit by a gush of hot air. How is this possible? Such heat shouldn’t exist when it’s winter! The answer came as a tall boy with big ears opened the door and a heat unlike any other Junmyeon had ever felt hit him with it’s entire strength.

“Hi, I’m Chanyeol! Who are you?”

Luhan told him their story once again, adding Baekhyun’s part to the ending (Chanyeol was happy to hear from his friend), in front of his fireplace that emitted such heat that they had to remove almost all of their clothing. Chanyeol was hot-blooded to his core and he sure did make use of it in this landscape, but even he got goosebumps when they mentioned the Frost King.

“The Frost King’s castle? Are you sure you want to go there?” When Junmyeon nodded he put his chin in his hand in thought, reading the note he’d received one more time before throwing it into the fire. “I know that your friend is with the Frost King, he brings him outside every now and then and from what I've seen they both radiate coldness and ill intent. I don’t like it one bit. No normal being would want to get in between them and risk getting their heart frozen.”

The reindeer looked at Chanyeol with big eyes. “Can’t you come with us and melt them then? You can control fire!”

“I wish it was that simple. My fire can melt snow and ice, sure, but this is different. Whatever’s going on between the two of them is filled will some kind of evil power that I can’t handle, and I think we need something extraordinary to destroy it.” He looked at Junmyeon, who had been quiet the entire time.

“I think you can do it, Junmyeon. You don’t need my or anyone else’s power, because I know that you’re strong in another way. You have a goal that has kept you going and you’ve managed to get out of all the difficult situations you’ve encountered this far, managing to get both humans and shapeshifters to join you on your journey without even trying. If you can’t save Jongdae, no-one can.”

Junmyeon stared at Chanyeol, his face hot both from the heat of the room and the kind words. Never had someone said so many nice things about him at once, especially not after only just meeting him, so to say that he was rendered speechless was not an exaggeration. 

“Can’t we help him somehow?” Luhan said, looking between Junmyeon and Chanyeol.

Chanyeol shook his head. “No, I think he has to do this himself. You can bring him to the outskirts of the forest, but then you have to return. If everything goes well, which we of course hope, Junmyeon will return after saving his friend.” The lanky boy drew closer to Junmyeon and crouched down to look him straight in the eye.

“You can do this, I’m sure of it. Don't think too much, just go and do it, okay? We’ll be waiting for you.” He showed all his teeth in a blinding smile, and Junmyeon gave him a careful one back. Chanyeol was similar to Baekhyun in his way of approaching the upcoming battle with energy and positivism and he appreciated that immensely, because the moment of truth was drawing closer and he needed all the support he could get.

He got up and looked at Luhan and Chanyeol, renewed certainty shining in his eyes.

“Come, Luhan, let’s go save Jongdae.”

˚₊‧✩‧₊˚ ˚₊‧✩‧₊˚ ˚₊‧✩‧₊˚ ˚₊‧✩‧₊˚ ˚₊‧✩‧₊˚ ˚₊‧✩‧₊˚ ˚₊‧✩‧₊˚ ˚₊‧✩‧₊˚ ˚₊‧✩‧₊˚ ˚₊‧✩‧₊˚

"Thank you for the ride.” Junmyeon slid off Luhan’s back. “It means more than I can say that you’ve done so much to save Jongdae.”

“No, Junmyeon, YOU are going to save Jongdae,” Luhan corrected him. “I just did what I could to help. Chanyeol is right, you’re strong and you will surely do well.” He nudged Junmyeon’s face with his nose, his brown doe eyes watery. “Hurry back afterwards, and good luck.”

“Thank you, Luhan, I promise.” The reindeer quickly ran back into the forest towards Chanyeol’s house, and when Junmyeon couldn’t see him any more he turned towards the castle belonging to the Frost King.

The snow hit him fiercely as soon as he put his foot on the first step of the stairs, but for some reason it didn’t reach him - instead it melted and disappeared. Astounded, he took in the sight of the shimmering, tiny droplets around him, but soon forced himself to continue. He could admire them later. The entrance towered above him, filled with icy winds, and after taking a deep breath he put his hands on it, leaning forward. It was unlocked and slowly creaked open, and he didn’t have to go very far before he saw them.

There was Jongdae, sitting next to a boy who looked like he was somewhere around their age. He had a soft, round face, but it also held a sharpness to it that neither him nor Jongdae possessed. All of a sudden Junmyeon realised that he recognised the boy - he was the one he had seen after dragging his hand across the window in his bedroom so many years ago. It was a boy with childlike features but cold eyes, a boy who laughed but then disappeared into the snowy frenzy and only left beautiful frost paintings behind.

It was now perfectly clear to Junmyeon that he was standing in the presence of the Frost King.

After a short while the boy stood up and patted Jongdae's hair.

“I’m going outside for some fresh air.” He mirrored Jongdae’s wide smile, the one Junmyeon had missed so much and that broke his heart because it didn’t look real any more, and waved goodbye. “Keep up with the puzzle in the meantime.” He disappeared through a door on the other side of the hall, the sound of it closing echoing for multiple seconds before it disappeared. Then there was only silence.

Junmyeon could only feel his heartbeats, loud in his ears and hard against his ribs. After what felt like an eternity he took a step towards Jongdae, but he stopped when Jongdae slowly lifted his head to look at him.

An abnormally loud gasp bounced off the walls. Jongdae didn’t show any signs of knowing the person standing in front of him, and the grey of his skin and the blue of his lips made Junmyeon clench his chest in fear. He inched closer and noticed out of the corner of his eye that Jongdae was fiddling with something that looked like a geometrical shape of some sort, but his gaze was fixed upon Jongdae’s face. How can he smile with those lips? How can he see with all the frost in his eyelashes? How can he work on a puzzle with fingers numbed by the cold? He walked faster and as soon as he was close enough he threw himself onto Jongdae.

“Jongdae! Jongdae, you’re alive!” He felt the coldness seeping from his friend’s body, painfully aware of the fact that Jongdae didn’t move a muscle to return the embrace. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! I mean, at first I just waited, which was really difficult but in a different way, but then I was kind of forced to leave our hometown so I decided to search for you and I had to deal with lots of difficult things to get here... and now I finally found you.” He loosened his grip and tried to see if there was even a tiny flicker of life in those eyes, but they were completely empty.

“He won’t change.” Junmyeon looked up, meeting the gaze of the Frost King. He wouldn't have believed it possible one moment ago, but the stare he got was even colder than before, and Junmyeon swallowed as a smile showed itself on the other boy’s lips. “Your friend belongs to me now. Actually, he has belonged to me ever since he was born, but for some reason you managed to get around the rules and become friends.”

“Wh-What? Belongs to y- what rules?” Junmyeon didn’t understand anything and Jongdae just watched them, not a single emotion showing on his face. The Frost King laughed at his bewilderment and held up his hands.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard about the rules, you’re one of us! You must have heard of the twelve legends and the tree? About the evil red power that split them and the tree in two?” The accusation in his voice had Junmyeon searching his memory frantically. His mother had told many stories to him and later on Jongdae, Sehun and Jongin, but had he heard this one? It did sound familiar…

“You mean the one with the two worlds?” he finally said, and the Frost King nodded.

“You have heard about it. But do you understand it?” He sneered at the face Junmyeon made. “Apparently not. Have you never played with the thought that there might lie some truth in it? I know you’re one of us, or you wouldn’t have been been able to see me in your window that day. Do you know what power you yield? What role you possess? Which world you belong to?” He looked at Jongdae who quietly studied them as Junmyeon still held him close. “You two aren’t from the same world. Me and Jongdae, on the other hand, are. When I saw him through your eyes back then I decided to save him before the red power struck. You’re incredibly easy to read, did you know that? You wanted to see if Jongdae was awake. As I was looking for him I found you, and then it was simple for me to come by your town and take him away from danger.” He laughed again, a little less joyously.

“However, I was too late, and you turned out to be a stubborn one. You followed me, and you managed to get past all hindrances without losing your way. Even though the enemy had spies you arrived here alive and well - yes, they had spies. Do you know of a Kyungsoo and a Baekhyun? The red force used their darker feelings to locate where you were, which wasn't hard because you mattered to them, as you did to Jongdae.” Now the Frost King was standing before him, a threatening glare twisting his cute face in a horrible way. “But nothing can bring him back now, not even his so called best friend, because that’s me now and I want him to stay here. The red force can't harm him any further, so what can you really offer?”

Junmyeon couldn’t believe it. This boy had taken Jongdae just because he believed he had the right to do so, to somehow protect him because they were from the same world? Didn’t Junmyeon and Jongdae share their lives with each other ever since they were small? How could the Frost King think that he was saving Jongdae when it was obvious he was freezing to death?

In that very moment Junmyeon gathered every ounce of courage he had and stood up, staring back into the Frost King’s eyes and opening his mouth.

“Who do you think you are?” The first words were nothing more than a whisper, but his voice quickly became louder. “I’m being serious. Who do you think you are? Sure, you may be the king of the frost but does that give you the right to take what you want? Even if that story is true, even if it turns out that you and I aren’t from the same world I don’t care. Do you understand? I don’t care! Jongdae has always been my best friend, he has been there when I needed him and more than that! He tells me that he looks up to me and clings to me all the time and it makes me happy! And even if this trip has been tough I gained many new friends and they’ve all been willing to help me - it felt like we were one in our wish to save Jongdae and that feeling has helped me stay strong, so strong that I refuse to let someone take that joy from me without asking Jongdae first.”

He panted as he looked at the Frost King, who was now staring at him in shock, then shifted his gaze to Jongdae. His heart broke once again when he saw the shell of the boy that had once been his dearest friend, and he kept talking as he walked towards him.

“Don’t fight evil with evil, let’s love instead. What do you gain from saving Jongdae like this? He’s just a doll, a shadow of the person he used to be…”

He fell to his knees and put his head on Jongdae’s shoulder.

“Jongdae, I want you back. My life doesn’t work without you. Not without your pretty smile, your sarcastic manners, your hugs and your beautiful voice. You’re my best friend, but if you decide by your own free will that this is your home, I will let you go."

Junmyeon was tired of crying by now, and yet the tears came when he leaned his head onto Jongdae’s shoulder, dark patches forming on the frozen shirt as he tried to accept that his friend just might be beyond saving.

“Junmyeon, I couldn't ever bear to be separated from you. How can you even think that I'd want that?” Junmyeon hiccuped and looked up, into Jongdae’s face - bright, shining, alive - and started crying even more as he held his hands to his face.

“Jongdae..!” 

Said boy pulled Junmyeon into an actual embrace as warm tears fell down his cheeks.

“Hush, it’s all right now…”

[riashipie]

Entry for @madatobiweek

Week 1 - Folklore and mythology // The moment I knew

Inspired by Mermaids and Mermen (clearly c’:)

[dumbdemonslayertexts]

random excerpts from black girl time travel kny au

Pairing: rengoku / oc

note: lots of angst mostly. forgive me for this not being y/n format i have to work up the chops to be graceful enough to write that

tagging @dudeandduchess and @adoriable and @tengens-bunny bc they sparked the greatest muse i’ve ever had to write fictions since i was like 14 literally wtf you are my queens???!?!

even with her mind working double overtime to secure her discomfort, the serenity if the rengoku estate could not be diminished. imene tried her hardest to remember any time prior to her time shift where she saw the moon so brilliantly illuminating the earth below it. each blade of grass, every stone in the garden reflected its glow; the whole of her surroundings were accented with such a pure silvery lining, giving a beauty distinctive to the night alone. it was tranquil enough for her to eventually draw a cleansing breath through her lungs, which finally released some of the staleness of doubt and second guessing that had filled her self image lately.

“you are awake still, imene-chan?”

that voice struck her in her chest, shooting sparks of heat and flutters in her stomach. and the fact that she was hearing it meant he was home. safe. and home.

“imene,” she softly insisted, making him smile as though he were being teased.

“imene.” his voice was warmer when he said her name, she would swear to it. and it stirred in her heart almost painfully with the need to hold him forever.

“i couldn’t sleep,” she shrugged off her dilemma, far more preoccupied in the happiness of seeing him, falling into those gorgeously untamed eyes and sweet smile again… “i’m happy to see you!”

“kyojuro.”

when the depth of his rich tone interjected his name, it caught her by surprise. and, true to form, he hadn’t needed her to say a word before reading her thoughts and emotions with complete accuracy.

“wh–?”

he lessened the distance between them, tucking his chin to sustain her eye contact where she sat, “imene… would you say it for me?”

the shadow of pessimism in her brain was shouting. he was easing the lines of formality as a kindness—-it was his vibrant character and nothing more. why was she so dense as to not even understand that? why did a simple name make her world feel brighter, and have her smiling to him, lovestruck?

“kyojuro.”

he smiled. with utter bliss, he smiled at her, exhaling like she’d lifted a weight from him. “ah… i prefer that, i think… don’t you?" 

just like that, the playfulness was back in his voice and eyes. though, another element felt as though it had been added unto it. one she was far too daunted to even hope to name. so she changed the subject. 

"how’re you feeling..?” she asked, lifting herself to stand, “you’re not hurt anywhere, are you? did you get any sleep or did you come right–”

she’d closed the remaining space between them as she fretted over him. ginger, worrying hands grazed butterfly touches up his chest, and the moment she’d made the mistake of tenderly cupping his face, his grin vanished… along with the delusion of pleasant standing she had dared hoped for with anyone there. it took so very little, but reality struck her like frozen lead. 

the subtlest way she could, imene lowered her touch away from him, even as she felt stony ice fill her stomach at his reaction. she could feel how he’d stiffened just before she took her hands away. so then, at that very second with how clear things had become, finality settled into her. still, she wished he would have just lunged his blade through her gut instead; the pain would have been so much less. 

“i–” kyojuro tried his best to play off the disgust, to turn the awkwardness in any other emotional direction. the poor thing even had the courtesy to look remorseful—-very convincingly, at that. god, how noble could one man be to still be kind and gentlemanly even now, trying to play off repulsion as he so obviously was? “no, i am not injured, i am feeling well! but i wished to return home as quickly as i could once i’d fulfilled my assignment. so, yes, i made the decision to return directly. i hope you haven’t been up out of worry for me.”

he was even back to beaming a smile by then, close-eyed and cheerful. she could only give half the heart in her attempt to smile back, barely nodding to acknowledge his answer. the bolt of dejection was still scalding in her chest, trying its best to well tears into her eyes.

“what is it?”

he asked after she’d broken eye contact with him for a time. imene had needed the privacy to blink down the urge to cry. 

“i’m …ready to go back to oyakata-sama’s estate. but i was kind of worried of how much trouble it would be to ask if he would take me in a second time… i didn’t know if it would be rude to him,” she tried to sound as casual as she possibly could, asking softly, like it were nothing more than a passing thought over an inevitable eventuality instead of a conscious decision of hers. but from the look on kyojuro’s face, she may as well has torn a hole through him.

“has something happened?”

he was so concerned. kyojuro sounded so hurt and concerned that the prickling of tears threatened her lashes again. even with his aversion to her, she could not stand to see someone so sweet and kind be hurt. “no…”

“please, imene, if you were upset by anything that happened while i was away–”

“i wasn’t, kyojuro,” she insisted, pleading.

“are you unhappy?” he asked. and it broke her heart to hear just how willing he was to remedy whatever issue she may have experienced just by the tone of his voice, especially after just returning from a mission, “you don’t have to hesitate to tell me if I have failed to host you well.”

“you haven’t failed anything. i’m not unhappy. but I can–” dread made the words catch in her throat, but it was too late for her to retract anything now, “feel that I’m making everyone uncomfortable." 

she waited for him to say something, but the flame hashira only looked at her in pained confusion, stunned and churning his brain to unravel her meaning.

"your father does not want me in your home, kyojuro. i’m a stranger to him—-in fact, I’m pretty sure he can sense that i don’t belong here,” she explained. he was faintly shaking his head, but even with the urge to protest, kyojuro could not deny that truth. “and senjuro–”

“he adores you,” kyojuro desperately interjected. her lips parted to negate it, but he continued before she could. and suddenly, there was a visible glimmering in his sunborn eyes, “he’s told me. many times, everyday we spend together. you…” his face softened from the accosted state she’d frozen it into earlier, and he paused his hurried explanations, “ease him. from our father. even though it is nowhere in your responsibility, you comfort him.”

“him liking me is just going to strain things between the two of them even more,” she shook her head, trying physically to mash the stress out of her temples, “that can’t be worth it, i don’t know how long I’ll even be in this time!”

“you would be surprised at its worth, imene." 

her conscience screamed at her to look at him, and she refused for as long as she could… just for knowing how gutting it would be to do. decency prevailed over her to finally grant him enough to at least meet his eyes, though. and the way his soul cried out to her through them left her destroyed. 

"i’m so sorry to have made you uncomfortable in my home. you needn’t worry about speaking with oyakata-sama, that is my responsibility, i will take care of it.”

he was resigned and sullen. It was almost impossible to tell with how genuinely he retained a positive outlook despite anything, but imene could see the sadness shining in his fiery stare, even with how radiant his grin was. she could also note how the sure grip of his sword had lessened to self-soothing strokes with his thumb at its hilt. “In the morning, I’ll make the arrangements for you. …I hope you believe me, imene, about senjuro. It’s been some time since he’s had …a loving woman around him. he isn’t likely to remember our mother well. what you’ve given with your presence is precious to him. priceless, I would say.”

he gave her an elegiac curve of his lips, and the water blurring her sight conquered her at last, dripping tears so heavy they fell straight to the ground, without a trace left on her cheeks.

“as for our father… he has been this way for a while. it is him. or, it’s what he has become, not a result of your being here. his callousness falls onto senjuro and myself normally, but I suppose you provided a new outlet for it …” he sighed, “it doesn’t excuse my negligence, but i will speak to him, you have my word.”

when she swept her eyes free of more accumulating tears, she felt kyojuro’s palms encircling her arms. it was a touch she had been desiring from the moment these feelings for him had begun to surface, yet when she felt it, she recoiled as if she were burned.

“imene,” he begged quietly. she still tried to keep her tone even.

“but you, kyojuro.”

confusion seeped into the misery soaking his expression, and his brow curled again to search for some hidden meaning in her words. his hands were away from her, though, the instant she showed discomfort.

“you’re the most uncomfortable around me of the three of you. you’re disgusted when i come close to touching you, you can’t even stand to be near me, in the same room, you’re always double checking to see if i’m up to something down every hall and in every room, and around your brother—-i can’t stay here and make you feel like that in your own home! especially when you’re out saving people and risking your life constantly! why would you even want me here if i make you so ill at ease—why would you want to come home to that kind of feeling after all you do!”

she hated how much heat she could feel under her skin–behind her eyes, in her cheeks and nose, at her ears. even more, she hated the pinched and congested whine her emotive state rendered her voice to, like some indignant child. it was humiliating to say aloud to him—-to verbalize just how awfully her self-regard had been eaten away, and to at last face it herself. now her cheeks and chin lay adorned with sheening wet streaks. she couldn’t hide any of it any longer. stillness followed after. not a word spoken, only the amplification of her breaths rattling and struggling to calm against rengoku’s measured silence. 

when she could bear to raise her head again, imene could see him in what looked to be a deep epiphany. a terrible one. like his actions had only know processed into awareness for him, and had left him reflecting in horror. 

“imene.”

he lifted his eyes enough for her to come into view, and his own lashes were starry now, blacker with the moisture accumulating at their base, in spite of the soft grin he wore, “i’m afraid i have to correct you. you said i haven’t failed in caring for you well. but i have done exactly that.

"would you come and sit with me,” he propositioned when she said no more. he’d expected nothing less when she could only look away from him with clenched, leaking eyes, so clearly pained that it ripped his heart to shreds. kyojuro was patient to await her answer, and held out his arm for her when she surprisingly accepted. imene had assumed that they would both share the space on the engawa she’d taken before his return. instead, he lead them to a more secluded area of the estate’s garden, on a stone bench that provided ample view of the night time, and allowed an unstifled breeze to cool them both that she greatly appreciated. 

“i must apologize.”

“you did already.”

kyojuro glanced over his shoulder, hearing her delicate assurance. it surged through him, littering his skin in goosebumps. 

out of consideration of how small their shared seat would be, he had crowded himself at the corner by her side. it allowed them both room for their legs, considering how widely his sat apart, but he could admit there there was a high element of shame that made it more difficult to face her. “yes, and it is not at all adequate for how i’ve hurt you.”

every time he spoke, sounding like he cared, she could do nothing but weep more. somehow, in spite of everything, his sympathy hurt more than anything else. and made her feel horrible for not being acceptable. “you can’t help how you feel, rengoku-s–”

“kyojuro." 

his eyes met hers with stone solid conviction that she couldn’t understand. for someone who disliked her so palpably, he was intent on establishing friendly casualness between them that gave her a migraine trying to comprehend. his next words went far enough to bring a knot to her brow. "you’re right, i can’t. but to have acted on those feelings so poorly is shameful." 

"acted on them poorly?”

“you were manifested in oyakata-sama’s estate. a refugee he deemed to have been brought here for divine reason. he is our leader in this fight we have undertaken against evil. he is the head of our organization, to be honored and respected.”

“it seemed that way,” her faint voice commented.

“yes. for that reason, and more i can’t explain now. understand, if my master says to me that you are precious, to be cared for, i wouldn’t ever dishonor that, nor you.”

now he’d given her her own shocking epiphany. it was slow to unravel itself with how meticulously he explained, frustratingly peeling away with the more he revealed to her in this less than receptive state that her mortification left her in.

“i wished to fulfill the role of your caretaker as best as i could. but as a hashira, i am frequently called away for extensive periods,” he gradually began to turn himself round, now diagonally beside her rather than perpendicular, “you are out of my direct sight for so long that i force you to tolerate my overcompensating once i return. i want you adjusted well, to not be overwhelmed or confused, or grieved with being alone. i wished to watch over you closely in case you were to need me.”

“oh…”

“and your nearness…” he began again, “imene, you were brought here under my protection. not only for me to oversee your healing wounds, but for your safe keeping all together. you are my charge. but i took this upon myself before knowing you—-i was not prepared for you to be so gentle and loving, and to possess warmth that i have not felt in so many years. you emanate affection–your spirit could even bring out playfulness in tokito-san. and your strength is one i have only seen in one other in my life." 

she wanted to cry again, now. and was well on her way, hearing this perfect man speak of her so glowingly. out of nowhere. 

"your peculiar beauty was something i was prepared to disregard. i am from a family of uncommon features; i willed myself to overlook the uniqueness of your eyes as many do mine, and to not be stricken with the comeliness of your hair, or with the beauty of your delicate complexion��-one i have never seen, and that i now will never forget. i convinced myself of it only being the allure of one sent from the heavens. i was mistaken, and then overcome." 

"you—-” her voice broke, weighted with the sobs fighting to bubble out of her chest, “i don’t understand…”

“you are the most beautiful woman i have ever set eyes on, imene. my dreams could not even create anyone nearly as bewitching. and i swore to ignore it, until you showed yourself equally as beautiful in your soul.”

▷▷ part 2

[kth1]

Atmosphere [Namjoon x Reader]

Atmosphere [Namjoon x Reader] ⟶ Credits: @kimtaehyunq​ ⟶ Genre: Smut | 21+ | Celebrity/Boyfriend AU | One Shot ⟶ Warnings: strong/mature theme, adult content, language, titty play, we remembered the condom this time, slight angst, slight dom elements, more fluff, a bit of overstimulation, soft and cute ending, etc ⟶ WC: 8.2k+ ⟶ Summary: Namjoon and you have been dating for a few years now, fully aware of the worries a relationship with a celebrity would be like. One night you spoke up, showing a bit of jealously after him coming back home from a promotional trip across seas. You didn’t mean to slip up, you didn’t want to taint the air with insecurities, but you lost your composure. Don’t worry, you guys figure it out. ⟶ Teaser: “Namjoon can read you like a book, knew exactly what to do when to do it. He fully enjoyed the way your body reacted to him, how simple of a task for him to pleasure you in this way. Your cries from pleasure giving him excitement that he was treating you the way you deserve.” ⟶ Author’s note: Finally, I didn’t write a story in first-person. I caught myself several times having to fix my context of wording, but I did it for you! I had this story in mind for a while, but it felt difficult to tie together. It came out softer, cuter than I anticipated. Please let me know for any grammar mistakes! Enjoy! 🐾

You ran into your bedroom and slammed the door behind you, locking it immediately. Namjoon’s footsteps were sounding nearer, quickly making their way towards the room. You slumped your body against the door, pushing your back up against it to create more of a barricade and prevent Joon from entering. He tried jiggling the doorknob, noting that it resisted the turn. Leaning up against the carved piece of mahogany wood that separated the both of you he spoke, “Babe?”

He groans, hearing silence from the other end but knowing you were obviously holding yourself captive inside the shared room. Your eyes were watery, hands in fists and completely vibrating with rage. You were livid, mad at every negative thought that crossed your mind and… more upset with yourself more than anything. You overreacted and didn’t know how to handle yourself.

“Y/n… Just open the door. Talk to me.” He sighed. Namjoon’s knuckles tapping at the door slowly, the sound echoing thought the silence between the two of you. The agonizing noise banging against the labored wood filling your eardrums. Tears slowly escaping the crease of your eyes, you sniffled as you plucked at pieces of the carpet below you.

“Baaaabe!” he repeated, drawing out the sound of the vowels. You can hear the annoyance in the tone of his voice, he was one to maintain his calm and collect himself well especially during intense situations. But he’s still human. There are times where he really can’t handle all the stress and he cracks.

“Joon, leave me alone!” you choked out, voice cracking. You couldn’t help your voice from shaking, the emotions packing into your body were too overwhelming for you to contain.

“Just open the door, please.” There was no light to his voice. Joon’s patience running terribly thin. He’s trying to confront the situation. Trying to figure out what got you so riled up and darting away from the kitchen table. Sharing a delicious meal between the two of you, was it something he said?

Water filled up the clear glass before you, swishing the three single ice cubes as the cup filled up with liquid. Namjoon’s soft features content as he placed the pitcher off to the side, out of the way of the rest of the silverware. You smiled, showing gratitude and nodding a quick ‘thank you’ with a subtle gesture.

“Thank you for making dinner, it looks great!” You beamed a grin to him. Scanning over at the plates in front, figuring out what portions and pieces you want to grab. Joon nodded, dimple creasing in the side of his face as he stares at you in adoration.

He’s been away for a few weeks, taking care of business and working hard. Attending events all over the world to promote his new album. He’s a solo artist, expressing his thoughts and feelings through lyrics and various tunes. Emotions tied to each word that overflowed each song and every song. You were proud of him, releasing his 4th mixtape tilted ‘No Atmosphere’.

He was a hard worker, so dedicated to projects and assignments. There’s nothing wrong with that at all, this is what he loves. What he was made to do. Such a wise, humble, and reliable soul he has. He takes responsibility very seriously – which is a blessing and a burden. Picky, he gets frustrated with himself, overthinking every little detail. He strives to please everyone around him, putting them first, always.

A series of topics spread over the course of your meal, filling each other up with what you’ve missed, sharing news and making plans for future dates. He expressed how much he enjoyed visiting Spain, London, Ireland. Quoting ‘I wish you were there to see this!’ as he scrolled through photos and videos he snapped on his endeavors.

Meanwhile, you were stuck there. In your shared two-story apartment. A place that was generously too large for just the two of you. And much too big for one single person while the other was gone for long trips, multiple times a year. You had your part-time work, your full-time classes for your master’s degree, a few social gatherings from your small friend group. But you always came home to an empty apartment when Joon was gone.

“Hey Joon?” you disrupted his rant. One he didn’t realize he trailed on and on, boasting about how happy he was when visiting a party that honored his album.

He blinked, losing his train of thought and focused his eyes on yours. A soft smile curving up on his lips from hearing your light voice. “Hmm?”

What he didn’t notice was how you stopped eating the food, fiddling with your fork against your plate as you used one of the prongs to kick a small pea around. Scraps of leftovers and uneaten pieces still lay across your plate and you hesitantly spoke up, “What happened back in London?”

Namjoon’s eyebrows raised in worry, his eyes curious and confused at what you were asking. “What about London? I did a lot there?” You could tell Joon went into deep thought, retracing everything he had already mentioned to you and seeing if he possibly forgot anything.

I did a lot there. You shook your head trying to remove that sentence. But it played over and over, like a broken record. Shouldn’t he phrase that answer differently, you thought. Of course, it rolled off his tongue in innocence, but it held weight on to your chest. Your mind circled that sentence because you kept remembering something you had seen, something that was exposed on the internet.

“There was a video, Joon.” You mumbled under your breath, placing the fork down on top of the napkin.

This wasn’t the place to confront Namjoon, not after him prepping this dinner for you. Not when you finally had relaxing time ever since he came back from his promotion trip. Countless interviews and media articles which talked the anticipation of the album. You kept up to date with most of them, following him as he remained contact with you through your personal phones. Confrontation during this time shouldn’t been optimal, but you muttered the sentence. Your curiosity perked up – and there’s no way of brushing it off now.

You assumed Namjoon knew exactly what you were referencing by the way his face slightly dropped. A video. That video. From a bystander from the album release party… seeking social attention, posting a damn video about the continuously rising artist in attempt to cause disturbance and tainting his image. A fucking video that was pixelated, rendered, a copy of a copy, uploaded on twitter; showing what seems to be Namjoon being close, being in an ‘intimate embrace’ with another female. A female that was not you.

It was blurry, the video couldn’t hold much value to the normal eye because it was difficult to make out faces. But anyone with an expert eye, anyone that knew Namjoon, or was a big fan of him, knew that was him in the video. The slicked back hairstyle, the long dark coat that should be considered as a cloak draping over his body, the mask held over his chin and hooked over each ear. Blurry or not, you knew the figure in the video all too well.  

“Y/n, it’s not what it looks like.”

“They wrote a lot of stories about that video.” You scoffed. You don’t believe Namjoon would be unfaithful at all, you knew him to be extremely loyal. A lot of stories indeed. And guess what, you read every single one of them. Each wrenching your heart just a bit more, coming up more and more theories inside your head. You swallowed down the tang, the hurtful stories, holding them in the pit of your stomach until you completely word vomit all over Joon. Spilling your insecure thoughts.

“What is it then?”

Joon copied your action, placing his fork down and now reaching across the table to grab your hand. You removed it fast, Joon grabbing at the ghost of your palm as you start to shy yourself away. Staring at him as he let go a sigh.

“It’s nothing. It was taken at an angle –“

“Nothing?!” Your eyebrows shot up, gulping down the buildup of saliva that horded in your mouth. “That ‘nothing’ seemed pretty comfortable to you by the looks of it.” Your snarky remark officially ripped open a wave of hostility between the both of you.

“She was the party director!” He raised his voice in defense, baffled that you two were even having this conversation in the first place. Stunned that you didn’t bring it up earlier. “She scooted closer to me in a group photo – I’m sure you’ve seen the photo online.”

“The video was after the picture was taken, Joon!”

“I didn’t do anything, Y/n. Nothing happened before or after that. Her arm was around me. She was on me. Not the other way around.”

Namjoon sounded more dismissive now. It was clear he was getting fed up with the subject, doesn’t believe he has to prove his clean hands to you. Because he’s done everything for you, you were his girlfriend. His love.

Now – you sit here against the bedroom door. Holding back as many tears as possible as Namjoon desperately tried to enter. The emptied and unoccupied space between you two caused unnerving feelings for you. You got worried, it wasn’t your intention but for some reason you really felt that pang of hurtfulness when you came to the realization that Namjoon could have someone better.

“Y/n!” He shouted.

“You’re mad at me…” You whispered to yourself. How dare you bring something so silly up at the table. Ruining a great meal, the one he planned and set up, you ruined it with your insecurities. You were curious, but the curiosity shot you back in the face. Coming off more anxious and fearful, questioning the loyalty of your boyfriend. You were upset with yourself more than anything. Letting stupid rumored scandals corrupt your mind.

He knocked again. You, being aggravated and worked up at his constant need to get you to open up, hit back at the door in frustration. A sob leaving your mouth.

A loud thump nailed into the other side of the wood you were leaning against, Joon kicking at it and proceeded to yell, “Why are you crying?! Open the fucking door Y/n!”

He sounded scary, something you weren’t used to coming from him. Picturing him with clenched teeth, fists with white knuckles, eyebrows furrowed together. Again, he kicked at the door. The shutter sound making you crawl away from the frame, “Unlock it now!” he spat out.

“Joon, stop! You’re freaking me out,” your breath hitching once the pounding stopped. Silence filling the void of the air. Standing up with trembling hands, taking a slow step towards the door. Joon rested his head against it, hand still around the knob. Exhaling he responded, “Please.”

Your hand froze over the lock, pinching it between your two digits. You gathered yourself together, mustered up the courage to twist the metal piece. Right away Namjoon turned the knob and pushed the door in, forcing you to take a few steps back into your room.

Holding your arms to yourself your head fell, looking at the ground. Namjoon walked up, closing the space between the two of you and wrapped his arms around your body, tight. Taking you in his embrace. Your arms remained crossed, trying to wiggle around in his arms to break free.

“Stop, Y/n.” Namjoon grabbed your head and shoved it against his chest. His hold too sturdy to break away from. He noted that your breathing was erratic, unstable. He was bothered, the conversation struck a nerve but also disturbed you.

Your tears flowed, dripping down your cheeks. “You’re mad at me,” you muffled into his chest. Namjoon swayed back and forth with you in his hold, trying to calm you down. Shushing you and rubbing his large hands on your back. Putting your face into your hands, you cried realizing that what you said, what you were accusing under hidden messages, was a mistake.

“I’m not mad, Y/n. I’m concerned.”

“What are you talking about? You are mad!” You prosecuted Namjoon, hysterical. “You were shouting! You hit the door!” You screamed out, sniffling into your hands.

Joon shuffled the both of you back to the bed, helping you sit down on the edge and he took his place besides you. He stared at your beating red face as he took his thumb and wiped away the stained trails that seeped from the brims of your eyes. “Breathe for a second.”

You leaned your head back and avoided eye contact. Your breathing did calm down after giving yourself time, feeling the warmth of Namjoon’s palm that rested on your cheek. His eyes darted back and forth with yours, pleading to be looked at and trying to read your thoughts from the mannerisms that played across your face.

“I’m just jealous.” Your hands found their way back across your body, acting as a shield, protecting yourself from anymore harm. But the harm you were receiving was from deep within your body. An overbearing ache in your chest.

Namjoon tilted his head after your statement, as if he didn’t understand. He weaved his eyebrows together, frustrated at the thoughts he drew up in his mind. “What? Jealous of what?”

“You go around everywhere. You get to meet and partake in actions with a lot of people… girls… very pretty girls. All these women saying they’re going out with you, or you have models cooing over you.” You continued to rant on. All those rumors and gossip getting to you. Even though Namjoon gave you continuous attention regardless of where he was in the world, you somehow manage to believe in the filthy tabloids.

Joon closed his eyes at your nonsense and shook his head. “Shut up!” He covered your mouth with a quick kiss. A comforting warm kiss, one you craved for after a long day with your nose in the books, hours spent at the part-time job. A greeting kiss, but it was more than just a greeting to you. It welcomed you to another side of Joon. A sensitive side that you only get to see because… well, you’re his girlfriend. You’re special to him.

He slowly pulled away and caught your gaze, “I’m just an ordinary guy, Y/n, nothing is going to change that. Nobody is going to make me different from who I already am. I love you. I don’t love them.” His hand held your chin up to make sure you stayed in view. “I have you and I’m happy with that. Why can’t you see that?”

Doubts portrayed in your thoughts for a few moments. Thinking that he’s just saying these things to make you feel better. Your mind was so clouded with these dirty lies, that you felt self-conscious about yourself. Were you even good enough for Kim Namjoon?

“I-I’m sorry” snuck out of your mouth.

“No. I’m sorry.”

You gave Joon a puzzled look, why is he saying he’s sorry? He wasn’t in the wrong.

“If I was giving you the proper treatment of what a boyfriend should do, you wouldn’t feel this way. Right here, right now.” He leaned in once again and kissed you softly. Hands outlining your face. You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him across you and onto the bed. The kiss deepened and his tongue glazed over your slightly parted lips.

“You shouldn’t be sorry at all.” You whispered against his lips, heated breath fanning across his flesh. “You do plenty for me, you’re really generous to me Namjoon. And… I’m so sorry for doubting you for a second.”

Of course, you had an idea of what it’d be like to date someone famous. He’d be much busier than a typical boyfriend, he’d travel further, and gone for periods of time. You were well aware of this, and for a good amount of time it really didn’t bother you. Namjoon always felt like he was holding you back, but he loves you too much to let you go. Far too many conversations like this have come up in the past between the two of you. Between the ‘talking’ stages to the ‘dating’ stages, and now officially together, you two have chatted about the toll of a full on relationship may cost.

But this didn’t stop either of you. Even when you tried taking things slow, seeing how things felt and figuring out if you were suited for this sort of lifestyle, you two gradually connected back to another. Namjoon couldn’t stay away from you for too long, and you were always welcoming him back with open arms. He was loyal to you. You understood him the most and when there were times he couldn’t express himself properly, you were there to help.

Laying down, Joon rested his head on your shoulder and wrapped an arm around your stomach lazily. One of your hands mindlessly toyed around with the strands of his hair as the other found place over his forearm.

“I understand why you felt the way you did; I really do.” He spoke in a sotto voce. “Y/n, I get curious too.”

Joon was referencing that he, himself, thinks about the possibilities of you being influenced by other men. Especially if he’s away, he puts all trust into you, but it doesn’t stop his overthinking mind to wonder. Maybe he wasn’t good enough for you, maybe he was holding you back. He was afraid of tying you down if you weren’t happy with the situation you were in. Namjoon always swallowed his negative thoughts, dismissing them because he rather focus on the future and being happy.

Your grip tightened around him, not knowing what to really say back to him. Feeling guilty in more than one way now. “Joon –“

“I love you, Y/n.”

He remained resting his head on your shoulder with his eyes closed. He casted a soothing and calm aura with how relaxed he became. He doesn’t like a hostile environment and the tiniest of squabbles are typically unnecessary and overreacted. He preferred to just talk it out, communicate with another to know what is really going on.

You kissed the top of his head, sniffing his hair and intaking a fresh vanilla scent. The wisps of hair folding under your fingers as you slightly groomed him. “I love you too, Joon. I really am sorry.”

Joon was happy having you, honestly. You gave him energy, satisfaction and your undivided attention. He never expected you to be as good to him that you already were. He couldn’t ask for more from you, he’s already taking up so much of your commitments and he tries hard to always make it up. Dinners, dates, cute surprise visits, facetime and random texts in the middle of the day when he’s thinking about you. He knew effort and communication were strong keys to hold the two of you together and he always tried his hardest to maintain these.

Again, you had a strong idea on how your relationship with Joon would be like. And you accepted it. You want it because you want him, and that was enough for you to say yes to him after the seventh date together at the aquarium two summers ago. His hands were in the touch tanks, searching around for cute little critters and lightly petting against their various skins. Spotting some fascinating crabs and he described to you how you reminded him of them.

It was playful, he was joking around trying to get you to smile even more that day. But the best thing about that day was when he turned to you, with salted wet hands from the tank he grabbed yours in return and stared deeply into your eyes. Asking if you’d like to take the relationship in seriousness, wanting to be official. At that moment you could care less that your hand was drenched with cold water, you only cared about the tall, handsome man that was holding that hand.

You were content, laying with Joon on your shared bed. Feeling enveloped with love and adoration. Suddenly he leaned up, hobbling himself over you and pecked your nose. He had a spark in his eye, something he tucked away in his mind but now lit up momentarily. He smiled down at you, listening to you giggle, “What?” you questioned.

“Hold on, I have to grab something. Wait right here.” He pointed at you with a finger, warning you to stay put. His grin had a hint of mischievous humor behind it as he got up off the bed, walking out the room and down the stairs towards the kitchen area. You can hear Namjoon rummaging through bags, drawers, you name it. You thought to yourself, what is he even doing out there?

“Joonie?” Your voice rang out loud enough to stretch the area of the house. You sat up, looking around the room but your hearing zoned in on the muffled sounds that were coming from downstairs.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” he vocalized with a honeyed tone.

You can hear the patter of his feet, trailing up the steps and patting back into the bedroom. He smiled fondly at you as he entered, walking back over and sitting besides you. He claimed that he was grabbing something, but you didn’t recognize anything being carried in when he returned. You were perplexed to say the least as your eyes searched around.

Namjoon noticed your gaze that scanned in all directions, amusing him on how easily curious you were. His dimple shining bright he raised an eyebrow, “Lookin’ for something?”

Slightly offended, because that question had an obvious answer to it, and you didn’t understand what was going on. You cocked your head to the side, quirking a frown, “Well yeah, you said you were grabbing something?”

He smirked, holding your hand in his as his other hand shoved into his pocket to pull out a Prussian blue box, handing it over to you. He nodded, edging you to open the top.

You swore right then and there your heart stopped beating. You thought your holy spirit drained your body and elevated up to the heavens at the sight of this small thinned cardboard box. Completely unaware of what the contents that lay within it, but your mind went racing straight to one thing. Holy shit, holy shit. This can’t be happening? Like this? It’s so sudden and random? This didn’t feel right.

Your eyebrows raised practically to your hairline, eyes wide and mouth frozen. You hesitantly held the box between your digits, glancing up at Namjoon with a tiny bit of unsettlement in your eyes. You felt your heart in your throat, pounding loudly over the nerves that coursed in your skin.

“Open it.”

The saliva that accumulated in your mouth was swallowed thickly with a gulp, flipping over the lid to the box and seeing a shiny silver object inside. It took you seconds to register the thingamajig, observing that it was some sort of flat, circled charm that had your name, address, and number engraved onto it. You were processing the information in your mind, a small sigh of relief exhaled through your nostrils that it wasn’t something extreme like a ring or anything.

“A… tag?”

“Mhm! I was going to give it to you after dinner, but we never finished our meal.” He chimed in with a playful banter.

“Why a tag?” The gift was random and completely out of the blue. But the gift itself was even more unusual than expected. Not once in your life has someone gifted you a tag with your contact information on it, were you supposed to wear this around a necklace, a keychain perhaps?

Joon takes the charm with the pads of two of his fingers, flipping it over to the other side. “So you can fill out this side with its name!”

Then… it clicked. Oh my. A tag. A dog tag. You two were getting a dog?! You gasped; emotions ran ecstatic through you as you jumped up with joy. “A dog?!”

Delighted that he brought jubilation to you, he stood up holding your arms to help you stop springing off the floor. He chuckled, “Yes! I figured you needed someone to keep you company during the times that I’m not here for you. I know how much you love animals too, so I wanted to ask if you’d like to get one.”

You locked lips with Joon. Throwing your arms around his neck, dropping the box in the process, and pulled him closer to your body. Eagerness racing through your muscles as you leaped yourself off the floor and linking your legs around his waist. He caught you under your thighs, laughing into the kiss as he brought you back to the bed.

He cradled your body, supporting himself on top of you has you leaned back down on the fabric below. Running your hands up and down his arms, he deepened the kiss. Both of you captivated with another and riveting another’s attention to a now quickly heated session.

You tugged on his bottom lip that was more dominate than the top, grazing your teeth on the tinted pink flesh. He inhaled sharply, feeling his heartbeat fasten as his body anticipates upcoming actions. And yours did the same. Namjoon was tender handling you, a more amorous side taking over his persona.

His smooth chap-stick covered lips butterflied across your dried-up cheeks. Stamping warm kisses to your flesh as he trailed down to your jaw and peppering along the column of your neck. This wasn’t some sort of hot n’ heavy, steamy romantic session. He was gentle, he took his time, he was intimate with you. You can feel it in the air, in your bones and most importantly you felt it in your swelling heart.

It was sweet, the warmhearted feeling that took over your body because of Namjoon. Hushed giggles and bashful laughter crowded the room. A fun-loving atmosphere. And you were completely smitten by it all.

“May I take this off?” Hands curled around the material of your shirt slightly lifting it up to the underside of your breasts. Rubbing his thumbs along the bare skin below your bra.

Biting down on your bottom lip, you flashed an excited smile in reply, “As long as I can take yours off.”

Joon looked smug, lifting your shirt up and off your torso. He went to lean down to connect his lips back onto your skin, but you caught him before he could fully commit. Yanking his shirt high up his chest until you couldn’t hoist it any further since his arms where in the way. He laughed at your antic, how cute it was and enthusiastic you were. But he obliged and lifted his arms up for you.

There was no time to waste, Joon sloped back down on you. Pecking his plump lips on your collarbone and down towards the valley between your boobs. Feeling how soft your skin was, lightly nibbling at it. You hummed through your nose, arching your back into Joon’s face, urging him to continue.

One of his manly hands cuffed your left breast as his mouth connected to your right, open mouth kisses and softly sucking at it. You released a tiny moan, enjoying the sensation that was being stimulated on your breasts.

And boy, you were so sensitive on your boobs. Especially when he toyed with your nipples, moistening them up with his mouth and rolling the buds between his fingers. It wired you, Namjoon played with you like an etch-a-sketch. It feels fantastic. Waves of goosebumps cycling across your skin as he continued running his tongue across your aroused nipples, making sure to give the other boob the same attention. You mewed for him; the blush drawn on your upper cheeks as your body grew hotter under his touches.

He reached behind you with a hand, unclasping the hook of the bra and allowing the fabric to relieve your delicate girls. Turning you on was Joon’s pleasure, he cared about pleasing you more than being pleased. He could spend all day groping your tits if that means you’ll be satisfied.

You were easily wet; the games Joon played with your boobs sparking your nerves and arousal. Prepping your body for more, aching for more of his gentle touch.

Daringly you reached your hand between the two of you, palming at whatever you made contact with until you found a stiffening bulged that stuck out with the fabric of his pants. You can feel the warmth radiating through his region, heated up and you knew very well he wants to reintroduce his member to you.

“Joon – take off your pants.” You ordered in a hushed tone. Squeezing at his dick. “My body really wants you right now.”

As your sweet voice compelled his ears, he listened. Shuffling his pants off with a smirk and a light shake of his head. “I wanted to touch you a bit more.” Giving you a small pout.

“Aww.” You smiled, seeing the little kid of him. “You can touch me with this big boy instead.” You tried sounding a bit sexy, almost kitten-like as you eyed his member.

Willingly you unbuttoned your own jeans, tugging them down your thighs and letting Joon help you with the rest. His fingers ran up to your undies that remained on your frame, seeing the cute little ocean doodled pattern on them with a dampened and darker spot that was clung to the outline of your lady-lips. He was turned on and completely in awe of how cute you are.

“Why do you do this to me?” he laughed, feeling happy with you and hooking his fingers around the thin waistband of your undies. Towing them down your legs with a fit of giggles.

You blushed; a bit embarrassed at your attire but not even self-conscious being completely nude in front of him. “I don’t know – I just thought they were cute!” You retorted back fast.

“They are cute. You’re even cuter for wearing them.” He chirped.

Namjoon swooped back down, placing his hand over your mound and letting a finger dip in between your folds. Sliding your natural lubrication all over he glided it over your clit, making you moan in the process. Your hands found their way into his hair, fluffing it up even more while Joon teased at your entrance.

“Your body really does want me, huh? I don’t think I even need to use my fingers.”

Nodding, you bucked your hips up chasing his floating fingers. Wishing he’d do something more with them than just shifting between all your lady bits. “Let me get a condom.”

You reached over to the bedside table, pulling out a drawer to frantically search for the magical package that contained the secure rubber. Swiftly you ripped it open, offering to help apply it along his length. You pinched the tip of the latex, rolling the rest down his long shaft and giving his dick a few teasing tugs.

Joon groaned at your touch, flexing his dick in the process of your pumps. He was more than ready to take you in, ready to share the closeness with you once again.

With that, Joon pushed you back down on the bed. Lifting one of your legs over his hip as he centered himself at your core. Your slick allowing him to slide between your folds effortlessly as he prodded his tip in your hole.

You held your breath, anticipating Joon to fill you up all the way to the hilt. You want to feel him inside you, widening your walls and your body vibrating around him. He locked eyes with you, smiling as he leaned down to plant another kiss on your lips. In sync he inched himself further into you, a grunt escaping his chest as you disconnected yourself from the kiss to breathe. You tossed your head to the side, latched your hands around his shoulders as Joon set a pace with his thrusts.

Your body missed Joon so much, you didn’t even have control over how your cunt clenched tightly around his dick. Your walls compressed in a series of movements; your cunt thirsty for him. Breathy gasps leaving your mouth once Namjoon whispers to the skin between your neck, “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this. Ah – Y/n, you’re so wet.”

Earlier you felt a deep ache within your chest from the persistent pain of worry and hurt. But now, all of that washed over. You feel something deep, but not from pain. Not from the obvious penetration from Joon’s lengthy cock kissing the doorway of your cervix. You feel deep feelings, words and actions not able to compare to the affection and fondness between the two of you.

You felt warm, completely at ease even though you’re sweating, catching your breath, sensitive nerves awakening to the sexual stimulation between your legs. A heavy body on top of you, pounding his dick into your sweet succulent juices. His hips banging into you, his head stuck in the crane of your neck.

This warm feeling overruled all physical activities and all auditable sounds. But what it couldn’t stop was the twisting of your lower abdomen muscles, the stiffening of your walls and tense grip over Joon’s shoulders. Your body reacting on its own agenda. Your throat feeling dry from the open mouth breathing, you tried speaking but only moans were formed.

Namjoon can read you like a book, knew exactly what to do when to do it. He fully enjoyed the way your body reacted to him, how simple of a task for him to pleasure you in this way. Your cries from pleasure giving him excitement that he was treating you the way you deserve.

“Joon I’m – I’m close!” you panted, feeling that orgasm rolling closer and closer to a release.

As much as both Joon and you wanted you to spasm all around him, he stalled it. Delaying you from the contractions of your pelvic muscles that would send electrifying waves all the way to the tips of your fingers and toes. He stopped all actions, halting himself deep inside you and slowly rocked his hips to continue a small force of friction between the two of you.

Your body was frustrated, your cunt was soaked, and you were vexed. “Joonie?” you whined out, bucking your hips up into him. Feeling that build up in the pit of your stomach slowly fade away.

Joon leaned up, kissing your cheek. He hummed to himself, satisfied with the state the both of you were in. “I would love to stay like this forever. Do you feel this?”

Do you feel this, Y/n? The sensation filling the room, the air, your heart. The thrill that frenzied in your veins and muscles. Flushed, excited, ecstatic, blissed out of your mind. The feeling Joon raptures you with, sending your body to a state of euphoria. It was wild. You didn’t feel normal, but it was the best feeling you could ever experience with another. And this is what Namjoon wanted to continuously feel.

Without notice, tears fell from your eyes as you nodded to his statement. You weren’t sad or upset, but in complete awe over Joon. How could someone be this perfectly imperfect? How could someone be so sweet for you. And you still question yourself if you were even good enough for Kim Namjoon.

He whipped away the tears that shed onto your skin, hushing you. “You don’t need to cry, Y/n. Believe me, I already know the way you feel.” Because… he feels it too.

With the little room you were given, you wrapped your arms around Joon as much as possible. He smiled down at you, returning the hug and rolling the two of you over with him still pivoted inside. You now lay above him, peering down into his eyes you went to speak. The movement of your body caused your pelvis to rub against his, squishing your swollen clit against him and bursting a shriek out of your mouth when you snapped back into reality.

The heightened arousal between your legs was still on edge and ready to burst. Joon bit down on his bottom lip once he felt your pussy clench around him. The experience between the both of you was riveting but was soon going to vanish because of the greediness your bodies had. Your mouth dropped open, “I love you” spilled out without wavering.

Namjoon’s hands rested on your sides, holding your waist as you slowly grinded yourself against him. Allowing his dick to swirl inside of you while your sensitive bud rubbed against his pelvic bone. You couldn’t help yourself; your body had a mind of its own when it rushed itself back up the stairs to orgasm. And you got there, fast.

Your body jerked; your hands planted on Joon’s chest to hold yourself upright as you released yourself all over him. Unfolding all the pent-up energy and feelings. Your hair cascaded over your face with labored breathing, groans ascending out of your mouth. “Joon, I – I, I going to – Joon – Ahh!” you squeaked out once the second wave coursed through your cunt, expanding a pulsating vibration through your body.

“So beautiful. Fuck – Y/n, you’re so damn beautiful!” Joon watched every second of you coming undone on him, seeing how you squirmed around him, using his body for your own pleasure, moaning his name. In a selfish way, Namjoon felt fulfillment seeing you like this – all displayed for him to treasure and praise. It turned him on, hearing your voice singing into his ears as he jutted himself up further into your moisten cunt. Over stimulating your nether region, he was determined to make you go one last time before he spills into the condom.

You’re barely holding yourself up straight, hunched over with your palms placed on his torso. Sweat formed along your hairline and between the contact of your skin with his. The mixture of your sweet n’ salty juices shining along your lady-lips and Joon’s cock. Before you could call out his name in another breathless voice, he has your mounds in each of his hands, squeezing them tight and pinching at your perked nipples.

You gripped at his wrists, letting out a shocked plea for him to stop because the sensation was so good that you couldn’t handle it. “Joon!”, you choked out, gasping for air as you tried to lift your body off his. He refused.

He flipped you back over, Joon locking your hands above your head with one hand around your wrists. He didn’t care for the mess on the bed, the tossed pillows and taunted comforter beneath the two of you. Your attempt of wiggling out of his grasp was a failure after he pinned you down with his body. Dick hovering over your delicate pussy.

“One more time, for me.” His voice was stern and serious while he murmured into your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

“I – I can’t!” Your chest heaved erratically, feeling your legs already shake and stomach contracting from the multiple orgasms you’ve already encountered. You felt weak.

“You will, love.”

Your request was again, hushed. Namjoon tilting his hips for his dick to dip back into your entrance, he placed kisses on the crook of your neck. Your breath hitched, throwing your head back into the bed, feeling Joon slam himself deep inside you, causing your nerves to shudder.

You struggled for air, body completely trembling uncontrollably as you cried out for Namjoon. You swore your vision went blurry while you received this mind-blowing orgasm. Joon held onto you tight, allowing you to ride out your high. Slowly pulling himself out of you once he knew you were finished.

Namjoon and you laid close to another, exhausted from the physical activity and especially from the toll your body took. Your eyes shut, not able to lift your body off the bed. Joon smirked, giving you another peck on the cheek before leaning up to discard the used condom, knotting it and tossing it in the trash bin. “You’re so beautiful, Y/n.”

You laughed, shaking your head to yourself. “I heard you the first time, Joon.”

“I know.” He chuckled, laying back down and wrapping his arm back around you. “I mean it every time.”

You hummed in response. Tracing sluggish patterns on his forearm with your index finger. You slowly drifted further into your tiredness. “We’re still getting a dog, right?” You drowsily asked.

You felt a soft pair of warm lips contact your forehead; the sensation was comforting. “Of course, babe.”

About a week later you were staring out the window, watching the scenic views pass by. Acres of landscape in the countryside took up the area. The environment felt fresh and calm. Much different from the inner-city area with nonstop traffic and busy streets. You turned your gaze at Namjoon who was driving the car, his eyes remained on the dirt road ahead, but he could sense your stare.

As if he knew what you were thinking, he spoke up “Almost Y/n, the farm is about 2 miles up.”

You smirked to yourself, looking down at the palm of your hand that held the shiny silver dog tag. You fiddled with the metal, twisting the item back and forth between your digits. Anticipating the new addition to the house, a furry companion, hopefully the cutest puppy in the world.

The two of you slowly pulled up an extended driveway, parking in front of an old tiny brown snug farmhouse. A large red barn hidden behind the home, attached was a large fence that enclosed a few goats and pigs. A pack of stray chickens roaming around the grounds. Shutting the car doors, the smell of the plantation entered your nostrils, “Definitely a farm.”

You were greeted by an elder couple, warm smiles dressing their wrinkly faces. They were dressed as if they were in the middle of housework, tall muk boots, overalls and plaid shirts. “Hello there! You’re here for one of the pups?”

Joon reached out to lace his hand with yours, walking over towards the sweet couple. Charming and innocent eyes beamed back at you two. “Hey there! I’m Namjoon, and this is Y/n! We spoke over the phone!” Joon perked up, pulling you along with his strides.

The older couple waved Joon and you on, walking the both of you towards the barn in the back. Having small talk in between the short distance, hearing cute comments about the various animals you passed on the way.

“That’s Molly over there, Mama of the litter.” The older man pointed out a dog laying down in the pasture, her coat was a dark golden tone and it shined in the sunlight. She was watching over at your area, observing the new persons that entered her home. She sniffed the air as the breeze picked up, letting her head lay back down on the ground, but her eyes never left yours.

A loud creaking sound snapped your head towards the barn, watching the woman open up the doors wide for you to enter. Joon and you followed in after the couple, stopping short at a stall on the left. You heard little yips and yaps from the other side of the wall that fenced in the young pups.

You peaked over the edge, instantly widening your eyes when you see six little furry golden retriever puppies playing around with another. All varying in different shades of gold and creams. Your excitement caused you to clutch Joon’s hand tight.

“Oh my god! They’re so cute!”

“You want to go inside? Sometimes it’s easier for you to choose once you spend some time with them.” The older gentleman gestured, unlocking the latch to the wooden door and popping it slightly open, making sure he doesn’t allow any of the pups escape the corridor.

You glanced at Joon quickly, getting reassurance from him before eagerly nodding your head and walking into the pit. Immediately you fell to your knees, allowing any of the puppies to come running on over and jumping up on you. Their fur was so soft, angel-like and had that sweet puppy smell to them. You giggled with the six rambunctious babies. Grabbing a few chew toys and loose rope to play around with. You were happy, completely lucky to be blessed with these cute little ones in front of you.

You took your time with each of the pups, feeling out which one would be yours. Of course, you were tickled pink with glee, and wanted each of them. You joked with Joon briefly, giving him puppy-dog eyes and asked him if you could adopt them all. But unfortunately, you could only choose one. You were so indulged with playing with the puppies you didn’t realize how much time you spent with them. It’s been over twenty minutes before you heard a voice directed towards you.

“Did you find a new friend?” Joon spoke softly towards you. He leaned over the gate, smiling down at how cute you looked with a pile of puppies flooding your space. But he noticed that there was one puppy curled up in your lap, tuckered out and resting itself.

You looked up at Joon, trying to hold back your smile. “I think one found me!”

Then it was decided. The small, dark golden fur ball that laid across your thighs was going to be the newest addition to your world. You exited the stall, carefully holding the puppy in your arms. Joon giving it a small pet on its head before turning back to the cute elders.

“Thank you so much, you were so kind to us. Thank you for allowing us to adopt.” He flashed a smile to them. You thanked them as well, nodding your appreciation while trying not to disturb the sleeping pup.

Joon handed you the keys to head back to the car as he fished through his back pocket for his wallet to pay the man. You walked through the frame of the barn, turning your head back to the older dog named Molly. There was a slight ache in your heart, feeling bad that you were taking away one of her babies. Your smiled towards the animal, thinking that it would settle the upsetting feeling inside your chest.

“Excuse me, Miss?” A deep modulated voice, coming from what seemed to be the elder man, rang through your ears.

Questionably, you turned on your heels, facing back towards the inside of the barn. But you were caught completely off guard when there was a body before you. Down on one knee, with a box raised up between his hand, Namjoon smiled up at you. The black velvet box cracked open, flashing a sparkly stone.

“Y/n.”

You froze, feelings swelling your heart up. You felt your heartbeat in your throat when your jaw dropped. If it wasn’t for the exhausted puppy in your arms you’d probably fall straight down to the floor. This is happening. Holy shit.

Namjoon cleared his throat, realizing he has your full attention. “Y/n… words, actions, even music, cannot express the feelings I have for you. The amount of love I have towards you is unexplainable. I want you to know that I appreciate every waking moment with you, from the very first day you entered my life. Thank you for always being there, for always making me happier, for supporting everything. You are the greatest woman I know, and selfishly I wish to ask you for your hand in marriage because I want you all to myself for the rest of my life.” He spoke confidently, glistening in his eyes he smiled with each word that he admitted.

“Y/n, will you marry me?”

Tears fell down your cheeks, your eyes flickering back and forth between Joon and the ring that was bestowed in front of you. Your hand came up to your mouth as your sobbed out loud, shaking your head in reply.

“Yes! – Yes, oh my god yes I will!” You choked on your words, but they were clear enough for Joon to hear.

You rushed yourself towards Joon, wanting to hold him. Joon catches you by your arms, not allowing you to crash yourself into him because of the puppy that you were holding. He held you around your back, pecking your cheek as he held your hand still as he linked the jewelry to your ring-finger. He snuggled against your head while he back hugged you tightly. The puppy, now fully awake from all the commotion, was wiggling around and licking at your crying face.

You heard camera clicks, the sound alerting you to look up at the older couple who each were recording and snapping photos of the scene in front of them. You smiled, half embarrassed but also filled with joy.

Sniffling, your eyes met Joon’s, “You paid them for this?”

“I had offered, but they said that a time like this is priceless.”

One last picture was taken of a smiling newly engaged couple with a brand-new puppy in their arms.

© All rights reserved under @kimtaehyunq​ - do not copy, repost, modify, edit, or translate any of my work without my direct consent. This tumblr is the ONLY place my fics are posted.

[richincolor]

Interview with Author Crystal Maldonado

The bloggers here at Rich in Color have been reading Fat Chance, Charlie Vega over the past month in preparation for our book discussion that will be posted tomorrow. We were so excited to also have an opportunity to hear directly from author Crystal Maldonado. It’s always a treat to be able to find out a little bit more about the writing journey of an author.

Crystal, thanks so much for taking time to answer a few questions today. Sharing a novel with others takes some bravery and often thick skin. What convinced you to actually send your book out into the world?

Becoming a published author had always been a dream of mine, but I wasn’t sure it would ever come to fruition. In 2018, I had just turned 30 and I was happily married, I was traveling, and I was really enjoying myself, yet the yearning to publish a book and use my voice for good was nagging at me. I just felt like I had all of these words and stories inside of me wanting to come out! At that time, I was sitting on the finished manuscript for “Fat Chance, Charlie Vega,” with no plans for next steps. I realized that I was giving up before I’d even tried for fear of failure. I asked myself what was worse: never trying and always wondering, or putting my story out there and possibly failing? At least in the latter situation, I would have given it my best effort. Giving myself permission to fail was the spark I needed to try to make this book real — and now I get to hold a story I wrote in my hands!

Charlie has more than a few moments of awkwardness throughout her story. As a reader I was feeling for her. How does it feel as an author when you are writing those types of scenes?

It feels awkward for me, too! I do my best to get back into the mindset of what it felt like when I was a teen by listening to music that I enjoyed when I was in high school. Doing that means I sometimes feel the same awkwardness my characters do. But it’s really nice to be able to experience those things again, and I hope it ultimately adds a feeling of authenticity to the stories I write.

What is it like to do that delicate dance between fiction and your own experiences as you plotted?

Putting your heart into any story can feel very vulnerable, but I think you need a little bit of that vulnerability on the page in order to make the book feel real. So, I like to use experiences from my life as inspiration or reference material, but then heavily fictionalize them and make them work in my character’s lives. While my experiences may start as the seed, getting imaginative and creating new characters, scenarios, and dialogue is really what makes the story bloom.

The cover of your book is lovely. What was it like to see her for the first time rendered by someone else?

Thank you! Seeing the cover for the first time was pure magic. I sat in stunned silence for a moment and I can remember the feeling of my heart pounding, just taking this gorgeous image in. I cried. It was powerful to see a fat, brown girl right there, on the cover, for the world to see. I imagined how meaningful this would’ve been for me as a teen, and I thought of every fat brown girl out there who doesn’t get to see herself enough, and it made my heart full. Ericka Lugo, the illustrator for this cover, truly captured everything about Charlie so perfectly in this image, and I loved that she also included some flowers behind her, as if Charlie herself was blossoming. I hope others love it, too!

What have been some of the surprising aspects of moving in the publishing world?

I’ve been pleasantly surprised by how welcoming authors are! I was so nervous to get into publishing because I worried I’d always feel like an outsider looking in, but finding my debut group and then connecting with other incredible Latinx authors through Las Musas has been such a wonderful experience for me. I’m shy and introverted by nature, so much so that I didn’t tell anyone except for my husband that I was working on a book; it was a relief to get invited into these spaces with open arms and feel like I was able to easily connect with some truly inspirational authors. Now I consider many of the people I’ve met over the last year really great friends.

What books shaped you as a young person and are there any books out now that you would have appreciated then?

When I was really young, one of my favorite books was “Corduroy,” a sweet picture book about an overall-wearing teddy bear who is looking for a friend. I loved this story because it celebrated friendship and taught me early on that we should love ourselves exactly as we are! As a teen, I really loved “The House on Mango Street” by Sandra Cisneros, which I feel is such a beautiful and poignant novel. But I didn’t get to see many fat and/or brown main characters until I was well into adulthood. I would’ve loved to have read books like “Dumplin’” by Julie Murphy, “Love is a Revolution” by Renee Watson, or “Juliet Takes a Breath” by Gabby Rivera when I was a teenager!

If you could write anywhere, where would it be?

If it was just a vacation, I’d pick Greece, as it’s a place I’ve always wished to travel. I imagine writing somewhere in Mykonos and overlooking the water and creating my own version of “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.” It sounds so dreamy! For a long-term place to write, I’d love to go to Puerto Rico and explore my dad’s hometown and reconnect with my family there. I would really love a chance to spend some time there with my husband and daughter.

Thanks so much! I loved reading your book this past weekend. It brought me many smiles. I also wear glasses so am always excited to see a main character wearing them. The cover is also just beautiful overall. 🙂

Thank you so much for asking such great questions! I’m so happy you enjoyed the book!

Crystal Maldonado is a young adult author with a lot of feelings. Her debut novel, FAT CHANCE, CHARLIE VEGA (Holiday House), was released on Feb. 2, 2021. By day, she is a social media manager working in higher ed, and by night, a writer who loves Beyoncé, shopping, spending too much time on her phone, and being extra. She lives in western Massachusetts with her husband, daughter, and dog. Follow her everywhere @crystalwrote or visit her website at crystalwrote.com.

[noteofnaught]

Dante's memory of his mother

Fiddled with what I had written earlier.

The translation was done for me by deepl (translator).

Please let me know if you think it's strange or if there are any mistakes.

The above is purely a personal opinion

Feel free to discuss and exchange.

Dante's memory of his mother

Dante's memory of his mother, or rather that night, seems to have been formally depicted once in DMC5 since DMC1.

So let's start with the DMC1.

In the DMC1 novel, there is a scene depicting Dante recalling the events of his mother's death.

「母さん、母さん……ねぇ、母さん！」

幼子が、地に倒れ伏した母親の身体を揺さぶり続けている。母親の息がすでに絶えていることは、誰の目にも明らかだ。

だが幼子は──すでに自分でもそうとわかっているのだろうが──無

駄な努力を止める気配はない。

「兄さんもいなくなっちゃったんだ！ 母さん！ ねぇ、母さん！」

亡骸からは未だ、温かな血が地面へと広がり続けている。

幼子は半狂乱だった。

We can see in the description that Dante tries to wake his mother up next to her dead body, even though he realises that she is dead but he is still trying to wake her up. This is a reluctance to accept his mother's death, a normal emotion and attitude for a small child to have.

And the second half of his sentence [兄さんもいなくなっちゃったんだ!] It is as if he had searched for his brother, but his tone is one of powerlessness, of helplessness, of feeling negative about the outcome. So here I want to convey not so much that he has searched for his brother to no avail, but a sense of powerlessness about the situation. He tries to wake up his mother in this way.

It's close to one: Mom, wake up. My brother is not here/is gone and I don't know what to do/I'm scared, please get up Come on.

And then in the scene of Neal's death, Dante recalls this as Neal's sacrifice to protect him, just as his mother did that day.

After that he heard the voice of his father's sword, and out of fear and insecurity he was completely drawn to it, thus obeying its words and changing his name until he gained the power to fight against it.

Then, in the battle with Gilvi, when Gilvi stabbed Dante and was covered by the necklace, Dante's internal activity was as follows.

He credits his mother with protecting him (again) as a child.

Where the mother sacrifices herself to save/protect Dante this is consistent with the DMC1 in-game scene. In DMC1 Dante has a similar line after Trish sacrifices herself to save him. This is the diagram from Precious Tears, with Japanese and English, but both Japanese and English convey that Trish sacrificed herself to save him, as did her own (Dante's) mother.

This is in line with the content of the DMC3 comic.

In the DMC3 comic, Dante has a nightmare at the office after his encounter with Vergil, a dream that is not in fully recreated form but like a fragmentary form.

Here the mother has more dialogue than in DMC1, and it is obvious from the comic's footage that there are huge hands behind her that are about to crush her, and Dante reaches towards her as if to retain his mother, who is feeling very scared, while her mother shouts for him to hurry up and hide/hide and not come out no matter what happens. She is then crushed by the huge hand. In the next panel we can see that the demon looks like a bird and says the terrible words "all die". like it is glowing, and on the next page you can also see the huge three foot shadow on the ground, which also looks like the claws of a bird, and the door behind it is the image of burning, while a long shadow is drawn under his feet.

Of course, we know from the comic that Arkham says there was a fire that day, and Vergil's fearful recollection of the house being on fire makes DMC5 even more certain that it was indeed on fire. The glowing eyes, the long, thin shadows and the subsequent bloodstained house in the comic give the impression that something ominous, unsettling and alien is about to happen.

The cartoon after that also shows us Dante waking up with a jolt, his face covered in water, looking at his hand but with only a drop on his end finger, giving the illusion that he has pulled a hook with someone. There is no sweat on his body, however, and of course there are problems of expression in the painting, so it is not painted.

But it is also true that these same fragmentary memories and dreams give Dante unease and fear.

Well, the memory, the feeling of his mother in Dante's vision so far is the following: his mother told himself to hide and not come out, and sacrificed himself to save himself. It is the great selfless motherly love that belongs to Dante.

Although it was a great mother's love, the memory of that day still makes Dante feel uneasy and afraid. The last memory his mother leaves Dante with is the one that tells Dante to hide, and implicitly the will to let him live. If we add the DMC1 novel to the mix here, it is at this very moment that he is drawn to his father's sword.

Again within these memories and fragments, the mother is rendered unknowable to Vergil, meaning that we do not or cannot see in Dante's recollections that the mother ever went looking for Vergil, if not for the presence of the phrase [兄さんもいなくなっちゃったんだ!] we would not even know in this recollection of Dante that he knew that he had a brother. What we can see or what Dante perceives in his vision is that his mother loved him so much that she died in the process of protecting/saving him.

However, it is also a writing device that can be lifted off as suspense.

But again, this doesn't do any damage to the image of Eva as a great mother, because based on what happened that day, the great mother had to choose to save/protect (potentially the closest to her or that she could find) one child and had to give up the other in the face of force majeure. Dante also never said before DMC5 whether his mother loved Vergil or not, whether she ever sought him out or whether she cared for his brother as well.

What we see in Dante's vision is basically what Dante can know, but it doesn't mean all of it. After all, comics or game scenes have an obligation to show us the scenes, but it doesn't necessarily mean that the characters actually see all the textures. We, as players/readers, are a kind of God's eye and we can notice things that are not right or different (also a storytelling technique) but as protagonists we are not necessarily fully aware or in the same position as us.

I think if you have seen suspense films, you will also often see that kind of bridge, we all know that this bomb is going to explode this person to kill that person, although there is that kind of explicitly shown in the footage, but the protagonist is still unaware of the appearance, many viewers are in order to pinch a cold sweat, for this reason anxious hope that the protagonist quickly realize.

And DMC5 gives us a formal depiction of that day, not through snippets like a nightmare, you can see in the game's overstory description that it says Dante dreamed of what happened before, which means this time you are shown real memories.

After all, a nightmare is not necessarily a real memory, it is a condensation of a certain memory. Sometimes we have a nightmare like dreaming of a giant cockroach because we are afraid, so we reproduce and amplify this fear in our nightmares, so that a small cockroach we see in the house becomes enormous in our nightmares, the giant cockroach is not necessarily real but the fear is real. Of course, we are not talking about the formation of nightmares here, but only about the fact that nightmares and some fragments of our memories with fear and anxiety may be a recreation of what we felt and what existed at the time, but not necessarily a completely real recreation.

In the DMC5 Eva process screen.

There is a slight difference between Japanese subtitles and English subtitles, or even Japanese dubbing.

The overall meaning is actually similar to the DMC3 manga, Eva is all over Dante not moving and telling him to hide/hide, the only difference is that she says more words to make Dante forget his past and forget his name and start a new life from scratch/not being Dante but another person to start over. All also contain the mother's wish for him to live well.

The difference is that in the Japanese subtitles, Eva clearly expresses the possibility that she may not return and so tells Dante to listen well to what she says next, whereas in English it is expressed as I promise you will return.

In the English context, although the mother says she will come back, she immediately reverses the 'come back' in the next sentence, saying that she knows it will be difficult, but you're old enough so you'll have to do this if I don't come back. They both mean the same thing, a mother who knows she might not come back and tells her child what she will do if she doesn't come back, as if making a pact with her child: we agreed that if I don't come back, you will remember to do this, I know you can do it.

If you look closely at the animation of the process, you can even see Dante's hand trembling on the cupboard door, he is very scared.

And the BGM here also happens to be called: More Fear

And of course it is here that we first see Eva looking for Vergil, and it turns out that Eva has looked for Vergil! This doesn't exactly match the information we got on Dante's side earlier.

But are you saying that the DMC1 message contradicts the current message? The DMC1 novel only mentions that he cried next to his mother's body, not that she said anything to him before she died, after which he became obsessed with his father's sword out of fear and terror. And his father's sword statement is the same as his mother's deathbed statement but in a very different series.

The meaning of the mother's words is very clear, the words are all about the desire for her child to live well and to stay away from these things that will hurt him, a good expectation and blessing for her child and the expectation and belief that her child will be able to do so.

「今はその名を隠し、目を眩ませ、逃げ延びよ」

“Now go incognito, confuse the enemy and flee far away!”

The overall meaning of the phrase is that it is dangerous to hide the name, confuse the enemy and run away, and the phrase even takes the form of a command that the child must do what he says.

It's a phrase you'd put in the context of a superior to a subordinate, a captain to his teammates, and in the context of a tense battlefield man telling you to run fast is perfectly fine and appropriate. But Eva's words could only be said by a mother to her child.

When all the memories are linked together, our facts about Eva become a little more complete, and at the same time what effect does it have on Dante?

If his mother only died saving him and he hated his father for her revenge which is quite reasonable, this has to be a blowback from his father's enemies. What is necessary to mention here is what Dante's mindset was regarding DMC1 killing the Black Angel.

In the official publication of the 3124 collection, Dante is said to have killed the Black Angel with "no thought", a word synonymous with "remnant", which is generally translated into Chinese as: regret.

And the DMC1 how-to book has a direct description of his ideas.

Dante is talking here about Mundus killing his mother and brother.

This is not the same as what we generally think of as objective perception. In the game we see over the course of the game, the Black Angel looks as if he still has a heart, so naturally we think there is still salvation, after all, he is still alive.

But here Dante does not think that it was his own hand that killed the Black Angel, but that Mundus killed Vergil.

Of course we can parse this to mean that killing the man who was Vergil means, but even so within this passage of Dante he is not one of the reasons for Vergil's death, he has no responsibility in Vergil's death and is not responsible for any act occurring in the process, but rather Mundus should need to take full responsibility.

In other words, it means that even if it was he who killed the Black Angel in the course of the battle, then he is not responsible for it, but Mundus is responsible for it, because it was Mundus who arranged it, and how could he have killed it if he had not arranged it there, it was not his problem, it was Mundus' problem.

than what we generally think of as objective factual rational logic going into the judgement: although Mundus turned Vergil into a black angel like that, he himself didn't recognise the killing, more or less he was responsible for it or felt particularly guilty that he didn't recognise it.

Dante's logic leans more towards total emotional logic: It's all Mundus' fault!

And in DMC5 just as Vergil used to think it was a matter of not having enough power, now it's a matter of having too much power, and now that Mundus is gone, not recognizing Vergil (V) for killing Vergil can only be his active choice, not a passive one, and it can only be that his responsibility has nothing to do with Mundus.

Returning to the mother, what arises is in fact the same question. If before it was his mother's great love for him, which was selfless and exclusive to him, now, at this moment, her love is equal, not just his but also his brother's. The "he" whose mother sacrificed herself to save him in the flashback (DMC5) is not really a "he". His mother's did not hesitate to rush out to save her brother, knowing the danger.

Of course we must also mention nell, arguably the designer of Dante's double shot.

In the novel, Thor wants Neal to commission and pay a deposit for a double gun for himself, one of which is a secret-made gun he stole from a robbery, and the other is the same type of medieval gun that Neal himself received.

nell is so good to Tony, as is clearly described in the DMC1 novel, because Tony looks so much like her child, and her love for her child is projected onto Tony, and she holds on to her job before she eventually dies, not only because of her love for Tony but also her love for her own child, and more so for the work ethic she has taken on this job and should complete.

But all the same, the person she missed most on her deathbed was her own child, something Tony could never replace, nor could he if he wanted to, which of course didn't mean that nell's love for Tony was false, nell's love for Tony was also real, indeed it was love, it was precisely because of the person of her own child that nell loved so deeply that Tony was loved by her.

Whether it is nell or the mother Eva, their love for their child is not solely Dante's alone and only his, or why they love Dante/Tony, it is because they both love their child, and if they were not such, then Dante would naturally not be loved by them.

His mother's protection and sacrifice is something he feels and desires, something that is personal and emotional for him. It also explains Dante's statement to Trish in DMC1 that "his mother died to protect herself", because Trish, like his mother in his feelings and understanding, has what he calls a "heart".

Of course, because DMC1 is entirely Dante's vision of storytelling (DMC1 is Dante's story), his mother is human in Dante's eyes, and Trish acts like his mother to protect him, or even Dante's ideal mother, so Trish is also a person with a "heart", as to how Trish feels or if that is the case. We will not discuss this issue here.

Surely the mother did not save Dante? This is necessarily a negative, but was it to save him that his mother died, or to hold back the demon who tried to kill him so that he could escape? Again, that is a negative. Wouldn't his mother have done that in that situation? That too is a negative. Wouldn't Dante have wanted his mother? No. Must Dante have never been afraid of not wanting his mother to stay by his side to give him security and protection? Did Dante only want to protect his mother and never wanted her to stay by his side to protect him? All the information above seems to be in the negative.

DMC5 is simply a reinterpretation and addition of information from the past, the only thing overturned is Dante's belief that his mother died to save himself.

This message provides us with an explanation of the origin of Dante's hatred for his brother, as is often the case in many films and novels, in which he blames the child for the death of his beloved wife, even though it was not the child's fault, and believes that if it had not been for him, his wife would not have died. He stubbornly believes that his mother died to save him, not to save his brother, and not because of this he is unable to love his brother; he acts as if he wishes he could have the mother's love all to himself.

For if we are to acknowledge the fact that his mother died to save his brother, we also have to acknowledge something else, and that is that he equally did not want to be left/abandoned by his mother.

Of course, this is not a contradiction or a conflict; it is only natural that a child should be afraid and want to protect his mother, and it is equally natural that he should want to protect her.

The above is purely a personal opinion

[soveryanon]

Reviewing time for MAG175!

- Once again, I really loved how it felt like the sound effects were giving their own “statement” of the domain, by telling us (a bit in advance!) what the words were saying. You could remove Jon’s words, and it would still have been a horrifying dive into that desolated landscape, the surroundings themselves threatening you – it came to the point that the occasional clatter was inspiring dread since the noises felt like they might attract the native creature, and you really didn’t want it to come closer?

(I’m not absolutely sure about the Air Raid Siren in the background, but I thiiiink their cycles were regular, with a new round of them coming every 2 minutes or so? Really eerie to think that it had not stopped, while it wasn’t able to protect anyone from the incoming disasters since they were already there; and at the same time, they kept going… because, precisely, it was still an extinguished domain that kept extinguishing itself, that Leah was still there at this point so it could still get worse and even emptier? The signal is supposed to stop when the threat is over – it made sense that it would keep going since The Extinction was there and accomplished.)

- Things in common with previous statements dealing with cases suspected to be Extinction: the “Inheritors” as natives from this world.

(MAG134, Adelard Dekker) “Every single shrivelled ashened face was contorted in a scream of agony, every sharp and jutting jaw cracked and twisted in an expression of horror – of understanding not just of their death, but the end of everything they knew. It was clear that they had been this way for years, if not decades. Bernadette says she was sure that nothing had moved in that dead city for a hundred years. She was mistaken. I have never envied you your position, Gertrude. I have never coveted your gifts, as I know the terrible costs that come with them. But honestly, trying to get a description of these… things, these “Inheritors” from Bernadette Delcour made me wish I could just pull the image from her lips, like you would have been able to. In the end, she would say nothing of them, except that [STATIC]: “There is nothing done in the history of humanity that deserves the things that come after us.” […] It used to be part of The End, perhaps, when The End of humanity was to be the end of all things; but now, the fear is not of a rapture or a revelation; it is of catastrophic change. A change in our world that will wipe out what it means to be “us”, and leave something else in its place.”

(MAG149, Judith O’Neill) “There were no people in there, but… that’s not the same thing as it being empty. Instead, there were… figures. From a distance, they looked like human beings, standing impossibly still. But getting closer… quickly revealed the lie. It was just the rough shapes, cobbled together out of a hundred different pieces of garbage: a broken metal clotheshorse for a ribcage; a… plastic chair leg for an arm; rusted screws for teeth. In some cases, it looked like someone had gone through a lot of effort to match anatomy with construction. I saw one with a broken water-cooler where its stomach would be, and another had a pair of oxygen tanks standing in for lungs. They were completely still, but there was something about them that made my mouth dry up, and my mind scream to run. [STATIC] It didn’t feel like they were statues. It felt like they were choosing not to move.”

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: “Fauna: the thing that lives. Something lives in the Anthropocene age: [METALLIC GROAN] not a twisted reflection of a natural world, [RUMMAGING CLATTER] not a parasite or a scavenger or a cockroach, but a native. [SNAKE-LIKE HISSING] Something born in the sloping shells of sagging concrete towers, that tastes the tang of rusted iron in the air and knows that it is home. [RUMMAGING IN SMALL ITEMS] Something that does not know or care what a human is, any more than mankind thought of the creatures that once lived in the shells they found on the beach. [SCUTTLING] It moves through the stacks of garbage like a beetle through filth, and its smile is all-too familiar, though its eyes are dark and empty. [SNAKE-LIKE HISSING] It cannot be seen in its entirety, for it keeps itself covered, [SCUTTLING] but its long, unfurling tongue may be seen emerging, pink and bristling with long, hair-like taste buds, [CLATTER] hunting for something old enough to eat. [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] [SNAKE-LIKE HISSING] [METALLIC GROAN] It whispers to itself in the dark, and sounds like snippets of old toothpaste commercials, and adverts to join the army. It is hard to tell if there is more than one, [METALLIC GROAN] but either there are several of them of different sizes, or there is just the one, and it is getting bigger. [RUMMAGING, SCUTTLING] [SNAKE-LIKE HISSING] It is our replacement, and it is welcome to the world. […] [Leah] ignores the burning pain in her forearm, where the thing’s rough tongue has torn a section of her skin clean off.”

… Technically, there was something facepalm-worthy to the fact that one of the last living things from the old world was a seagull, but also:

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: “Fauna: a mouldering seagull. [BIRD CRYING IN THE DISTANCE] Larger than any related specimen to be found before the Anthropocene age, this bird has been rendered flightless by the tightly woven plastic netting, [CLATTER] that winds around and around its torso, digging into the skin beneath the feathers, and bulging over the strange lumps and tumours that cover it. Its feathers have turned an oily black, and its vestigial eyes are pale and sightless, [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] relying instead on the sounds its prey makes as they traverse the noisy junkpiles of discarded landscape. Its beak has become hard and its edges are serrated, allowing it to tear apart the tin cans and hard plastics that shield its food with ease. Its legs are long, and many-jointed, allowing it to move across the uneven ground, and its throat is blocked with concrete – preventing it from crying and letting it move amongst the ruins in complete silence. It nests in the rusted-out hollows of fleeing cars, constructing intricate shelters for its young, out of corpse-hair and wiring. Its eggs are rusty, covered in slime, and its chicks are born with plastic rings around their necks. They smell like ammonia and salt, and their name is meaningless, as there is no longer such a thing as the sea.”

… AOUCH for 1°) what happened to it, how it… “transformed” as a species due to everything human-related that had been inflicted to it, 2°) especially with the chicks “born with plastic rings around their necks” – that was a terrifying image, indeed.

(So, were the cries of birds we could hear in the background belonging to the Inheritors, or other birds, since the seagull had concrete in its throat “preventing it from crying”?)

- There was something absolutely haunting to the statement in the rhythm itself: the professionalism of the catalogue vs. the slight despair of the parts dedicated to Leah, between the sections she was writing. And the part with the rib!! Jon’s narration slowed down, dragged, sounded captivated by the rib, and really made you feel like there was a big mystery with that bone, something important?

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: “Item: [SQUELCH] a forgotten bone. … Whooose is this…? Pale white and… stained with thick black tar. A human bone, that much is… clear, too big to be a child’s, at least. Can a bone seem familiar…? The shape of it echoing through your mind, like a… face seen only in dreams…? [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] It may be followed up to a ribcage, still sticky in places with soapy cadaver fat, and closing around a crumpled beer can where the heart should be. There’s a skull as well, yellowing in the thick dust of the open air. Strange… Everything here is either bone-dry from relentless heat, or damp through from decomposition and stagnant decay. Lifeless yet decaying. The world we’ve left behind… Leah considers the bones for some time. Does she know them…? Are they hers? If she had been quicker, more forceful in her warnings, might they still be alive? Her pencil is broken, but her notes, her warnings from this new world are far from complete. She snaps off another rib, [STATIC RISES] and continues writing.”

Was it reminding Jon of his own discarded rib (and was it a nudge/an attack on him from The Extinction)? Was it Leah’s own ribcage, as she had transformed without noticing? Was it the reminder of the death of other people? Was it the “beginning” of an Inheritor? No idea, but the picture of Leah ultimately discarding the questions to snap a bone and use it as a new pen to keep up her work was very striking.

- Also haunting: the fact that Leah’s catalogue almost “humanised” inanimate objects, since they were described with their illogical aspects (the bulb still emitting light) and… almost told the story of what has happened by themselves, and at the same time didn’t at all? But the statement was about a present situation (an Extinct world) with remnants of what used to be – we could recognise the human activities which had caused some of these disasters, we were told of the purpose these items used to serve… and it was all senseless in that new world. It was really chilling that the “Anthropocene era”, here, wasn’t described by what was living and prospering in it, but with the death, decay and annihilation that had resulted from it.

- Obligatory HEAVY SNICKER because of the umbrella:

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: “Item: [FAINT METALLIC CLINK] a laughable umbrella. Look at it! [FAINT METALLIC CLINKING] What does it think it’s doing here, lying there, broken, skeletal? [FAINT METALLIC CLINK] There hasn’t been rain in fifty years. […] Stupid umbrella…! Does it think there is a monsoon coming? Does it even remember what a cloud of water vapor looks like? [FAINT METALLIC CLINKING] The clouds that pass now are oily, and stink of sulphur, waiting for you to stop paying attention before they climb down your throat and settle in your lungs. Perhaps this idiot apparatus thinks it can protect from the relentless heat of the sun! But its fabric is torn and ruined, hanging from the snapped metal limbs, desperate for a breeze to stir it from its… complete stillness. [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] Take a moment to sneer at this corpse of an umbrella, [FAINT METALLIC CLINK] and wish for a moment you had water enough within you to spit on it.”

… Did an umbrella hurt you in your childhood, Jonny.

Hilariousness aside (it really worked with Jon focusing all of his hatred on that item, you know Jon would be the kind to have a visceral negative opinion over something mundane), it… really worked as an allegory both for Leah’s work and for Jon’s journey. It’s about a damaged item which has lost its purpose in a new world, which can’t serve its initial purpose anymore, which exists but can’t do anything anymore. Just like Leah, writing the state of the new world in her “report on everything for nobody” (it’s too late, The Extinction has already happened), and Jon, only able to describe the horrors of the new world.

- Leah sticking to her catalogue even though the disaster already happened really reminded me of Jon in his function as Archivist (Jonah had called him “a living chronicle of terror” in MAG160, for example). Why is Jon compelled to “pour out” the domains’ statements? We still don’t know why and what that does exactly: is he creating more terror through the tapes, in the same way that Leah’s catalogue could technically be used to spread the terror of the Extinction world?

- ;_; I really really wasn’t expecting an Extinction domain, big surprise!

I really like how the question of it being “real” or not real enough was handled: when Adelard first described it in MAG134, it made a lot of sense as a Fear, and even more as a Fear strengthened by contemporary feelings (with the growing awareness of the destruction of humans being caused by humans themselves).

(MAG175) MARTIN: What was it like? ARCHIVIST: What? MARTIN: This place’s… [INHALE] Its statement. ARCHIVIST: Nothing too surprising. It’s a domain designed to eke fear out of those afraid of a world… [INHALE] destroyed by human hands, it, uh… It dwells on it. MARTIN: Hm. [SILENCE] [WET SQUEAK] … So it was real, then? The Extinction. ARCHIVIST: Of course it was real…! A–at least in the sense that… it was a thing people feared. Whether it was strong enough in its own right to be considered at a level with Smirke’s Fourteen or… whether it was on its way to getting there, I… [SHUFFLING] Maybe. This sort of thing is always… muddy.

And I really like how Jon was nuanced about it: acknowledging that it’s a real thing since it’s a real fear, but that it’s harder to evaluate whether it was on the same level as Smirke’s Fourteen when The Change happened: in a lot of ways, it feels like Smirke’s taxonomy had arbitrarily shaped the divisions in Fourteen for UK-based people and that for the next two centuries, monsters and avatars mostly referred to that division to organise themselves. The major difference, maybe, is that we never really met a human who decided to serve a fear they identified as “The Extinction” and turned into a servant of it, terrorising people through it to feed it in turn, and trying to shape the world in that image: Adelard had mentioned that he wasn’t sure that The Extinction was hiring avatars yet (MAG113: “I don’t know if my little ‘theoretical’ is strong enough yet to start taking avatars, but this one, as you’ve no doubt guessed, turned out to be Terminus.”), but it didn’t mean a lot – maybe there were already avatars out there and he hadn’t met them, and maybe if Adelard had written and propagated his ideas about The Extinction, a few people would have decided to serve it because they feared and reveled in it in turn.

Anyway, I like how Jon’s words didn’t exactly feel like a big “reveal”, more like a confirmation, since… a lot of these interrogations and hypotheses had been brushed upon by Adelard, Peter and Simon in season 4:

(MAG134, Adelard Dekker) “This Fear is new. This is a fear of extinction. Of change. It used to be part of The End, perhaps, when The End of humanity was to be the end of all things; but now, the fear is not of a rapture or a revelation; it is of catastrophic change. A change in our world that will wipe out what it means to be “us”, and leave something else in its place. Mankind will warp the world so much it kills us all, and leaves only a thousand years of plastic behind. Technology will strip us of what it means to be human, and leave us something alien, and cold. We will press a button, that in a moment, will destroy everything we have ever been. Animals are witnessing the end of their entire species within a single generation. These are new fears, Gertrude, and a new Power is rising to consume them. The Extinction. The Terrible Change. The-Future-Without-Us.”

(MAG144) MARTIN: Another… statement. Another side to… Peter’s “Extinction”. I think. I… Y– I– [HUFF] I, I couldn’t follow some of his reasoning, but I think it was about… nuclear weapons, or… or maybe doomsday’s weapons…? In keeping with the theme, I suppose.

(MAG149) MARTIN: Looks like Gertrude’s handwriting? Start of a letter to… Dekker, thanking him for sending Judith to her, though… it doesn’t look like it was ever finished or sent. [PAPER RUSTLING] “I assume this is another one he was trying to use to prove The Extinction? It… certainly has something in it. Mankind’s trash giving rise to something terrible. And again, fear of the other, inanimate humanoid figures. That’s all very… Stranger, isn’t it?” [SIGH] [LOW]… It’s never simple, is it…?

(MAG151) SIMON: “When is a new Power born?” Well; when does it feel like its birth would be right? When enough creatures suffer a terror of it that feels distinct, that feels truly its own… then it would probably feel right for it to emerge into its own. Or perhaps there’s a ritual, if it feels right to enact some sort of birthing ceremony, some… apocalyptic midwifery. MARTIN: And how close is it, do you think? SIMON: Can’t be sure! Peter thinks very close indeed, what with all the current “hubbub”, and I’m inclined to agree. […] Peter seems convinced that The Extinction is different. That its actual birth will be as bad or worse as another power fully manifesting. He believes its advent will be heralded by all sorts of disasters and catastrophes, and global upheavals, and whatnot. That kind of things. MARTIN: Sounds like a rich feeding ground. SIMON: Well, exactly! Peter, however, seems to think that it will upset the balance that we all have an awful lot invested in. And he’s not at all certain the world as we understand will come out the other side.

(MAG156, Adelard Dekker) “My first assumption would have been The Flesh, based on the cannibalism and strangeness of the bodies involved, but… something about this idea of some sort of “famine world”, its location within a made-man ruin, the whole… societal aspect of it… I’d be inclined to chalk this up as a genuine Extinction manifestation. But I don’t know. Am I drawing wild conclusions, trying to fit the account into my own preconceptions? Keen to know your feelings on the matter.”

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “so… perhaps you were right about The Extinction. I’ve been hunting it for decades now, and… while I have seen evidence of its influence in other Powers, I have never found anything to genuinely prove its emergence as a true Power of its own. Perhaps it is an existential fear that flows through the others like a vein of ore; or perhaps the birth of such things is longer and more complicated than I believed. For all that though, I cannot regret the time I have spent seeking it. I have done my duty; and none may ask more of me. I am proud of the work we have done, and it has been an honour to do it alongside you.”

(MAG159) PETER: Maybe that’s why, when I crossed paths with Adelard Dekker, we ended up talking, and he told me his theory of The Extinction – something that stayed with me even after he died pursuing it. The thing is: the Loneliness I crave, that fills my heart with that… reassuring unease, relies on distance from other people. But a world without people at all, or at least anything I would recognise as people… it is meaningless. Without the lighted window in the distance, how am I to see myself apart from it? No. Such a world would be terribly dull, and scares me in a very different way. A fear I am happy to offer up, of course, but one that I would prefer not come to pass. My instinct was much like the others: I thought that if I could complete my ritual first, then the potential birth of the Dreadful Change would be meaningless.”

So ;w; Adelard was right and wrong at the same time. There was such a thing as a “Fear Of The Extinction”, strong enough to become some people’s living nightmares. But at the same time, the division into Fourteen or Fifteen didn’t really work anyway, so it was doomed to be “muddy”, as Jon said.

… What is interesting is that:

* … “Beholding” is still all-powerful in that world – granting Jon, its “pupil”, way more powers than any other, and ruling over the domains and the fears.

* Jon is still sticking to the 14+1 division. He described domains with the names from Smirke’s taxonomy during the journey – he’s aware that the blob of terror is multi-facetted, yet still clings to the categorisation.

* Due to Jon being confident when he was describing the domains as belonging to x or y Dread Power, I thought that Jonah’s invocation in MAG160 had shaped the world with these neat categories:

(MAG160, Jonah Magnus) “Bring all that is fear, and all that is terror, and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies!”

So, the other Thirteen Fears, under Beholding’s reign (“All under The Eye’s auspices, of course – we mustn’t forget our roots.”), and Jonah specifically schemed to get Jon marked by the Fears following the list of Fourteen to prepare that ritual, in the hope of avoiding the Fifteenth (“All Fourteen, as I had hoped I could complete it before any new Powers such as Extinction were able to fully emerge.”).

… Yet, at least one out-of-the-box Fear managed to still sneak in through. Which means that:

1°) Jonah didn’t exactly create what he wanted! The Extinction is there with the others anyway. As Jon had told Martin in MAG160:

(MAG160) MARTIN: I, I don’t know if it’s just here, or if it– ARCHIVIST: No. … No, it’s everywhere… They’re all here, now. I can feel… all of it.

They’re “all here now”.

2°) Jonah’s ritual didn’t really work on Jonah’s terms. Was it really necessary for Jon to get marked by the Fourteen Fears, would like, ten have been enough anyway, as long as there was a sufficient amount of aspects, to get all the fears into our world? Did the ritual “accidentally” count as an Extinction mark on Jon, allowing it to get brought through too? Was the ritual actually dependent on Jon’s own feelings, and The Extinction got pulled in because he still thought it could be a genuine threat? (Jon began to doubt about it while receiving MAG157’s letter, with Adelard confessing that he might have misunderstood, and Jon feeling like Martin had been lied to; but Peter admitted to him that he was genuinely afraid of The Extinction in MAG159, thus confirming to Jon that he had been honest on that part.)

(But damnit, I was “hoping” (that’s a strong word) for The-Extinction-not-being-invoked being a potential way to reverse the equilibrium and undo the apocalypse in a way or another… And nope, not an option if it’s already there with the others, uh.)

- Wow, Jon felt mercilessly right about the state of the world / whether The Extinction was a legitimate fear as something that could have become concrete without supernatural interferences:

(MAG175) MARTIN: But what about the real world, were they right? ARCHIVIST: … I–I’m not sure I follow. [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] MARTIN: I mean… Right, if none, if none of this had happened, if the world had just… carried on? [WET SQUEAK] What would have happened, was… was all that fear justified? [SHUFFLING] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I can’t know the future, Martin, not even a hypothetical one. MARTIN: But… you know what was going on, what was happening. [WET SQUEAK, SHUFFLING] O–out of everyone, you’re the best place, you–you’ve got the info to make a pretty damn educated guess…! ARCHIVIST: … I, I don’t know what you want me to say, Martin. Yes, i–it was bad, worse than most people thought and [INHALE] things were only going to deteriorate. Was the end of humanity actually imminent? I… Probably not? But we were well on the way and… it would have been the end of an awful lot of things.

It’s a bit of a change for Martin to ask about what-could-have-been this season: Jon has usually been the one to dwell on that, with Martin stopping him from spiralling (MAG161: “Can you imagine…? If we’d had this…” “But we didn’t, though, did we.”). It makes sense, though, since The Extinction was closer to Martin’s own storyline and the time he spent researching it in season 4, and the fact that, both in MAG174 and MAG175, we’ve seen he still had frustrations regarding that whole arc of his:

(MAG174) SIMON: But I’m not one to tell you how to live your eternity. MARTIN: … No. You’re not. Because I’m done listening to you! SIMON: I’m sorry? I’m not sure I follow. MARTIN: All those lies you told me… You helped to do this, you turned the world into your… your playground! SIMON: Hum… Not to be a pedant, but if you recall, I was actually doing a favour for Peter. And if Peter had won, none of this would have happened. Also, not to make excuses but they weren’t exactly lies, just… oversimplifications of complicated truths! And guesses. … A lot of guesses. [FOOTSTEPS] … A–almost all guesses really, now I come to think about it. MARTIN: Shut up! I don’t care. SIMON: Goodness! We’re rather tetchy, aren’t we?

(MAG175) MARTIN: [TINY SIGH] So Peter was lying. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] To a degree. But, mostly, he was just like anyone else who tried to take the scope of human terror and… package it neatly into little theories. All his talk of “emergence” and “birthing a new power”… it’s just people being scared.

… Mainly: Martin feeling cheated, feeling like he had been manipulated and lied to both by Peter and Simon. I’m glad that his own feelings are resurfacing a bit lately, because he has reasons to feel angry of his own…

(- There is also Elias, in the list of people who lied/misled him: Martin had gone to ask him whether or not Peter was telling the truth in MAG138, and Elias had pushed him in that direction. Martin doesn’t have to hate Elias “only” for the pain he inflicted on Jon and for destroying the world – Elias made Martin a cog in his scheme to bring forth the apocalypse, and that’s enough to warrant Martin’s wrath. In that exchange:

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: … I don’t know how kindly any god would look upon what we’ve done. [SILENCE] MARTIN: … Thanks for that. [SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: … Sorry.

I wonder whether Martin felt attacked because he was seeking comfort in the idea of a benevolent divinity (and was denied it, because humanity as a whole has done… too many awful things), or because he personally felt that “we” as including (Jon and) him specifically – as an unwilling participant in the mechanism that ended up bringing the apocalypse, separating the Archives Team and preventing them to deal with Peter&Elias together and ultimately used to lure Jon into The Lonely?)

- Overall, I really liked the talk about religion:

(MAG175) MARTIN: … Jon. ARCHIVIST: What? MARTIN: … Do you know if… like… gods, religion, the afterlife, all that stuff. Do you know if any of that was real? ARCHIVIST: … Really rolling out the big questions today! MARTIN: [CHUCKLING] Sorry! It’s just… [WET SQUEAK] This place just brings it out in me, I guess. [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: … If there is a god, or gods, or an existence beyond this world… The Eye can’t see it. It sees the fear of it, but… nothing of its truth. [SILENCE] MARTIN: So… is that a no…? ARCHIVIST: It’s an “I don’t know” – although… [INHALE] People’s faith… [EXHALE] It hasn’t saved them. Not here. MARTIN: … True. ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] Why do you ask? Didn’t think you were at all religious. MARTIN: Oh, I’m not. [WET SQUEAK] Mum was, but I… I–I don’t know. With everything going on, it… certainly feels less far-fetched…! Besides, at this point, I’d take any help we can get. ARCHIVIST: … I don’t know how kindly any god would look upon what we’ve done.

Because it didn’t exclude the idea that any god(s) existed – the show is not claiming prerogative to answer that question – and provided an explanation for Jon not knowing that in a way that made sense in-universe. Jon deals in information linked to fears, not in absolute and metaphysical truths, and so he only has hypotheses to provide in that area.

I also love how ;; It really fits for Martin’s mom to have been religious but him being less categorical. Goes well with his overall sense of guilt, especially when it comes to his mother, uh?

Also, SOB that Adelard was probably in Martin’s mind since:

(MAG157) “This is the last time you will hear from me. You must trust me on that and not come looking. Not that you would; I know you’re too smart for sentimentality, especially after what I have to tell you, but I feel it worth saying nonetheless. Perhaps I’m simply prevaricating, trying to cling on to a few more precious minutes of life – but that’s not me. I know what awaits me, and must have no hesitation in going to my reward. [SCOFF] I know you’ve never had much patience for my faith, but perhaps it will provide you some small peace knowing I face my death gladly, knowing I have done my duty before God.”

We don’t know whether Martin was made aware of this statement (it was sent to Jon), but Martin had read MAG156’s statement in which Adelard had referred to his faith, so he knew Adelard was religious. Setting-wise: they were crossing an Extinction domain, and the previous Extinction “specialist” had ultimately died with the conviction and peace of mind that he would join the afterlife with his God… so I’m guessing that case was probably dwelling in Martin’s mind. (And potentially: whether his mother was also likely to have reached peace.)

- Jon reaaally tried to answer that question about religion, since he used his powers – we could hear static:

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: If I try, [STATIC RISES] I can… see the edges of reality, but… I can’t hold its full scope in my mind. [STATIC DECREASES] MARTIN: And beyond it? ARCHIVIST: Beyond what? Reality? [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] MARTIN: … Yeah. [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I don’t know! Maybe nothing. [STATIC FADES] [WET SQUEAK] MARTIN: … Jon. ARCHIVIST: What? MARTIN: … Do you know if… like… gods, religion, the afterlife, all that stuff. Do you know if any of that was real? ARCHIVIST: … Really rolling out the big questions today! MARTIN: [CHUCKLING] Sorry! It’s just… [WET SQUEAK] This place just brings it out in me, I guess. [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: … If there is a god, or gods, or an existence beyond this world… The Eye can’t see it. It sees the fear of it, but… nothing of its truth. [STATIC FADES] [SILENCE] MARTIN: So… is that a no…?

It also came with a few reminders regarding his powers. Jon had already pointed out multiple times that he can’t see the future:

(MAG164) MARTIN: And will she? ARCHIVIST: I–I don’t know, th–the future, th–that’s… that’s not something I can see.

(MAG169) MARTIN: Oh, it’s not just your revenge though, is it? Destroying her… it would help all those people in there, wouldn’t it? ARCHIVIST: … Maybe? It’s… [INHALE] Like I said, I can’t see the future. It wouldn’t free them, if that’s what you’re asking. “Free” doesn’t really exist in this place.

(MAG175) MARTIN: What would have happened, was… was all that fear justified? [SHUFFLING] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I can’t know the future, Martin, not even a hypothetical one.

And that The Eye’s powers are limited and fundamentally biased:

(MAG140) ARCHIVIST: … Why am I always the last to know about these things? BASIRA: By this point, I just assume the Eyeball tells you. ARCHIVIST: That would imply it tells me anything useful. But no, I’m stuck knowing [STATIC] how your year eight PE teacher died.

(MAG154) ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] Hm. [SIGH] I’ve, uh… I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, after what happened with Daisy last week. About… what I can do. What I am. What feels… right. I’ve found a– [SIGH] I went back to Eli– er, Peter’s office. To that box of tapes; started rifling through. And I started to try and pay attention to the ones I… wasn’t drawn to. The tapes I instinctively wanted to discard. [SIGH] There was one, this one, that my hand… pulled back from. I–I dropped it, twice, when I went to pick it up. Even now, I’m… [AUDIBLE FORCED SMILE] struggling to press play…! I am the avatar of Awful Knowledge And Revealed Secrets… so what does it not want me to know…? [LONG SIGH]

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: Martin, I have the whole scope of human knowledge available to me and… [SIGH] I’d struggle to give you a simple answer to most of this stuff. And even if I am omniscient, I’m starting to realise that… doesn’t mean objective. [WET SQUEAK] MARTIN: Hm. … [SIGH] I guess it’s hard not to bring your own baggage to this sort of thing. ARCHIVIST: I don’t know if it could even exist without the baggage…! You want to talk about psychological projection, try viewing the metaphysical world through the lens of a being that is, by its very nature, a reflection of your own obsessions and fears.

So mmmm… Are we heading towards a confirmation that Jon feeling like he can’t do anything “positive” or “better” is directly caused by The Eye limiting the perception he has of his own options, like The Eye had tried to prevent him from listening to Eric’s tape which informed of a way to cut ties with The Eye?

- … I do disagree with Martin that Jon was beginning to sound like Simon, because REALLY, he sounded a LOT like Oliver:

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: “You know, of course, where I am. But know that, even you, will all your power, cannot keep the world alive forever. All – things – end, and every step you take, whatever direction you may choose… only brings you closer to it.”

(MAG175) MARTIN: So you don’t think it would have been the end of the world? ARCHIVIST: “The end of the world”…! Now there’s a concept. Everything ends, I suppose. [SHUFFLING] Even this place. Can’t last forever. Eventually… it will die as well. MARTIN: … You’re starting to sound like Simon.

For someone who can’t see the future, Jon really seems to have ingrained Oliver’s ideas of The End: that it would win, that it would catch up on everyone, that it had to happen to exist as a fear. As soon as the end of MAG168, Jon had accepted Oliver’s idea that the victims of his domains would indeed die as announced (“I feel badly for those that exist in his domain, o–of course, I do, but… At least, their suffering will be over, eventually.”) although… it had not been demonstrated?

So if we’re talking about biases: did Oliver’s conviction contaminate Jon and is it currently making Jon believe his stance? Because Oliver was convinced that The End would kill… but he’s an avatar of his patron. Of course he’ll believe in its all-powerfulness. It doesn’t mean it’s true.

- Amongst the lighter stuff, I’m laughing that Martin has now learned to weaponise the fact that distances and the laws of time&space escape him — which was usually played against him, and Jon even teased him about his difficulty understanding…

(MAG163) MARTIN: … Oh, I’m knackered. ARCHIVIST: Are you? [FOOTSTEPS STOP] MARTIN: I– … Hm. … Well. Okay, well, no, no, I suppose not; but, I–I think I should be. ARCHIVIST: Yup! MARTIN: How long have we been walking? ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] Fourteen hours and… twenty-three minutes. MARTIN: What, seriously? ARCHIVIST: Yes. I… don’t think it means much out here, though. MARTIN: We should… probably rest. ARCHIVIST: Maybe. I… I don’t know, I– … I don’t know if we can – “rest”. It feels more like… hm, “waiting”. MARTIN: [SIGH] […] ARCHIVIST: [DISTANT] Try to keep up! MARTIN: Yeah, yeah…

(MAG164) MARTIN: How much further do we still need to go? [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: A long way. Through many dark and awful places…

(MAG167) MARTIN: Anyway, my “flesh prison” [CHUCKLE] would like to stop for a bit. How far until the next… “domain”? ARCHIVIST: A while. If you want to stop, it’s as good a place as any. MARTIN: Nah, I just… need a moment. [SIGH] One where I’m not just… relentlessly pushing forward. ARCHIVIST: [LONG EXHALE] Alright. We can stop.

(MAG174) MARTIN: [SIGH] … [BAG JOSTLING] Is it much further? ARCHIVIST: [SMALL CHUCKLE] Yes. MARTIN: Urgh…! ARCHIVIST: I’m not entirely sure what you were expecting, it’s The Vast. The clue is in the name! MARTIN: Yes, alright…! ARCHIVIST: Just be glad that this is one of the domains that actually has ground to walk on. MARTIN: Whatever. [DISTANT LOW-PITCHED IMPACT, FOLLOWED BY GUSTS OF WIND] S–so how far are we from the other side? And–and don’t say time and space don’t work here, that’s a cop-out and you know it. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] Fine! Three days. MARTIN: Thank you. [SILENCE] … Wait. Wait, what counts as a day? ARCHIVIST: [CHUCKLING] What an excellent question! MARTIN: Oh my go–! You can be infuriating sometimes, you know that?

… — to take his well-deserved break this time:

(MAG175) MARTIN: You know what? [FOOTSTEPS STOP] I am sitting down. ARCHIVIST: [CHUCKLE] Are you… sure, that thing is… That’s not in great shape. MARTIN: Neither am I. I have been on my feet for a literally uncountable amount of time.

He’s right! He has learned! They’ve indeed been walking for a “literally uncountable amount of time” <3

- Loved the couch, loved the scene overall:

(MAG175) [FOOTSTEPS] [BAG JOSTLING] [SHUFFLING] [CREAKING, WITH DAMP SPLOSHES] MARTIN: Mmhph… ARCHIVIST: [CLIPPED] How is it? MARTIN: … Great…! It’s great. [WET SQUEAK] Lovely couch. ARCHIVIST: Right. Well. Rest up, I suppose…! [SILENCE] MARTIN: It’s two-seater…! ARCHIVIST: Yes it is! [WET SQUEAK] … Hard pass. Thank you. [AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] [SILENCE] [WET SQUEAK]

* You could SEE Martin’s blank face, dying inside, regretting his choice with his “great”.

* The “splosh” sounds whenever Martin was moving were absolutely AWFUL =D

* Jon probably knew exactly what that couch was made of.

* Jon, you COWARD, you could have sat in his lap!! (I thought it was the case since there was some shuffling and their voices sounded closer afterwards, but no, Anil-confirmed that Jon stayed standing, aww.)

- Iiiiii wonder whether Jon being keen to give Martin his break had to do with him already knowing that Daisy&Basira were close. ;;

- Okay, so. It’s coming. We already know that Daisy’s case was… not good, Jon already knew that it had gotten worse and that Basira had been pulled into it:

(MAG160) MARTIN: Some–somehow, I don’t think Daisy will be worried about “jurisdictions”…! ARCHIVIST: I– [SIGH] I don’t think she’d come here. [RATTLING SOUND] Doesn’t look like this place has been used for years. MARTIN: [POINTEDLY] And if she does? ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] … Well. At least, we’ll know where she is. MARTIN: Wh…! [NERVOUS CHUCKLE] ARCHIVIST: Besides, I’m more worried about the other Hunters. Or the… “Sasha”-thing. Last I heard, they still hadn’t found any bodies. [INHALE] A lot of destruction, a lot of blood… [EXHALE] But that’s it. [MORE WOOD SOUNDS] MARTIN: … You think they’re still out there. [SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: Hopefully a long way out there. … But I think we’re okay.

(MAG164) MARTIN: Okay – okay, okay, ‘kay, let’s… let’s try something a little bigger, then. ARCHIVIST: [EXHALE] Alright. [SILENCE] MARTIN: Is Basira alive? ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] MARTIN: Is she… in… o–one of these places? [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: She’s alive. Out there, not… trapped in a–a hellscape, but… moving. [STATIC DECREASES] Hunting. She’s… she’s looking for Daisy. She’s a few steps behind. MARTIN: And Daisy? [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: Bestial. Brutal. [STATIC DECREASES] [INHALE] Carving her way through the domains of other Powers, following the scent of blood. … Oh, Daisy, I’m sorry… MARTIN: What’s Basira going to do? [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: She… thinks she’s going to kill Daisy. Like she promised. [STATIC DECREASES] But she’s conflicted. MARTIN: And will she? ARCHIVIST: I–I don’t know, th–the future, th–that’s… that’s not something I can see. MARTIN: O–kay. Good to know.

(MAG175) MARTIN: [SIGH] Let’s get out of here. This place is making me a bit too… existential. [WET SQUEAK] [SHUFFLING] ARCHIVIST: Wait. MARTIN: What? ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] Where we’re going, the, uh… the next “domain”, I… I’ve been meaning to tell you, but it’s… well… [NEW ROUND OF AIR RAID SIREN IN THE BACKGROUND] MARTIN: Spit it out, Jon. ARCHIVIST: Basira and Daisy. We’re close. MARTIN: Wait, what? Wait, really? B– Th–that’s brilliant! What are we waiting for, let’s go! ARCHIVIST: Uh, y–yeah, i–it’s… It’s not… it’s not going to be easy, things aren’t… good. MARTIN: Oh my goodness, really? And here was me thinking the apocalypse was going oh-so-swimmingly! ARCHIVIST: Yes, alright, I just meant… MARTIN: I–I know what you meant! I can still be keen to see our friends! ARCHIVIST: … True. MARTIN: Besides, we can help them now. [SHUFFLING] [FOOTSTEPS] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] Yeah. [SILENCE] [BAG JOSTLING] … Yeah.

* I’m having both fluffy feelings and sigh-worthy feelings regarding Martin saying he has “friends” because:

(MAG170) MARTIN: You, you are Martin Blackwood; yes. You–you didn’t choose to be here. Jon is coming. I am Martin Blackwood, and I am not lonely anymore, I am not lonely anymore! [SHAKY BREATHING] I want to have friends, I… no, I have friends. I’m… I’m in love, eh! I am in love, and I will not forget that, I will – not – forget.

;; Are you sure, honey.

Though, technically: Melanie had listened to him and calmed down in MAG118, following his plan. Basira trusted him a bit towards the end of season 4 and had been a bit softer towards him with the death of his mother. Daisy and him managed to talk in MAG142 (although Martin had to reject her and deny that they were getting along due to Peter’s presence two episodes later). There were embryos of something, I… kinda hope we could see that flourish?

- My hypothesis regarding Daisy&Basira would be: Daisy still a savage beast (like we heard during The Unknowing, pre-Coffin, and when she turned back into one again in MAG158). She might still be after Julia and/or Trevor, depending if they were still alive (we know, at least, that their bodies weren’t found by the police and since the Not!Them was still Not!Sasha, it hadn’t taken either of them). Basira’s degree of “freedom” is a big question: is she able to not be tied to a domain thanks to her connection to The Eye? Or is the pursuit of Daisy, never-ending, torturing her with the promise she made to Daisy to kill her, a Hunt domain by itself? The Hunt is about the chase, and the “innocent” pursuit turning people into Hunters has been a reoccurring thing, so… Basira could have been taken over / “imprisoned” by and in Daisy’s hunt?

- Whether someone dies soon (there… are huge red flags for Daisy, she asked to be killed when she lost herself 18 episodes ago and she had an arc about her own choice and accountability in season 4), I can’t help but think that we’re getting Team Archive members soon? It’s been established that Jon is limited by his own perceptions, and Martin has been considering and clinging to the idea of help:

(MAG164) MARTIN: But I actually meant the whole… being friends thing? I mean, I don’t see why– ARCHIVIST: Martin, she’s… a cruel… vicious monster! MARTIN: Yes. Yes, she is. But who else is there? ARCHIVIST: [SIGH]

(MAG166) MARTIN: Just, what do you want? ANNABELLE: I want to help you, of course. [SILENCE] MARTIN: … No. Thank you. ANNABELLE: It’s a hard place to find yourself in, maybe I can be of some… assistance…! MARTIN: You can assist me by giving the… “creepy phone” thing a rest…! ANNABELLE: He is more powerful here than he’s ever been, isn’t he? [PAUSE] And you’re not sure what that means for you. MARTIN: [INHALE] I’m hanging up now.

What Jon and Martin would need is probably… other perspectives. There is still Helen running around (and she has the means to follow Basira too, the same way she can follow Jon&Martin, since Basira also traversed the Distortion’s corridors to return to the Institute after MAG135); Melanie&Georgie are somewhere (at the Panopticon already? On the other side of the crack at Hill Top Road? Hidden within Helen’s corridors?); and now Basira&Daisy’s hunt might come to a close. Daisy doesn’t have a lot of chances to survive, but I don’t think we’re done with Basira, given how she got the worst of it during season 4 (she wasn’t the only one getting manipulated by Elias, but unlike Jon, she didn’t achieve any small victories; she didn’t manage to protect anyone at all).

There is only The Spiral and The Hunt left when it comes to domains, both could get crammed into MAG176 since some of their agents are roaming around a bit more freely and we’re entering the hiatus afterwards (it could be a way to make Arc I the journey through the domains, and reaching the Panopticon starting Act II), so… we’ll see. Arc I could end with Daisy’s death, with a reunion, or with Helen pulling someone into her corridors by force ;;

We have currently a big opposition between Jon’s cautiousness, slight despair, and conviction that he can’t help anyone; and Martin’s hope (sometimes expressing itself as frustration) that they could do something positive, that Jon’s powers could help them. So far, it feels like Jon’s stance has been winning, as he demonstrated to Martin that there was “no better”.

But: it’s also true that Martin managed to pull himself out of the Lonely House’s influence with the tape recorder’s and Jon’s combined help. Jon has been revealed to be able to eradicate avatars/monsters with his ability to turn the Fearful into the Afraid. Jon had previously managed to use his compulsion as a way to free someone from a Fear’s influence: he compelled Tim to centre him and made him aware of reality in MAG119, and he made Martin see him in MAG159. So… there is still a tiny tiny hope that he could do something positive regarding Daisy (even if Basira still has to kill her afterwards).

I LIKED DAISY POST-COFFIN, I’ve never been expecting her to Live Forever with the crimes and abominations she committed, I still don’t expect her to survive for long anyway, but I’m not ready to see her goooo ;___;

- … last point is “????” and “!!!!” and I wanted to put emphasis on it, because.

THERE WAS A SOUND BETWEEN THE TWO TAPE-SEQUENCES IN THIS EP???

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] Right…! [CLICK.] [TINY SHUFFLING] [CLICK–] [FOOTSTEPS, PUNCTUATED BY SOME JINGLING AND CLATTER] MARTIN: You know what? [FOOTSTEPS STOP] I am sitting down.

That’s new and ???? – usually, there is only the… void? A bass sound, but nothing else.

But there was definitely some shuffling in-between, and WHAT WAS IT?? I’m not excluding that it could be an editing mistake (Jon&Martin’s footsteps beginning a few seconds earlier, for example, without the crunch of the ground), but if it’s not and it was intentional… is this confirming that we-the-listener are listening alongside someone listening to the tape after the recordings, and not during the recordings themselves? The beginning of MAG079 had hinted at that, with Martin’s pre-recorded poem getting written over by Tim&Martin’s recording (+ the overall fact that we hear the [CLICK] of the tapes: if we were only listening to the sound of the tapes, we wouldn’t hear the tape recorders clicking on and off, since that is not a sound that we can hear on the magnetic band itself). Who is listening? Why would we hear them now? Are we coming closer to an answer or a big hint about that…?

  … MAG176’s title definitely puts Daisy, Hunters and/or more generally The Hunt to mind, and Daisy’s struggle during the second half of season 4. Regarding the more “classic” meaning, though: is it about Daisy&Basira’s relationship? Is it about the “statement” of the domain (if there is one), in a biological meaning?

[theonewiththefanfics]

The Pain Of Love (one-shot)

Synopsys: Bucky is a reckless show off when it comes to missions, but when thing go too far, it might lead the Reader and him either broken or closer than ever.

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Genre: angst, fluff

Warnings: swearing, mentions of blood, Bucky feelin down :(

Word count: 2375

   In the world of the twenty-first century, Bucky Barnes was known as a lot of things. He was the ruthless Winter Soldier, Hydra’s puppet and their right fist. He was the broken man out of his time with a mind in shambles as he barely held onto sanity. He was the heroic sergeant who gave his life away protecting the country he loved most. He was also Captain America’s best friend from the beginning until the end of the line. But to Y/N Y/L/N he was the insufferable, arrogant always smug and smirking boyfriend.    Right now the pair was on a jet flying back to New York while Y/N was crouched on her knees between Bucky’s legs as she stitched up a large gash on his side. He poked her cheek, grabbing the girl’s attention.    “You’re adorable when you’re angry.”    She could only huff in frustration and had to remind herself not to tug on the string too harshly.    “I’m far from angry, James.”    “Oh,” he let out a small laugh, “my real name. I must be in trouble.”    The cold look he got from Y/N was unnerving. Usually, she went along with his teasing, sometimes even rendering the man speechless with her quick wit, but this was not the case. It made his stomach churn and the smile falter.    “Angry is when I get when Sam wakes me up at four AM to go for a run. Angry is how I feel when Natasha takes off on a mission and doesn’t give me a note she won’t be there for our obligatory movie night. Angry is how I become when you just brutally rip my underwear off and don’t think twice that it’s fucking expensive. But right now I’m furious.”

   Y/N didn’t elaborate further, wanting to torture the man as much as possible. She pulled the little knot together and snipped off the medical thread. Finally, she stood up and went to the pilot’s seat. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, hoping to calm down her still racing heart. And even though she wanted nothing more than to cry hysterically the Avenger kept her tears at bay. Bucky would immediately wrap his arms around her body, comforting his girl and her composure would crumble to pieces, but it was his fault Y/N was in such a predicament.    Reckless, he’d been reckless and because of that, it had almost cost him his life. He’d gotten too cocky, said he could handle everything on his own when a hundred agents swarmed around the ex-Winter Soldier and this time they weren’t there to take him back alive. It was kill or be killed. And that idiot had refused to call for backup. It was only when Y/N had gotten out of the base had she seen the true state of the mission.    With his side bleeding, Bucky was still fighting off at least two dozen agents, but the paleness of his face told the girl he was just about to lose. Too much blood had already stained the bright green grass, turning the ground a muddled brown.    Precise headshots were delivered to the Hydra goons and Bucky turned to her with a relieved smile before collapsing. Y/N had never felt such fear, such all-consuming despair when using all of her strength the woman hauled her boyfriend's body up, his arm around her shoulder and pulled the barely conscious man towards the jet. His super soldier serum had enhanced the healing rate, but it was still alarming how bad the wound was.    “Doll?” Bucky had pulled on a clean shirt, having rid himself of the dirty clothes, contrary to how Y/N looked, still covered in grime. He’d never seen his girl so enraged, never with him. “Look I’m sorry, but I had it covered. Besides, I wasn’t that worried. I know you always have my back, just as I have yours.”    Her grip on the handles tightened, so much it turned her knuckles not white, but almost completely translucent to the point Bucky feared either the metal underneath her palms would break or bones would poke out of the skin.    But she didn’t reply, instead, the woman kept her gaze fixated onto the orange sky, the sun slowly disappearing down beneath the horizon, little stars already gleaming through, telling them it was going to be a clear night. Y/N didn’t answer to any soft plea, nor did she even grace him with a look. Bucky was becoming desperate to hear at least one word from her, but all he got was the girl's rigid form staring straight out and not seeing anything really.    For three hours they flew in an agonising silence before landing in the tower. Y/N swiftly unbuckled the belt and stood up, harshly wrenching her hand away when Bucky tried to grab her wrist.    “Doll, talk to me, this is ridiculous.”    But she didn’t, only quickened her pace walking towards the laundry room.    “Y/N, stop acting like a child. It was just a scrape. I’m fine! It’s already healed!”    “Just because your arm is indestructible, doesn’t mean you are! Hell, not even that is true when Tony has to fix bugs in it every other week,” Y/N sighed, pinching her nose before looking up at Bucky. “I’m sleeping in my room tonight. And probably for the rest of the week.”    “Come on, doll, don’t be like-“    “Like what, Bucky? Worried? Stressed out of my mind? Completely and utterly petrified when I see the man I’m in love with, bleeding out on a field and he has the nerve to call me adorable while I’m trying to keep his insides from spilling onto the floor?” it was a loud yell, but slowly her voice trailed off, cracking with the last words. “Do I mean that little to you? Does our relationship mean nothing? Did you even think about how I would feel? What losing you would do to me?”    The pain in Y/N’s voice shattered Bucky’s heart. He reached out to her, but she just shook her head walking down the hallway towards her own private quarters. That’s when the waterworks started. With her back pressed against the white door, she slid down onto the ground and just cried, didn’t even bother to muffle the sounds with her palm.    On her own, she stripped of the tactical uniform, noting how most of her left side was covered by a giant purplish bruise, that seemed to only darken with every passing second. Y/N dragged her body, still raked by sobs to the shower and stepped inside. Usually, she and Bucky would stand under the warm stream and just hold one another, massaging out the knots that had appeared in their back and the tight muscles before releasing stress in a different much pleasurable way, with his lips on her neck and her eyes closed, soft moan slipping from her lips as nails dragged across his perfectly sculpted form. But that night she was alone.    Alone she went to bed, alone she cried in her pillows and alone she was dragged under by sleep when two doors down Bucky was the same, only his pain was multiplied by the horrific thought she would never return by his side.

***

   “Tony, I need a vacation,” Y/N said entering the kitchen. She felt Bucky’s eyes look up and noted the caution in his words as he spoke.    “We’re we going, doll?” a small hopeful smile pulled at the corners of his lips.    She had to sigh before facing the man. The girl had given him the silent treatment for the past week, but even after seven days apart, after seven days of not sleeping beside him, without his touch and smell, the vivid image of his bleeding body didn’t leave her.    “I said ‘I’ need a vacation. Alone.”    Bucky hung his head, eyes watering at her proclamation, but he wasn’t going to let on how much it really hurt. He listened in on Y/N’s and Tony’s quiet conversation, and when they were done, he followed the woman down back to her room.    “Y/N, please. What can I do to make it better?”    “Nothing, Bucky. There’s nothing you can do right now to change how I feel.” She continued walking away before his next question made her stop dead in the tracks.    “Are you breaking up with me?” His voice was so desperate, so full of sorrow and pain her own heart clenched to the point it felt like it would stop beating.    “Honestly, Bucky? I don’t know. On one hand, there is nothing more I want to do than wrap my arms around you and kiss you breathless… but on the other… it’s like what we have means jack shit. The way you put yourself in danger without a disregard for me or your safety is worse than a slap to my face. I just need to get away from you, from the compound, from everything before I say or do something I’ll regret.”    It was the hardest thing Y/N had done, just turning away once more from Bucky, but she knew that her resolve was crumbling. Her body ached for his touch and her mind screamed to let him hold her. There was nothing she wanted more than to jump in his arm, wrap her legs around his waist and let him carry her to his room and spend the rest of the day ravishing one another. Yet anytime she closed her lids there was Bucky slowly bleeding out on the ground.    Her heels echoed in the empty corridor as she left him standing alone.

***    As a kid, Y/N had always wanted to visit the Maldives. To swim in the cerulean water and bathe under the sun, go snorkelling and simply explore the mysteries of the ocean. But now, as the warm evening winds gently made her hair flutter through the air, the peace she thought she would find was overshadowed by the incredible heartache.    Two days she had spent in paradise, yet without Bucky, the beauty of the place was lost to her. Until he did arrive. Y/N’s head turned to the side, towards the invading sound of sand rustling underneath someone’s boots.    “Was wondering when you’d show up,” she mumbled quietly as he sat down next to her. He kept a little bit of a distance, even though he physically hurt all over without her touch.    “You expected me to come?”    The girl snorted, looking back to the lapping waves. “You were never one to follow orders.”    They remained silent, just watching as the sun slowly disappeared behind the ocean before he couldn’t take the tension anymore and spoke up.    “I’m sorry I hurt you. That I didn’t call for backup when you said for me to do so.”    Y/N pressed her cheek against her curled up knees and hugged her body, desperately wishing it was Bucky’s warm hold around her.    “I’m not mad that you didn’t call for help even in such a dire situation. I’m hurt that you think you mean so little to me. That seeing you in the littlest amount of pain doesn’t devastate me, that it doesn’t rip my heart out and makes me wish I could bear it for you.”    Bucky let tears slip down his cheeks at Y/N’s words, at her sincerity and how much she truly loved him. He took a deep breath before he gathered courage and let every thought finally out in the open.    “I’ve never thought I was worth much. Not after what I- what the Winter Soldier did… I never thought I would get redemption or even the chance at a normal life, but then you walked in it. With those big Y/E/C eyes and that gorgeous gorgeous smile. Right when we met, you came straight towards me and hugged the living daylights out. I… I had never felt so warm and safe in my life. And I knew I'd never be good enough for you. Darling, you deserve someone so much better... Someone without such a heavy baggage... I feel like I need to prove myself. To you, to the world. That I’m worthy, that I have changed and can do good. I just want you to be proud when standing next to me.” His head fell down, face buried in calloused palms, as violent sobs shook his body.    “Buck,” Y/N whispered grasping onto his wrist and went to straddle his lap. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to me, not to Steve, not to the world. You’re the strongest man I know with the biggest and kindest heart. Yes, you drive me nuts like no one else, but I love you. I love you and your sass, every ounce of this muscle,” she said squeezing his bicep, “that mind of yours, that you keep referring to as broken,” gentle fingers carded through the long locks. “I don’t need you to act like a fool so you can prove you’re a hero. Everyone can see it just because you’re moving on, making friends… falling in love,” Y/N uttered the last three words so quietly the waves by their feet carried them away. “You are a hero just because you broke out from Hydra’s control. You’re not their puppet anymore. You’re a free man. And you’re my reckless, stupid, infuriating boyfriend I can’t imagine my life without. I am proud of you. So so proud. About every single thing you’ve accomplished.”    Her touch set Bucky’s body ablaze, but the soothing caress of her palm, as it cupped his cheek and wiped away a stream of tears enveloped him like a warm hug.    “I love you, James Buchanan Barnes. And unfortunately, I’ll keep on loving even when I want nothing more than to strangle you, because my life would be so much duller, so much… less… than it is when you’re by my side.”    A choked back laugh passed the man’s lips and for the first time in more than a week, the pain in his heart evaporated leaving only remnants of pure love matching that of Y/N’s. "I don't deserve you, doll.'' "You deserve me and so much more," she said before kissing Bucky and remedying all the broken pieces.    

Tags (crossed out wouldn't take): @lumelgy @palaiasaurus64 @supernaturalbaesduh @breezy1415 @pizzarollpatrol @crazy--me @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @sea040561 @staryeyedgirl @deathbyarabbit @s-c-a-r-e-d-po-t-t-e-r @reblogger-not-a-blogger @m-a-t-91 @dalilx @i-need-a-hero-i-need-a-loki @maladaptive-ninja-returns @averyrogers83 @in-the-end-im-still-trash @nerissa98 @happyseagrill @asguardiansoftheavengers @crazybutconfidentaf @thunderous-flower @who-cares-rn @projectxhappiness @callmebucky-doll @coal000 @killuaenthusiast @courtneychicken @sophiealiice @raquelbc2003 @watch-out-for-thorns @potentially-kinetic @thatonegirljessy99 @proxinge @bbkenna @buckysclub @ulired @fangirlofeverythingbasically @mrsalh32611 @horrorx570ximagines @the-nargles-made-me-do-it @pooslie @itsisabelanotisabella @httpmcrvel @gallifreyansass

A/N: just wanted to write some sweet fluffy angsty Bucky :)

P.S. please tell me what you think :)

P.S.S. if you wanna be tagged or have any requests, drop a message ;)

[marblelover-ofliberty]

a stoic mind and a bleeding heart iv

Once they were out of the villa complex and a little way down the road, he held his hand out for Enjolras’.

Enjolras’ face lit up, looking at Grantaire like he’d just offered him the answer for world peace. He laced their fingers together and brought his hand up to his mouth to press a kiss against the back of it.

Grantaire smiled to himself, feeling suddenly lighter. “So, shall we get your coffee first?” he asked.

“Ah, but then I will have to carry it around all afternoon, non?” Enjolras said with a little laugh. “Did you want to look at pool floats? Maybe we should come up with a plan of attack.”

“We’d have to carry those round all afternoon too,” Grantaire pointed out, laughing as well.

“Oui, but if we wander, have an early dinner, then go shopping, we won’t have that problem.”

“Fine, fine,” Grantaire said. “That’s a plan. What sort of pool things are you thinking?”

“I have always envied people with those huge flamingo floats,” Enjolras said, managing to keep a straight face. “Or the giant doughnuts.”

“No way,” Grantaire said; it was impossible not to laugh.

Enjolras bit the inside of his cheek to keep from cracking. “Can’t you imagine me lounging on a giant flamingo?”

“All too clearly - that’s the issue.”

Enjolras finally laughed, absolutely delighted. “It’s settled. We’re looking for a flamingo.”

“Oh, dieu… I won’t live this down among everyone else, t’sais.”

“They’ll be jealous of our flamingo. You watch, they’ll be using it the rest of the summer.”

“Oui, I have no doubt they will,” Grantaire laughed.

“You’ll become the most popular boy in the whole villa,” Enjolras teased, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

“I’m already the most popular boy in the whole villa,” Grantaire teased back, squeezing his hand.

Enjolras laughed. “You always were the biggest personality in the room.”

Grantaire snorted. “Is that a diplomatic way of saying I’ve always been a gigantic pain in the ass?”

“You’re only a pain in my ass,” Enjolras said, smiling at him. “Everyone else finds you quite charming.”

“It should be the other way around!”

“That I should find you charming and everyone else thinks you’re a pain in the ass?”

“Ouais!”

“You’d rather have only me find you charming than the masses?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the only one who matters?”

“Am I?”

“Aren’t you?” Grantaire teased, raising his eyebrows at him.

Enjolras breathed a laugh. “I know what the answer is for me, but I can’t answer that for you.”

Grantaire hit him lightly with the back of his hand.

Enjolras smiled, letting go of his hand to wrap his arm around his shoulders, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“This is nice,” Grantaire said softly, slipping an arm around his waist in return.

“Ouais, it is,” Enjolras agreed, holding Grantaire a little closer. “I was nervous about coming out here.”

“I was nervous about you coming out here,” Grantaire laughed.

“You should’ve told me,” Enjolras said with a laugh. “We could’ve been nervous together.”

“It would’ve ruined my image,” Grantaire joked.

Enjolras grinned. “Your image is already ruined with me.”

“Ah, merci, merci. I appreciate that.”

“Ah, come on,” Enjolras said with a laugh. “It’s nice to have someone who knows you, non?”

“Ouais, ouais,” Grantaire said, waving a dismissive hand.

Enjolras squeezed Grantaire’s shoulders, leaning in to kiss his cheek and marveling over the fact he could do that at all. “I still think you are very tough.”

Grantaire laughed and pulled him over into a quiet corner, away from watchful eyes, so he could lean up and kiss him properly.

“Dieu,” Enjolras murmured, scarcely breaking from the kiss, his hands curling into Grantaire’s hair to keep him close. “I’ll tell you you’re tough all day if this is what I get for it.”

Grantaire laughed again, breaking the kiss. He slipped his arm around Enjolras, leading him back out onto the street. “Come on, come on,” he said.

Enjolras groaned, allowing Grantaire to lead him off but slumping dramatically against him. “I forgot how cruel you are.”

“I just wanted a kiss!” Grantaire protested.

Enjolras laughed, straightening up and wrapping his arm around his waist. “You could have just kissed me.”

“Could I?” Grantaire teased.

“I would have stooped down for you,” Enjolras said, smiling at him.

“You could do that now,” Grantaire pointed out.

“Oui, but would you kiss me? Or would I just look like I was doing an impression of the Hunchback of Notre Dame?”

Grantaire snorted a laugh. “Would I kiss you,” he said, rendering the question ridiculous by repeating it.

Enjolras laughed. “You pulled me out of the street to kiss me, I don’t think that’s a silly question.”

Grantaire leaned up and kissed his cheek. “It’s the silliest question I’ve ever heard.”

“If that’s one of your boundaries, it’s okay,” Enjolras said, suddenly serious. “If you don’t want big public displays of affection. I’m okay with that.”

Grantaire sobered too. “I just don’t know how… safe it is around here,” he said, shrugging one shoulder.

“Oh,” Enjolras said with a frown, glancing around their surroundings. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Grantaire said. “I’m just wary.”

“What about when we’re back in Paris?”

“I guess that depends on how much we tell Les Amis,” Grantaire said thoughtfully. “I don’t care who sees us apart from that.”

Enjolras nodded, chewing on his bottom lip for a moment while he thought about it. “How much do you want to tell them?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Let’s not worry about it now, ah?”

Enjolras would worry about it, but he nodded in agreement anyway. “So, where’s this fountain?”

“Ah, it’s just along here,” Grantaire said, brightening as he picked up the pace a little. “It’s massive. Totally incongruous.”

Enjolras breathed a laugh, falling into step beside him. “The fountain will not move, chéri, you don’t need to run.”

“Spoil sport,” Grantaire said lightly.

Enjolras grinned. “Race you,” he said, dropping his arm from Grantaire’s waist and taking off running.

“No!” Grantaire cried, half-heartedly jogging after him. “Not fair! You actually go running!”

Enjolras burst into laughter, slowing his pace and turning to face him. “Now who’s the spoil sport?”

Grantaire slung an arm around his waist as he caught up with him. “You’re being ever so cruel,” he laughed.

Enjolras hung his arm around Grantaire’s neck, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “We can arm wrestle later, if you want.”

“Please,” Grantaire said, laughing again.

“That’ll be the ego boost you need,” Enjolras said with a laugh. “Oh, dieu. It is a massive fountain.”

“Pretty though, right?” Grantaire said, breaking away from him to perch on the edge of it. The water was littered with coins in various currencies.

“Very,” Enjolras agreed, sitting down beside him. He dug around in his pockets for change, splitting it between them. “Make a wish.”

Grantaire smiled, fingering the coin for a moment as he tried to think of something good. “What are you wishing for?” he asked Enjolras.

“If I tell you it won’t come true,” Enjolras said, stealing a kiss from his lips before tossing his coin over his shoulder.

Grantaire laughed. “Alternatively, if you tell me, I can help make it come true,” he said, throwing his coin in too.

Enjolras laughed too, shaking his head. “I’m not telling you.”

“Then we are presented with a paradox,” Grantaire said, starting to smirk.

“Isn’t the point of making a wish in a fountain giving that wish over to fate or the universe or whatever?”

“Sure, I guess,” Grantaire said, still wearing that smirk. “But, you see, I wished that you would tell me your wish…”

Enjolras laughed, shoving Grantaire playfully. “See? If you tell people what you wished for, it won’t come true.”

“It wasn’t coming true when I hadn’t told you what I wished for either,” Grantaire pointed out.

“Ah, you don’t know that,” Enjolras said. “I may have decided to confide in you later.”

“So now, when you do, it’ll be of your own volition,” Grantaire said, smiling at him.

Enjolras sighed. “You have compromised the integrity of our wishes.”

“You should have known I would.”

“You’re right,” Enjolras said, kissing his cheek. “Did you really wish that I would tell you what I wished for?”

Grantaire smiled. “Wishes don’t come true if you tell them,” he said.

“I’m not asking you to tell me what you wished for,” Enjolras said with a laugh. “I’m just making sure you didn’t waste your wish.”

Grantaire stuck his tongue out at him.

“Don’t make me push you into the fountain.”

Grantaire kissed his cheek quickly. “You wouldn’t,” he said with certainty.

“Stick your tongue out at me again if you’re so sure,” Enjolras teased, leaning in to return the kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Grantaire licked his cheek instead, then jumped up to his feet. “Onwards?” he asked.

“You’re disgusting,” Enjolras said with a laugh, wiping his cheek off with the back of his hand and standing too. “Where to?”

“Wherever you like,” Grantaire said, smiling at him.

“I’m a foreigner in your land,” Enjolras said, reaching for his hand. “Show me your favorite spots.”

“Ah, you’ve seen the best of them,” Grantaire said, lacing their fingers together. “There’s a really nice clifftop walk over the beach, but that’ll need a whole morning set aside.”

“Let’s go tomorrow,” Enjolras said, squeezing Grantaire’s hand. “For now, take me somewhere I can buy Lucy something pretty.”

Grantaire laughed, moving away from the fountain with him. “There are a few shops down here that sell odd, pretty sorts of things,” he said. “Not exactly souvenirs because this isn’t really a touristy area, but stuff that makes nice gifts anyway.”

“Listen, when Ferre married Lucy, I married Lucy,” Enjolras said. “If I came back with a tacky souvenir, she’d divorce him.”

“Oh, dieu, that’s true, isn’t it?” Grantaire laughed.

Enjolras laughed too. “Looks like Maman got her wish after all.”

Grantaire snorted. “Is she still trying to set you up?”

“Unfortunately,” Enjolras said with a sigh. “I don’t know how many times I’ve told her I’m not dating, she won’t hear it. She’s trying women again, too.”

“Oh, she’s not,” Grantaire groaned.

“She is,” Enjolras confirmed. “I think she just wants to see me with anyone at this point; I must look pathetic.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Grantaire said, squeezing his hand against a stab of guilt. “She has absurd expectations. We’ve always known that.”

“Ah, je sais,” Enjolras said, squeezing Grantaire’s hand back. “I’m just being dramatic. It doesn’t matter now, anyway.”

“Non?” Grantaire said, looking up at him.

Enjolras couldn’t stop himself from stealing a kiss. “Non, not now I have a legitimate reason to turn her down.”

“You do?” Grantaire asked, the kiss setting him off smiling again.

Enjolras breathed a shy laugh. “Don’t I?”

“Oh. Oh. You’re going to tell her we’re…?”

“Non,” Enjolras said quickly, then paused, frowning. “Well, je ne sais pas. Maybe just that I’m… talking to someone, I guess.”

Grantaire nodded.

“I don’t have to say anything at all to her,” Enjolras said, anxious now with Grantaire’s silence. “That would be easier, anyway. No prying questions.”

“Non, non, I… Whatever you think’s best,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras shook his head. “Forget I said anything about her, ca va? I’m getting ahead of myself.”

“Whatever you think is best, chéri,” Grantaire said.

“What do you think?” Enjolras asked, his voice softer now.

“She’s your maman,” Grantaire said, shrugging lightly.

Enjolras nodded, looking away from Grantaire so he couldn’t see how much that kind of indifference hurt him.

“Hey, this place looks interesting,” he said, letting go of Grantaire’s hand to duck into a random shop.

“I haven’t been before,” Grantaire said, following after him.

“Neither have I,” Enjolras attempted to joke, picking a random aisle to walk down.

“Ha ha,” Grantaire said, though his smile was genuine.

Enjolras shot him a small smile before turning his attention back to browsing aimlessly, determined not to ruin their afternoon with a spoiled mood.

“What sort of thing are you looking for for Lucy?” Grantaire asked.

“I have no idea,” Enjolras said with a laugh. “I don’t tend to shop for women.”

“Now, now, let’s not gender products,” Grantaire joked.

Enjolras pulled a face at him. “You know what I mean. Now, help me look.”

“Such a polite request,” Grantaire teased, glancing over the shelves they passed. “Chocolate probably isn’t a good idea, ah? It’d melt before we could get it back to the villa. They’ve got a whole load of different sweets down there though.”

“Sweets are a good, gender neutral gift,” Enjolras said with a nod. “Make sure the wrapping is shiny, at least. Nothing else matters.”

Grantaire laughed. “She might like something a bit more permanent than sweets though…” he mused. “And what about Combeferre? Are you bringing him back anything?”

“I know perfectly well Lucy meant jewelry when she said ‘something shiny,’” Enjolras said, laughing too. “If I don’t, he might divorce me. I thought maybe a language book or something.”

“Ah, nice idea,” Grantaire said. “There’s a jewellery shop down the end of the road, I think. They do a good range of stuff - not just expensive things. I was looking for my maman the other day.”

“Oh?” Enjolras asked lightly. “Have you been keeping touch with home?”

“No more or less than usual,” Grantaire said, shrugging.

“I didn’t even ask how they reacted to the news,” Enjolras said, leading them down another aisle.

“I think they’re just pleased I’m doing something useful, t’sais? They didn’t think there were many… career prospects in art and all that.”

Enjolras threw him a smile. “You’ve always been one to prove people wrong.”

“I’ll have that in writing, please and thank you.”

“I’ll even sign and date it.”

Grantaire laughed. “I’m holding you to that.”

“Find me a pen and paper,” Enjolras said, laughing too. “I’m sure there’s stationary in this shop somewhere.”

“We have plenty at home. I’ll remember, don’t you worry.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will.” Enjolras held out his hand. “Want to go find something shiny?”

Grantaire took his hand with a smile. “Let’s go.”

Enjolras lifted their hands to press a kiss to Grantaire’s, and lead them back out of the shop.

“Dieu, it’s so warm,” he said with a happy sigh. “I’ll miss this.”

“Oui, I think I’m actually going to die when I go back to Paris for Christmas,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras laughed, tugging Grantaire closer to wrap his arm around his waist and press a lingering kiss to his cheek. “I’ll keep you warm.”

“Ah, oui?” Grantaire said, smiling up at him.

“Oui, picture it with me,” Enjolras said, smiling back at him. “You and me, a big, cozy blanket, hot chocolate for you and coffee for me, the world news on the TV…”

“Not the news,” Grantaire groaned.

“Oui, the news,” Enjolras said with a delighted laugh. “You’ll be cozy and cultured.”

“I’m living in Greece. I don’t need to be any more cultured,” Grantaire protested.

“Greece is but one country in the whole world, chéri.”

“Two countries is enough for any one man to be getting along with.”

Enjolras breathed a laugh. “How does it feel not to worry so much?”

“Like it’d be good for you.”

“That’s why you have that baby smooth skin,” Enjolras said, kissing his temple. “No worry lines.”

“That feels like an insult,” Grantaire said, frowning up at him.

“Non non non, you worry just enough,” Enjolras said, kissing his forehead to make his frown disappear. “I’m aging myself faster worrying too much.”

“Very simple solution: stop worrying so much,” Grantaire teased.

Enjolras laughed. “I’ll stop worrying so much when you start worrying more.”

“Deal. Done,” Grantaire said. “I’ll start worrying more immediately.”

“Ah, you know personal change is harder for me.”

Grantaire snorted a laugh. “Only when you make it harder for yourself.”

“It’s not my fault the world is a mess,” Enjolras said with a shrug.

“Oh dieu,” Grantaire said. “This is getting far too heavy. Come on, into the jewellery store.”

Enjolras laughed and followed him in, letting go of his waist but keeping hold of his hand. “Now, have you paid attention to what Lucy wears? I don’t know where to start.”

“Sparkly,” Grantaire said, smiling. “Lots of gemstones.”

“Ca va, those are directions I can follow,” Enjolras said, walking slowly through the shop. “Did you find something for your maman before?”

“Oui, a necklace,” Grantaire said. “I don’t even know if she wears necklaces, but…”

“You picked it out for her, she’ll love it,” Enjolras said, squeezing his hand.

Grantaire shrugged. “I can always return it when I get back if she doesn’t,” he said.

“She’ll love it,” Enjolras said firmly. “Is that bracelet too much? I don’t want to make Christmas hard for Ferre.”

“It’s nice,” Grantaire said, laughing a little. “Keep it in mind - if there’s nothing else, it’d be good, I think.”

“It’s not too, je ne sais pas, romantic, is it?” Enjolras asked with a little laugh too. “You see all these jewelry commercials on TV…”

He trailed off as they came across a case of wedding bands, and it took a moment for him to recover, his throat suddenly tight. “Necklaces. Those aren’t as romantic, ah?”

“I mean… you’re very gay and she’s very married, so I’m not sure you need to worry about romantic,” Grantaire teased.

“I just want it to be appropriate,” Enjolras said, easing his hand from Grantaire’s for a quicker escape from rings to necklaces.

“You can always send some photos to Combeferre and ask his opinion, non? Or I’ll chip in, then it’s from both of us and less for you to worry about, ah?”

“What did you do with your ring?” Enjolras blurted out before he could stop himself.

Grantaire looked up at him with wide eyes. “My ring?” he asked, wanting to make sure he was following correctly before he gave anything away.

Enjolras could only just make eye contact; he nodded. “I kept mine,” he said. “I couldn’t let it go.”

He was. Grantaire nodded too. “Me neither,” he said. “It’s in one of the boxes Jehan’s storing for me while I’m here.”

Enjolras didn’t know if that made him happy or sad to hear, but he did know one thing. “I should have signed the prenup.”

Grantaire looked up at him, then away again. “Let’s not… It doesn’t do either of us any good to… Especially not here,” he said, breathing an uneasy laugh.

Enjolras started to speak and thought better of it, nodding instead. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Want to go look for a pool flamingo?”

“What about Lucy?” Grantaire asked, hesitating.

“I can come back later,” Enjolras said. “I’m a little overwhelmed, anyway. There’s more to jewelry than I knew.”

Grantaire nodded. “Oui, ca va,” he said. “Flamingo time.”

Enjolras offered a smile and his hand. “Flamingo time.”

“Flamingo time!” Grantaire laughed, clasping Enjolras’ hand and leading the way out.

Enjolras laughed too, feeling lighter now back out in the fresh air and sunshine. “I’ll be devastated if they don’t actually have a flamingo.”

“Will you accept any substitutes?” Grantaire asked.

“A unicorn, maybe,” Enjolras said thoughtfully. “Or a donut. I think you’d look good on a slice of pizza.”

Grantaire burst into laughter. “What if they only have regular stuff? You know, no animals or foods or anything…”

Enjolras grinned. “We’ll have no choice but to burn the place down in protest against the Establishment.”

“So much for a holiday,” Grantaire groaned.

Enjolras dropped a kiss to his cheek. “The revolution never sleeps.”

“That’s a lie,” Grantaire said, smirking. “The revolution sleeps like a baby and snores like an old man.”

“Are you implying that I snore?”

“Oh, I’m not implying it,” Grantaire said gleefully.

“I do not snore,” Enjolras said firmly. “I can sue you for slander, tu sais.”

“Try it,” Grantaire laughed.

“You start spreading that false rumor around and I will.”

“I’m not spreading anything!”

Enjolras started to laugh. “Then take it back. Say I don’t snore.”

“You can’t make me.”

“I could persuade you.”

Grantaire smiled. “Is that right?”

Enjolras smiled too, pulling Grantaire off to the side of the pavement and tugging him close, sliding his hands into his back pockets.

“I can’t be as persuasive here as I would be in Paris,” he said, his lips just brushing against Grantaire’s. “But just wait until we get home.”

Grantaire smiled, closing his eyes. “Alright,” he murmured, “I’m waiting. We’ll see.”

Enjolras smiled and pressed his lips to Grantaire’s for a languid kiss, bringing a hand up to cup his face.

Grantaire was still smiling as he pulled back, keeping his eyes closed for just a moment. It had been such a long time since he’d felt loved like this.

“Flamingo,” he said.

Enjolras laughed. “Is that our new safe word?” he teased, stepping in to steal one more kiss before taking his hand and heading off again.

Grantaire snorted a laugh. “It is now, I guess,” he said.

“That’ll be a good laugh,” Enjolras said quite happily.

“Won’t it just?” Grantaire said, turning his head to kiss Enjolras’ shoulder.

Enjolras smiled, kissing Grantaire’s forehead in return. “This is good,” he said softly.

Grantaire nodded and squeezed his hand. “Oui?” he said.

“It’s just such a relief,” Enjolras said, breathing a laugh. “I’ve been holding on to it for so long, it feels good to just… love you.”

“Back at you,” Grantaire said quickly, then pointed toward a shop at the end of the road, boasting an eclectic mixture of postcards, beach towels, inflatables, and bric-a-brac. “Flamingo.”

“Oh,” Enjolras said, faltering with the sudden change in conversation. “Oh, oui, look at that.”

“I mean, I can’t specifically see a flamingo, but it looks like a likely looking place to look, ah?”

“Oui, it does,” Enjolras agreed. “Keep your fingers crossed.”

“I’m keeping everything crossed - I have my heart set on this damn flamingo,” Grantaire said. “T’sais, if we can’t find one here, I’m going to hunt one down online? I’d give my life’s savings for next-day delivery. You’re going to have this flamingo.”

Enjolras couldn’t help but laugh, despite the tightness in his stomach. “It’s hardly worth blowing your life’s savings for next-day delivery. Two-day delivery, however…”

“Non, that’s not acceptable! That would be two whole days without it!”

“You just want to take ridiculous pictures of me on a floating flamingo.”

“It’s going to make me so happy. We should name her.”

“Her? Are you gendering a floating flamingo?”

“Oui,” Grantaire said, smirking at him.

“We haven’t even met it yet. How do we know it’s not a him? Or a them?”

“I’ll reserve judgment. Until then, she’s a she.”

Enjolras laughed, shaking his head. “Fine, fine. Any name ideas?”

“Something really extravagant,” Grantaire mused.

Enjolras hummed thoughtfully, stepping aside as he opened the door to the shop to let Grantaire inside. “She’ll need more than one name if we’re going extravagant.”

“Non, non, non,” Grantaire said, leading the way in. “It should stand on its own, like Beyoncé or Cher, t’sais?”

“Well that’s certainly a lot of pressure,” Enjolras said, glancing around to spot the inflatables and heading that direction.

“It’s a big responsibility,” Grantaire agreed. He held Enjolras’ hand in both of his, leaning his cheek against his shoulder as they surveyed their options. “Hmm… Doughnut… turtle…”

Enjolras was almost too distracted by the warmth coming off Grantaire to help in his search, marveling again that they’d gotten here after so much time apart. “Look, there’s your pizza,” he said. “But do you see a flamingo? Should we ask?”

“Ah… Oh! There! There! Right up there in the corner! Do you see her?”

“Ah, dieu, of course she’s hard to get,” Enjolras said with a laugh. “Want to climb up on my shoulders?”

“There must be a step-stool or something around here somewhere,” Grantaire said, casting around them. He made a dismissive noise and broke away from Enjolras to step up onto one of the shelves, stretching up above him for the box. “Ah, I think I can knock her off - ready to catch her?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Enjolras said, stepping into place. “But don’t hit me in the face - it’s my money maker.”

Grantaire burst into laughter, almost falling from the shelves in the process. He clung to them and stretched up even higher to nudge the box off with his fingertips, back over his shoulder to Enjolras.

Enjolras laughed too, placing a hand on the small of Grantaire’s back to make sure he wouldn’t fall and catching the flamingo with the other.

“Got her - careful on your way down.”

Grantaire jumped off then leaned in close to examine the image on the box. “What do you think?” he asked. “Is she the one?”

“Considering the terrible danger you just went through to get her down, oui,” Enjolras said, leaning in to kiss his forehead. “We need to find an air pump now.”

“I can probably just blow her up,” Grantaire offered.

Enjolras laughed. “She’s huge, R. You’ll pass out before she’s halfway up.”

“That’s a challenge,” Grantaire said, hitting him with the back of his hand. “Let’s get her and get out of here. We’ll grab your coffee on the way back.”

“What about you? I can’t interest you in the pizza slice or the doughnut? I can’t guarantee I’ll share the flamingo.”

“Also a challenge,” Grantaire said, grinning at him. “Maybe I’ll grab a lilo or something, ah?”

“Oui, let’s have a look around, you menace,” Enjolras said, offering out his hand.

Grantaire took it with a grin. “Now, do we want to go matching pink or find a complementary colour or something that clashes abominably?” he mused.

Enjolras laughed, lifting their hands to kiss Grantaire’s. “Whatever your heart desires, chéri.”

“Oh, this green one’s good,” he said, grabbing another box off one of the shelves. “Nice and bright.”

“Pink goes good with green,” Enjolras agreed. “We’ll be the envy of the community pool.”

Grantaire snorted a laugh. “I intend to share,” he informed Enjolras.

“I haven’t seen a single soul at the villa,” Enjolras said, leading the way to the register. “Is Leonie a real person or are you making up imaginary friends?”

“We work hard and keep unsociable hours,” Grantaire said. “We should get drinks with them sometime this week - they’d all like to meet you.”

“Oui, that’d be nice,” Enjolras said with a nod. “But if we show up and no one else is there, I’m taking you straight back to Paris.”

“Any excuse,” Grantaire said, waving a dismissive hand.

“I have no shame any longer,” Enjolras said, taking the box from Grantaire and putting both up on the counter to pay.

“Here, let me get one,” Grantaire said, digging his wallet out of his pocket.

“Are you sure?” Enjolras asked, stopping midway through passing his credit card to the man at the register. “I don’t mind.”

“Oui, I’m sure,” Grantaire said, dragging the flamingo back and digging in his own pockets for some cash.

“Ca va, ca va,” Enjolras said, stepping aside to let Grantaire handle it. “That should make us even, non?”

“What for?”

Enjolras laughed. “Dinner, remember? Forget I said anything, you were upset I paid for it.”

“Oh, dieu,” Grantaire laughed. With the inflatables paid for, he grabbed them off the counter and led the way out of the shop. “Oui, oui, this makes us even. I’m no longer upset.”

“What a relief,” Enjolras said, taking the flamingo from him to share the burden. “Home?”

“Home,” Grantaire said with a nod. “Oh, don’t you want to grab your coffee first? It’s sort of on the way.”

“Oh, oui, we can get that out of the way,” Enjolras said. “I can’t guarantee I’ll ever get out of the pool again after this.”

Grantaire snorted a laugh and gestured for him to follow him. “The place is down this way.”

Enjolras took the opportunity to take Grantaire’s hand and stepped into place beside him with a smile. “If I could have a coffee maker on the water, I would be one hundred percent serious.”

“Will you settle for me bringing you a coffee every now and again?” Grantaire asked, lacing their fingers together. “Though how you can drink anything hot in this weather is a mystery.”

“You did a stint as a barista, non? You know how to make iced coffee,” Enjolras said. “You’d make a very hot pool boy.”

Grantaire burst into laughter, his cheeks flushing pink. “That is not why I am here!”

“You literally just offered to bring me coffees while I lounge around in the pool,” Enjolras said, laughing too.

“I didn’t ask to be objectified for it.”

“But you look so good in a swimsuit.”

Grantaire laughed, turning his head to press his face to Enjolras’ shoulder. “Oh, shut up.”

Enjolras laughed too, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I have a lot of missed flirting time to make up for.”

“I’m not going to survive this.”

“What a way to go out, ah?”

“Death by Enjolras,” Grantaire giggled.

Enjolras snorted. “Smothered to death by my affections.”

“Hot.”

“I’m glad you still think so after all this time.”

Grantaire laughed again, pretending to fan himself.

“Ah, here we go. Coffee time. I’ll warn you now, they have a ton of samples everywhere that you can help yourself to.”

Enjolras paused outside the door, closing his eyes and taking a dramatic breath, handing the flamingo back over to Grantaire. “Ca va,” he said solemnly. “I’m ready.”

Grantaire grinned at him as he took it. “I should have brought one of those old video cameras my parents had when I was a kid, really captured this experience,” he said, following him in.

Enjolras laughed. “Parents don’t use video cameras anymore; the cameras on their phones are far superior,” he said, immediately grabbing the first tasting cup on the way in. “Ah, dieu, this is so smooth. It’s not very bitter - do you want to try it?”

Grantaire pulled a face, shaking his head. “It’s all yours, chéri,” he said.

“I’m going to ask you that question at least ten more times before we leave here,” Enjolras said, leading the way further inside. He wandered around the shop, reading the labels on each type of coffee and trying every free sample, chatting with the shop attendant in broken English until he settled on a few different coffees to bring home for himself and as gifts.

“Well, that place is magic,” he said with a wistful sigh as they stepped back outside. “They’re snobbier about their coffee in Venice.”

“Ah, really?” Grantaire said, holding his hand out for Enjolras’ again. “We can come back again before you leave, if you want.”

Enjolras took his hand happily, lifting it to his lips to press a kiss against his knuckles. “We might have to. I’ll probably use this all within the next two days.”

“This holiday’s going to be a lot of fun then,” Grantaire teased, smiling up at him. He squeezed his hand.

Enjolras laughed. “You’ll be counting the minutes before you can ship me back off to Paris.”

“We won’t need to ship you back - you’ll eventually just bounce off the walls so hard it’ll propel you all the way back.”

“I can’t even imagine how costly the damages to the villa would be. They’d keep you locked away painting forever just to make up for it.”

Grantaire laughed. “I’d better get a move on and find an apprenticeship as a builder or a painter and decorator or something, ah?”

“Well, you are good with your hands,” Enjolras said, flashing him a playful smile.

Grantaire grinned at him. “Oui, I am,” he said.

“That’s the confidence I love,” Enjolras said, dropping a kiss to his cheek.

Grantaire laughed, his cheeks a little pink. “So, what do you want to do with the rest of the day?” he asked. “We have coffee to drink and inflatables to inflate…”

“Well, I think we should grab some lunch,” Enjolras said, still smiling in Grantaire’s direction. “And then we can spend the rest of the day floating around the pool with iced coffee and… whatever you will drink.”

“That sounds pretty heavenly,” Grantaire said. “Want to stop somewhere for lunch on the way back or eat at home? There are a couple of beach bars on the way.”

“Is there something we could pick up and take home? We’ve got a big haul here.”

“Ah, oui, most places have a takeaway option. And the great thing about this place is that your food never gets cold,” Grantaire laughed.

Enjolras laughed too. “Oui, that’s great until you’re racing the heat to eat ice cream.”

“Oh, dieu, don’t,” Grantaire said. “I have a ton in the freezer at home, so at least we don’t have to worry about that now.”

“Trust you to always be stocked up on ice cream even when there’s no other food in the house.”

“It’s an important food group.”

Enjolras laughed. “Come on, let’s get some gyros or something else very Greek.”

“Ah, in that case, this way,” Grantaire said, tugging Enjolras’ hand to lead him down another street.

[staple-soap-blog]

Fade - II

The sequel to Scars

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 ||

Genre: Angst | Soulmate AU!

Word Count: 7400

“Cause I don't wanna lose you now, I'm lookin’ right at the other half of me” [🎵 ]

“Sehun.”

It felt like hot stones were being pressed into your eyes as you watched him smile, the familiarity and comfort that came with the gesture branding your retinas, causing them to water. Sehun’s his eyes creased into half moons, perfectly mimicking the images in the memories you had stored. He looked so perfect you swore you had to be dreaming.

Sehun’s lips parted, and you watched as he mouthed the most simple of greetings, “Hey.”

Despite the buzzing electricity that was rocketing through your figure, somehow your brain finally caught up to your racing heart, and your brain was telling you to run. A chill slowly settled over you, freezing your emotions within your body as well as physically freezing you, until your muscles ceased to move. Your mouth dropped open as you tried to console your heart, which was yelling at you to go towards him, and your mind, which was telling you to get away. The mixed signals rendered you motionless, and you were trapped, stuck in front of the man who was responsible for destroying your heart, but now, it felt like his presence had somehow brought it back.

You felt Sehun’s thumb brush against your cheek, your skin crawling at the action. He stared into your eyes, which were still blown wide with complete shock. “I’m so glad I found you,” he croaked, voice wavering with emotion, the same emotion you were currently experiencing underneath the frozen body your brain and heart had paralysed. A thousand words were coursing through your lungs and lodging in your throat, forming a painful lump which blocked your windpipe.

You couldn’t breathe.

The lack of oxygen dizzied you as the clump of words that sat in your throat slowly began to form into incoherent lines, the pressure forcing them to slip out.

“You…” you stammered. “How did you…why did you…” Your hand slowly lifted, fingers brushing against your lips which were still warm from the contact of his mouth. They tingled, almost as if a spark of static had zapped you.

Sehun’s body drifted closer, so close that your noses were mere millimetres away. His warmth seemed to surround you, willing you to relax even though your brain was screaming and struggling to get away for the incredible heat. “It’s okay,” whispered Sehun, forehead pressing against yours and his hands finding your wrists, holding them lovingly. “I’m here now.”

You were unsure if mere seconds or hours had passed as the both of you stood there, unmoving. The shock kept you from saying anything more as Sehun’s electric heat continued to infiltrate and consume every single nerve and fibre both inside and out. It felt like magic. It felt like fate.

Sehun’s eyes never broke away from yours, his glance anchoring you to his soul. The magic flowed through the both of you, uniting you, trying to repair the bond that had been broken.

However, slowly but surely, the magic began to dissolve into the air, allowing the adrenaline to drain from your bloodstream.

Then you felt it. The pain. That terrible pain from long ago.

The scars in your heart. They had opened up.

The stabbing sensation that had been overshadowed by Sehun’s warmth began to jab at your chest, followed by countless agonising throbs as your broken heart began to beat irregularly, the feeling as if your life force was gushing from the open wounds. It wasn’t used to this magnitude of emotion anymore, it had been dormant, almost lifeless for years, and now it had to process the energy that Sehun had injected you with. It was bound to give out eventually, and you could feel the damage worsening with every heartbeat. The scars felt like they were tearing themselves wider.

The pain tore through you, and your muscles were thawing from their previously frozen state. “No,” you barely whispered, forcefully taking one step back and away from the source of the unbearable ache. “No, you can’t…”

Sehun’s eyebrows narrowed. “What’s wrong?” he asked, concern spreading over his face as he closed the gap you had made.

“You can’t just…” Your voice cracked and you took another two steps away, holding out a shaky hand to keep him at a distance.

Your eyes flicked over his body. You needed more convincing that this was in fact Sehun even when your heart had confirmed it the second his lips touched yours. He was exactly the same, save for the brown hair which was now back to its natural black colour that you remember from high school. He stepped forward again, and you felt his torso come into contact with your fingers.

He was definitely real. This wasn’t a dream. Sehun was here, standing right in front of you.

Your hand flew to your chest, pressing down to try and subdue the piercing ache as your lungs gave in, forcing out a strangled scream. You backed away in fright before hitting the wall behind you. You collapsed onto the ground, tears now uncontrollably pouring from your waterline.

“Y/N!” yelled Sehun in panic, and he rushed towards your slumped figure.

“No!” you cried, slapping away the arms that tried to wrap around you. “You can’t!”

“It’s alright,” he breathed, trying again to take you into his hold.

You screamed, cried out, tried to push him away, but Sehun wouldn’t give up until he had taken you into his embrace. You struggled, clawing at his arms, trying to escape but he only held you tighter, pulling you against his damp chest and whispering conforming phrases into your ears.

Your nails raked down his biceps, leaving behind angry red lines as your knees tucked in towards your chest, intending to press your feet against Sehun’s body and kick him away. But it was no use. He was stronger than you, and your heart forbade you to break any contact with him in fear of it ripping in half from the sheer magnitude of energy produced by the ardent war between it and your raging mind.

“No,” you mumbled once more. It was the last coherent thing you said before the sobs overtook your body, causing you to jolt with every sharp inhale that would fuel your next cry of pain.

You felt so completely helpless. Like you had no control over anything in your life anymore. You screamed internally. Why? Why did you have to suffer so much? Was five years of living an emotionless and empty life not enough? Did Fate really have to bring back your true love and tormentor just so old wounds could be reopened?

Sehun’s touch was searing and hot, trapping you in a cocoon of heat which you so desperately wanted to climb out of, no matter how much your heart yearned to stay. You couldn’t let him do this to you again. You wouldn’t let him. He’d hurt you so much, and you weren’t prepared to go through it again. It would kill you.

You continued to struggle, wriggling within his grasp, trying to get away, but you were just exhausting yourself.

“Shhhh,” said Sehun, pulling you into his lap, his chin resting against your shoulder. “Relax, it's alright.” His arms were crossed over your waist with your own arms trapped beneath his. His hands soothingly rubbed your forearms until your sobs became less and less frequent.

Eventually, you gave up trying to run, instead allowing your body to deflate and mold into Sehun’s chest. Occasionally, you’d gasp as your sobbing tried to settle back into steady breaths, your tears drying in the thick air. Your head began to lean against Sehun’s as your body completely shut down, your energy thoroughly spent. All that was left behind was an odd ache in your chest. It wasn’t like the ache that had been plaguing you for years, but more of a dull throbbing sensation, almost as if something was trying to fill the void of your open wounds.

You stared blankly at your front door, which was still open, the howl of the wind echoing through the hallway outside as it blew up the staircase and through the building. The patter of rain also reached your ears, the low rumbling of thunder occasionally filling the air. But the strongest sound was your heartbeat. You could hear the blood pulsing through your body, and you could feel Sehun’s own heart hammering against your back, perfectly synced up with yours.

You blinked lazily, and your body began to slump to the side. Sehun carefully guided you off his lap and onto the hardwood floor below, but he made sure to return his arms to surround your waist. You rested your head against the plaster wall for support. You could feel Sehun’s eyes burning into your temple, so you rolled your head to look back into his chocolate coloured eyes which were bright and lively.

His smile was still there, his eyes narrow with genuine happiness. His head tilted at an angle to match yours and came to lean against the same wall. You felt his hands near yours, one finding your wrist and holding it, thumb stroking the skin while the other came up to your cheek to brush the stray hairs away. His palm then covered that same cheek, and your eyes closed at the gentle heat he delivered.

“Why,” you breathed weakly, eyes fluttering open again.

“Why what?”

“Why are you here?”

A small pout formed on his lips as he teased you, “Is that any way to greet your soulmate?” You winced at the sting his words caused. He noticed and immediately regretted it. “Sorry.”

You sighed, breaking eye contact and shaking your head slightly to push away his palm that rested on your cheek. “You never wanted that anyway,” you said, voice wavering as you crossed your arms, trying to separate him from you. “Why are you bringing it up now?”

You heard Sehun shuffle closer to you before resting his chin on top of your head. His arms circled your body. You could feel his throat vibrate as he responded. “That’s not entirely true.” You nudged his chin off your head so you could look him in the eye again, wordlessly begging him for an explanation. “I’ll tell you in a bit, but for now can I just...can we just stay like this?”

His eyes pleaded with him, so you had no choice but to nod. He smiled with pursed lips before returning his chin to its previous position, and you were forced to watch his adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed with both nervousness and relief.

He held you for a long while, his touch surprisingly warm despite the water which was soaked into his clothes. It seemed to subdue the piercing ache inside you to some extent, never completely hiding it but suppressing it enough for you to focus instead on the happiness that was filling your shredded heart. Like each second with him stitched a healing suture into the cuts that had opened, cuts that had scarred over from the events of five years ago.

After some time, Sehun shifted around as his breathing stuttered. “I don’t know how else to say this,” he finally began. “It sounds stupid just thinking about it. But then again, I’ve been acting stupid my whole life.” He gulped and took a few breaths in before continuing, as if he were struggling to string together sentences that could fully convey how he felt.

“I always used to say soulmates were stupid when we were kids, remember?”

Your chest deflated at this. “Yeah,” you muttered, disheartened. “I remember.”

Sehun tightened his hold around you, his hand gently rubbing your back in comfort. “That was back when I didn’t fully understand what it meant, and I just kind of kept saying it without thinking too much about it. But I got older, and in a way, I did start to care. So much that I hated it.”

“Why?”

Sehun paused, reluctant to continue until he had found the right words. “I never thought you’d be my soulmate,” he admitted. Your body buckled, his words cutting into your stomach, and you curled forward to subdue the pain. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” comforted Sehun.

His hand came up from behind you to your head and pressed it against his chest. His other hand which was on the curve of your back gripped the fabric of your shirt, clinging onto you any way he could. A few moments of silence passed, only filled with the sound of Sehun’s heartbeat. He sighed before continuing.

“I never thought you’d be my soulmate, but I always wished that you were.”

It took a couple seconds for you to register his words. A tingle of curiosity appeared in the back of your mind, and you uncurled yourself from your position. Your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to make sense of what he had just said.

“You’d never shown me your soul mark, so I always thought it was in an awkward place. But I also thought that if you didn’t bother showing me, I wasn’t your soulmate. And that killed me.”

You didn’t even know the full story, and yet your pulse was already accelerating, his own heartbeat speeding up to match with yours. Your fingers began to clutch the fabric of his waterlogged shirt, dripping rainwater onto your sweatpants. But you didn’t care.

“You’d been my best friend for so long, and I didn’t want to ruin that by saying that I liked you, because I thought that you’d want to save yourself for your soulmate. And that’s why I hated this stupid soul mark thing. I was mad that no one would give somebody else a chance just because their true love had already been decided.”

Sehun’s grip grew firmer, and he pressed his body impossibly closer to yours.

“I never wanted a soulmate, I just wanted you.”

It felt like your ears were set ablaze when Sehun spoke those works to you. Your grip on his shirt tightened, knuckles turning white as yet another surge of emotions spread into your bloodstream. You couldn’t believe that you were hearing. Sehun liked you? For how long? You were too scared to lift your head and make eye contact, fearing that if you saw the candour in his chocolate irises, you would crumble.

“I remember when you arrived at prom with Chanyeol. You looked so beautiful, and I’ve always regretted not asking you. I thought you’d find it weird, since we were best friends. But I wanted nothing more than to take Chanyeol’s place that night. He was always by your side, holding your hand. I hated that it wasn’t me doing that.”

“But I wasn’t dating Chanyeol.”

“I know, but you two grew closer after that night. And that could’ve been me. I thought I’d blown my chance, so I just let it be.”

You chewed your bottom lip, processing Sehun’s words. Your eyes welled up, but they weren’t sad tears, they were tears of joy and longing. But there was still an itch that held you back from fully accepting his proclamations. “What about Yuna? Did you not love her?”

Sehun sighed and ran his hand through his black locks. “I did. I loved her a lot. But it took time for me to fall for her. It wasn’t anything like it was with you, I always felt some way about you, even when I was with her.” Sehun paused again, collecting his thoughts. “I hated the whole soulmate concept, and she did too. And I guess I found comfort in that. I’d never get what I want, I’d never get you, and I hated Fate for that, so I never wanted to find my soulmate, and Yuna didn’t either. We supported each other with that.”

You could hear cracks beginning to appear in his voice as he recalled the events of the past. At least you’d been right, the whole ordeal had hurt him just as much as it hurt you.

“You were right, the soul mark removal was my idea. When you hate something for as long as I have, it never leaves you. I thought of it as one last big ‘fuck you’ to Fate.”

Sehun sat up, removing his chin from the top of your head. His hand came under your jaw to tilt your head upwards. Your eyes locked with his teary ones as he stared at you with an unfathomable amount of affection and regret. He let out a shaky breath as he moved down to your right shoulder and tugged aside the fabric of your shirt. His thumb softly brushed over the light pink lines of your scar, causing his face to scrunch in grief.

“It was the biggest mistake of my life, and I’ll never forgive myself for what I did to you, for what I did to us.”

A tear rolled down Sehun’s cheek. Your hand came up to instinctively brush it away, and you felt how hot and flushed his skin was. You could sense that the energy you were experiencing was shared with him, and you leaned forward, capturing him in a hug, pressing your bodies together as if somehow it could make up for the lost time you spent apart. He squeezed you back, showing no sign of letting go.

“I missed you so much,” he whispered into your hair.

You whimpered back, “Me too.”

And that’s how the two of you stayed. On the floor of your apartment, bodies linked in a tight embrace as the storm outside passed, and the clouds cleared away, allowing the bright twinkle of the stars to shine through your window.

Nothing needed to be said as Sehun’s mere presence seemed to affect your body in the most mysterious and wonderful of ways. It felt like you were healing, and you knew that he felt the same too. The magic shared between the two of you was indisputably strong and powerful.

“I’m tired,” you yawned eventually, head dropping against the wall for support. Sehun smiled and stood up and began to walk towards your front door. You winced a little, thinking that he would leave, but he shut the door instead and walked back up to you.

A squeal escaped your lungs as you felt yourself being lifted into the air by the work of Sehun’s muscular arms. You clutched onto his broad shoulders for dear life as he led you further into your apartment. “Which one is your bedroom?”

“Second door to the left,” you replied, and he made a beeline towards said place.

He gently set you down on your bed and pulled the covers over you, a smile adorning your face throughout the whole process. His hands brushed over your shirt. “Your clothes are a bit wet, sorry about that.”

You’d completely forgotten about that. “Yours are still wet too,” you said, sitting up and feeling the damp fabric of his shirt. It had dried off a little in the time that he’d been inside your apartment, but it felt uncomfortable to be wearing, and you bet that his jeans were just as soaked. “How did you get here?” you asked, curious.

“I drove.”

“You drove all the way from home and got completely soaked just from the sidewalk to here? The rain was that bad? You could’ve had an accident!” you scolded, frowning and tugging angrily at his shirt.

Sehun smiled and pulled your hand away from the garment, lacing his fingers with yours instead. “I couldn’t wait. I had to get to you as soon as possible.”

“How did you find me anyway?”

He smirked. “How do you think?”

You cast your mind into recent events and the answer came easily. “Chanyeol.”

“I guess lover boy wanted to help fix us.”

You shook your head and smiled. “He’s always been like that. He’ll never change.”

Silence settled over your two bodies, filled with only the sound of your heartbeat. Sehun stroked the back of your hand, his bottom lip caged between his teeth in thought. “I should leave. I kinda just barged in here uninvited.”

He dropped your hand and took a few steps away. He was through the doorway of your bedroom before he stopped, turning around to look at you, incredibly reluctant to leave. “Sehun,” you called out. “Stay with me. Please.”

He smiled a little. “But my clothes are all wet,” he teased, but you could tell from his eyes that he wanted nothing more than to be with you.

“I don’t care.”

Sehun stepped back into your bedroom and closed the door before removing his shoes and climbing under the sheets with you. He said nothing as his arm wrapped around you and pulled you against his side. A few moments ticked by before a question slipped past your lips.

“Sehun?”

“Hm?”

“Why did you want to find me? It’s been so long.”

There was a delay before his reply came. “Remember how Yuna was late to the wedding?” You nodded. “She found her soulmate that day. Some guy called Jongdae. Her maid of honour told me they got into a fight which kind of ruined her mood I guess. But after you left, I didn’t want her anymore. And I guess she made up with Jongdae and left me soon after.”

Your mind buzzed at the intake of information.

“After she left I thought that if Jongdae could forgive her for what she did, maybe you would too. I knew I had to at least try. I couldn’t live with myself if I let another opportunity go to waste.”

You buried your face into Sehun’s chest, remembering how you’d let every opportunity slip away from you. He held you close and whispered words that set your heart ablaze.

“I’ll never make that mistake again.”

And that’s how you remained for the entirety of the night. Enveloped in the arms of your true love. Your heart may not have been completely mended, it probably never would return to its state before the heartbreak, but it was alive and working now that Sehun was here.

It felt right. Everything felt right in that moment. This was always your destiny, how it was always meant to be. Joy was the only thing that consumed your existence, something that you hadn’t experienced in a very long time. And you couldn’t have asked for anything more.

***

Happy. That’s what you felt as you woke up the next morning with the bright sun peeking through the empty rain clouds and shining its rays through your bedroom window. Normally, you would awaken, and the familiar low hum of pain would make itself known by consuming your chest, staying there for the entire day until you drifted out of consciousness that same night, only to return the next day.

Now, it wasn’t gone, but it was overshadowed by a much stronger feeling. It wasn’t a foreign feeling, you had experienced it before a long time ago. You don’t remember when exactly, but you knew why. Because when your eyes fluttered open, there in front of you was the perfect face of your other half, your soulmate, Oh Sehun. He was there in the flesh, peacefully sleeping, an arm draped around your waist with the fabric of your shirt bundled into his fist as if he were afraid of you slipping away. It really wasn’t a dream. He was with you. And that feeling in your chest intensified with every passing minute, making your heart race as a smile began to spread across your lips.

“Good morning,” groaned Sehun before his eyelids slowly opened, his chocolate eyes finding yours.

“Morning,” you replied, your grin growing wider.

“Have you been staring at me?”

You bit your lip. ��Maybe?” Sehun chuckled and pulled your body closer, his lips finding your forehead and pressing a chaste kiss to it. Your skin tingled at the contact, sending goosebumps over your body and accelerating your beating heart.

He pulled away with a smile. His fingers danced over your back, drawing shapes into your skin as he looked at you lovingly. You gazed back at him with equal amounts of love and tenderness.

“Do you mind if I use your shower?” he asked.

“Wasn’t the rain enough?” Sehun scoffed and squeezed your side, his fingers sending a spasm of tickles through your waist. A giggle slipped past your lips before you spoke again. “Did you need a change of clothes?”

He shook his head. “My clothes are pretty much dry now.” He moved to roll off your bed, but you whined in protest. “What?”

“Can we stay here for a bit longer?”

“I’ll be gone for like five minutes,” he argued.

“Fine,” you groaned with a pout. “The bathroom is the next door to the right and there are clean towels under the sink.”

A smile spread over Sehun’s lips in thanks, and he leaned down to press another kiss to your cheek, causing another set of giggles to slip past your mouth. The mattress springed back upwards as Sehun’s weight left the bed and he made his may out of your room, tugging off his shirt and flashing you his muscular back just before he disappeared through the doorway. What a tease.

You took a deep breath and closed your eyes, basking in the heat that was flaring up inside your chest, overshadowing the constant ache that had resided there since your last encounter with Sehun. You couldn’t believe that he had returned to you, even after all this time. Sure, you acknowledged how idiotic it might seem. The man who had caused you so much pain, the man who had shattered your heart and left it on the curb to die, he had returned to fix it with his touch. It would never be the same, but it was better than the five years of misery you had to suffer through.

Five years, and you had never felt anything like this. Nothing like when Sehun was with you. Well, maybe just not as intense. There was an itch in the back of your mind, reminding you of something. Memories from not too long ago. Memories of just a sliver of that same warmth and energy drifting through your body, slowly taking away the pain.

The sound of your doorbell ringing through your apartment snapped you out of your thoughts. Groaning, you slid off your mattress and headed towards your front door, your previous thoughts melting away into the depths of your mind, but never fully dissipating. Instead, they lurked in the shadows of your brain, festering with each step you took through your apartment.

A rush of dread suddenly washed over your body as your steps towards the door slowed in pace. The thoughts in the back of your mind were agitating every last nerve ending, and you couldn’t stop the anxious feeling that began to consume you. Your fingertips touched the handle of your front door and you looked through the peephole.

Your heart dropped into your stomach at the sight. There, stood outside your apartment was a messy haired, slightly sleepy Kyungsoo dressed in a puffy packet, clutching your purse in his hands.

It felt like you had been pushed into a frozen lake and you were trapped beneath the ice, forced to drown in the sudden flood of guilt and anxiety that suddenly rushed through your veins, causing your muscles to tense.

Your hand left the handle, considering not opening the door, but for some reason, you knew you would feel guilty about leaving him hanging, and he had driven to your apartment early this morning and you would hate for him to do that again. There was also the added nagging in your mind telling you that you missed him, that you wanted to see him, spend time with him. An odd conflict between your head and your heart ignited, building up in your throat and you swallowed the vicious lump as you heard the second chime of your doorbell echo through your eardrums.

Your head whipped around to glance behind you, confirming that Sehun was still in the shower. With a quick breath in, you opened the door, convincing yourself that this would be a quick exchange.

“Hey!” you breathed a little too enthusiastically.

“Hi,” responded Kyungsoo, a little taken aback by your sudden enthusiasm. “I...brought your purse.”

“Oh, right, thank you,” you muttered, lunging forward for the item. Your fingers were wrapped around your purse, intending to pull it away and run back into your apartment, but Kyungsoo’s larger hand pressed over yours. Your arm seized up and your shoulders rose in surprise at his touch, bones locked into place.

“Is everything ok?” he asked, a questioning yet concerned look on his face. His thumb began to rub against the back of your hand, and he looked deep into your eyes, searching for an answer.

“Yeah, why?”

“You look a little tense.” Were you being that obvious? You struggled to find a reply as you felt your heart rate increase, guilt beginning to seep into your chest. “Hey,” called Kyungsoo, stepping closer. “You can talk to me, okay?”

The smile that spread across his lips only intensified your remorse. Kyungsoo looked at you with such affection, such genuine care, and you had to bow your head to break the gaze in fear that it would break your facade. You felt a different warmth grow inside you, the same warmth that was present during your first night together, when his lips were on yours and his hands were tracing the curves of your body. You’d felt content then.

But now your soulmate had returned, and he made you feel like your heart was on fire. Years of misery felt like they could disappear with his touch. Even though your heart was permanently damaged by Sehun’s actions, it still yearned for his presence and love. Stupid heart.

The guilt that was spilling into your chest through the cracks in your heart began to grow wider. If your heart was a dam with a leak, the guilt was the water, pushing through the concrete and chipping away at the mighty wall until the dam threatened to collapse entirely.

You had to tell Kyungsoo about Sehun. You couldn’t work this out on your own. You head rose to meet his eyes, mouth opening to speak. “Kyungsoo, I need to tell you-”

He wasn’t looking at you. Instead, he was looking behind you, a look of shock, confusion and anger swimming through his eyes which were blown wide open. Your stomach felt like it had imploded, and you reluctantly turned around to inspect what Kyungsoo had seen.

It was worse than you expected.

Sehun was completely shirtless, with only his sweatpants covering his bottom half and a towel draped around his neck. He was staring at your hands which were covered with Kyungsoo’s, his eyebrows furrowed as he tried to deduce the situation. Then, a breeze of cold air brushed over your hands as Kyungsoo broke the calming contact.

Panic shot through your veins as you turned to look back at him, his face now consumed with betrayal. “Kyungsoo, it’s not what it looks-”

“Who are you?” barked Kyungsoo, cutting you off with his eyes still trained on Sehun. His voice was firm, but you could hear his composed demeanour cracking.

“Who are you?” retorted Sehun.

“I asked first.” You could hear the rising anger in Kyungsoo’s tone. His fists clenched, knuckles beginning to turn white.

You looked back at Sehun, dreading his answer. He took a step closer to you, and you felt his hand secure itself around your waist. No no no, this was making things worse! You winced at the contact, but his reply to Kyungsoo’s question made you cringe with guilt.

“I’m her soulmate.”

The wind was knocked out from your lungs at Sehun’s answer, and you snapped your head back to Kyungsoo, trying to gather the words to explain everything. You couldn’t find them in time.

You watched as Kyungsoo’s deep brown eyes - which were full of anger and bewilderment - scanned over Sehun’s body, tracing the pink lines that were situated near his right collarbone. Kyungsoo then looked over at your chest, and you saw his eyes widen as his composure collapsed. It looked like a knife had been shoved into his gut. You hastily pulled the hem of your shirt over your exposed scar, but the damage had already been done.

Kyungsoo’s eyes met yours, and you stared back at him, trying to wordlessly apologise in a single gaze. But something had changed, and that change snapped the remainder of your heartstrings, leaving behind nothing but guilt and regret.

That spark of hope you had once seen in his deep brown eyes, the one you saw at the bar when you first met him and the one you saw during your countless nights together, it had been snuffed out.

You had created the spark, and now, you’d watched it die before your very eyes.

Kyungsoo’s chest visibly deflated and his hands unclenched in surrender. The fight in him had trickled away. His eyes clouded over, and so did his soul.

“Who is this, Y/N?” asked Sehun, tugging you by your waist and coaxing you to face him. Sehun didn’t seem too concerned before, but your expression caused his eyes to flood with concern for you.

“He’s…” you swallowed, slowly turning back to the other, shorter man. “He’s my…”

You couldn’t complete your sentence, for you didn’t know yourself what Kyungsoo was. He wasn’t a stranger, but he wasn’t a friend either. It felt wrong to call him either a fuck buddy or your boyfriend. Your breathing deepened as you tried to fill the silence with non-existent words, your body filling up with shame with every passing second.

“I’m no one,” snapped Kyungsoo, his voice laced with venom and despair. “I was just leaving.” He didn’t glance at you as he turned and headed back down the hallway from which he came. You heard the sound of his shoes hitting the steps of the stairwell before he disappeared and his footsteps became softer as he moved further away.

Something snapped inside you, and you quickly tossed your purse inside your apartment before pushing a half-bare Sehun back inside. “Stay here,” you warned before bolting through the door, slamming it shut after you.

“Kyungsoo!” you cried, dashing down the stairwell as fast as you could, almost tripping over the steps as you did. “Kyungsoo, wait!”

You caught him three flights down, nearly crashing into him as your arms anchored themselves against his side to stop the momentum that was pushing you forward. You panted and looked up at him, but he refused to meet your gaze, his black fringe partially concealing his eyes.

“Please don’t leave yet, just...let me explain-”

“You don’t need to explain anything,” he deadpanned. “It’s pretty clear to me what happened.”

“Nothing happened!” you pushed, your fingers wrapping around his bicep and squeezing, as if it would help convince him. “I swear on my life, he just showed up last night and he was wet from the rain so I let him use my shower.”

Kyungsoo remained silent, his gaze trained on his shoes.

“I didn’t sleep with him. Please, you have to believe me!”

He sighed deeply and his eyes closed. His throat seemed to constrict as he swallowed deeply, and he took a shallow breath inwards, only inhaling what he needed in order to speak for it was too painful to breathe.

“It doesn’t matter if I believe you or not.”

A small gasp slipped past your lips, and your heart surged with emotion. Your train of thought stopped entirely, the string of excuses and explanations dying on your tongue. “Wh-what? Why not?”

“Because...you’re-” He suddenly stopped, his face scrunching up with a hiss blowing past his barred teeth. He doubled over and his hands pressed flew to his face. You moved closer to him, one hand remaining on his arm, the other coming up to wrap around one of his wrists. Concern, guilt and worry coursed through your system as you silently begged for Kyungsoo to look at you. That spark of hope you’d seen still had to be there somewhere. You’d do anything to see it once again.

A muffled groan sounded from his lungs, then his hands quickly ran down his face as his head shot straight upwards, quickly avoiding your gaze. You swallowed thickly at his glistening cheeks after his fingers had wiped away the evidence of tears. His head dropped back down with a shaky sigh, his eyes landing on your shoulder, like he was afraid that looking at you directly would cause him more pain.

“Look. I can’t…” he began, voice wavering with every word he spoke. “I can’t...he’s…” stammered Kyungsoo. He choked before shaking his head. ”Just go back to him,” he sighed, caving in defeat. “If he makes you happy even after everything you said he did then...”

“Don’t say that,” you countered, your oesophagus beginning to close up. “He’s...not the only one who can make me happy.”

The words flew out of your mouth easier that you expected with the pressure in your throat. Those thoughts that had been lurking in the back of your mind finally made themselves known, and you believed them to be the truth.

Kyungsoo made you feel. Maybe he hadn’t jolted your heart from it’s dormant state, but he had been nurturing it back to health, slowly, but surely. That warmth you felt when you were with him, it battled the ache caused by the scars of your past and emerged victorious each time. It soothed and comforted you whenever Kyungsoo entered your thoughts. Even though it wasn’t as powerful, it was undoubtedly healing you.

Dare you say it, that warmth was love.

You wondered what had kept you from realising it for so long, but now, you were terrified at the prospect of losing it, all because of you and the person who was supposed to be your perfect match.

“I believed that too, until now,” replied Kyungsoo to your statement.

“Kyungsoo,” you whimpered, shocked that he would say such a thing. He shuffled on his feet, gaze now trained to the floor. He was twitching and fidgeting, trying to distract himself from the heartbreak that you had caused. He cleared his throat before he spoke again.

“Thanks for making me think, at least for a while, that I didn’t need my soulmate to be in love.”

Your jaw fell open at his words. He finally met your eyes, and your chest near exploded at the lack of life and hope in his expression. His brown eyes were empty, his face void of emotion save for the salty liquid that pooled at his waterline. His lips were pressed into a thin line as he held his breath, suppressing the sobs that threatened to break free.

He pushed past you just as the first tear began to fall, shaking your hand off his upper arm. “Go back,” he grumbled defeatedly, his back turned to you. “Your other half is waiting for you.”

Kyungsoo continued down the stairs after uttering that, never once looking back to face you. He left you in the stairwell, alone and trembling with grief.

The irony of the situation hit you hard. There you stood, a broken woman, damaged by the actions of the man she loved, only to inflict the same damage onto a man that loved her. You were crushed, you knew how much it hurt to have the person you were so completely infatuated with to just brush you aside like you were nothing. You knew how much Kyungsoo had been hurting because of his soul mark that had been mercilessly scorched off only a little while ago, and you had to go ahead and give him false hope, making him suffer even more. You felt like a monster.

Your brain went into overdrive, trying to bargain and justify your actions, only for those arguments to collapse in on themselves. You kept switching back and forth, the devil and angel sat on each shoulder whispering into your ears, creating an ambivalent chaos of thoughts.

Kyungsoo didn’t mean what he said. He was angry and just trying to hurt you.

But the way he looked at you whenever you were with him, you saw yourself in him, the same emotions of love and want were parallel to when you were in love with Sehun.

Fate led Sehun back to you, you can’t change your destiny.

If Fate really did still have a plan for you, why would Fate lead Kyungsoo to you.

Sehun is your soulmate. There’s no way you could be in love with Kyungsoo.

But you were. You most certainly were.

The stairs caught you as you fell back onto the steps, the pain of the impact nowhere near comparable to the pain in your chest. Your head fell into your hands, mind swirling with paradoxical thoughts, leaving you confused and afraid. Your body trembled as the silent cries left your mouth, drenching your face with tears.

A hand suddenly gripped your shoulder, the contact soothing your arrhythmic heart, leaving only your head to spin with uncertainty and regret. That hand turned into two arms, wrapping around your figure and pulling you up against a firm, now clothed body. A sharp chin rested atop your shoulder as the embrace relaxed you, until you could finally speak without your voice wavering.

“What have I done,” you barely whispered.

“Was he…” began Sehun, hesitant to ask. “Your boyfriend?”

You sighed, not able to provide an answer, instead opting to bury your face into Sehun’s now clothed chest. You could feel him tense at the action, and you heard him swallow out of nervousness. Yet his hold around you seemed to grow tighter, like he was afraid of losing you again.

It was funny how your body fit perfectly into his. You were designed for each other after all. Sehun’s touch held so much meaning, so much comfort, so much love that had been sent down from the heavens. But it didn’t feel right anymore. Or, maybe, you didn’t want it to feel right anymore.

You closed your eyes, seeing a flurry of coloured swirls on your eyelids as your headache grew worse, fueled by doubt and guilt.

“Sehun,” you began, leaning away from his hold. “I think I need to be alone for a while.”

“What?! But-”

“Please,” you begged, staring into his brown eyes which were flooding with fear and sorrow. “I just need time to think.”

“But...when can I come back?”

You bit your lip in thought. “I don’t know, a couple days maybe? I promise I’ll talk to you then, ok?” Sehun’s jaw clenched, his hands balling into fists as he processed your words. He opened his mouth to argue, but your expression pleaded him to listen. “Do it for me?”

He groaned, voice laced with slight anger and a magnitude of anxiety. “I just found you again. Why are you pushing me away?”

“I’m not I just…” you trailed off, eyes closing, causing tears to pour down your face. Sighing, you looked up at Sehun again. “It’s just a few days. I need to sort some things out. Please.”

There was a pause. “Okay,” he replied reluctantly. His hands hesitantly came up to your face, wiping the tears before he stood up from the steps, reaching out a hand to pull you from your position on the ground. “I’ll be back soon, right?” he mumbled before planting a soft kiss on your forehead. He gave you one last glance of hesitancy before you nodded, reassuring him, and he finally let go of your hand.

As he descended the stairs, he kept glancing up at you, silently begging for you to change your mind and let him stay. Your heart began to surge at the lack of proximity, crying out for his presence, but your mind somehow remained stable, and it willed you to stay silent as you wondered if you were making the correct decision, or were you ruining your life all over again?

A/N: Ok I lied there’s a part 3 ehehe sorry I couldn’t decide yet

[rodpupo2]

Research: Project Defuture The Future

Randolph Lamonier

Randolpho Lamonier, is a visual artist from Minas Gerais, born in 1988.

He developed several works, specially photography articulated with other languages. He deals with several daily experiences in the city as a form of work, in which photography leads to multiple forms of symbolic exchange.

His work moves between different media, with a leading role in the practice of textile art, drawing, photography, video and installation. In his research, word and image are always together and tend to talk about micro and macro politics, urbanities, sentimental lies, chronicles, diaries and multiple crossings between memory and fiction.

The work done in fabric and embroidery brings sentences like: “ In 2040, we legalized love and other less intense drugs”, and is part of a set of creations in which Lamonier elaborates predictions based on thoughts about the present. “ I always create these works from guidelines that I consider urgent”, explains him.

In the words of the artist himself: “I make flags with what I have. I have never been so foreign. I draw poems, calls for help, war cries, everything is very urgent. The air is contaminated, the floor is covered with debris; sheets, pots, ropes, concrete, broom. Under the rubble the seeds grow in a hurry”.

Perhaps something more interesting than his incredible flags, are the themes he addresses, most of the time making a prediction of the future, about things that could happen in Brazil.

He is indignant with everything rotten that has in Brazil, from the corrupt government, the uncontrollable drug trafficking, the misogynistic society that still exists in Brazil and in several Latin countries, up to the violence itself.

He creates these flags in order to have some kind of hope for Brazil in the future, creating an utopia, where the problems would be thrown away.

David A Smith

Is a British designer who is specialized in lettering.

He started his own company own sign writing company in 1990 and after 13 years sold the business in 2003 to concentrate more on hand crafting lettering and glass gliding. His main techniques include water and oil gliding, acid etching, French embossing, screen printing and sign writing.

His career in sign writing began in 1984, when he left Westlands school in Torquay, age 16 and was apprenticed for 5 years with Gordon Farr & associates. They were a traditional sign writers, who had come up through the ranks and Gordon, had an uncanny ability to paint letters, accurately laid out, without even a sketch. Under their  tutelage, David became an accomplished draftsman, and a accurate letter painter.

This gathering of talented sign artists, carvers and muralists experts. David passion for creating elaborate, ornate mirrors&reverse glass signs of distinction.

In 1992 he set up his own business in England dealing every aspect of sign trade from vehicle graphics to 3D installations.

In 2012, Smith was hired by the singer John Mayer to design the album cover, of ‘Born and Raised’. The cover was styled like 1900 trade card.

He has also worked on posters and other merchandise associated with the album and single.

He was also commissioned by Jameson Whiskey to design a st.Patrick’s Jameson Whiskey bottle for the brand.

David sold the business, to concentrate more fully on gilding, painting e acid-etching glass, adding cutting, so that he could fully replicate the Victorian glass work he admire so much.

Thomas Burden

Burden is a senior designer at the design boutique “I Love Dust”.

He likes to produce work that references the pieces of vintage tat and printed material he gets from car boot sales and junk shops. Thomas Burden has created work for book covers, ad campaigns, music videos and magazine editorial to packaging, and even animations.

Thomas Burden was always encouraged to be creative, he was allowed to draw murals on the walls of his house, when he was very young. He had many references to do his drawings, in his grandparents house, full of Alpine memorabilia and indigenous art.

Toys weren’t allowed in Burden’s life as a child, so he was always looking at catalogs full of brightly colored things.

So in his works he tries to transmit that nostalgic journey to his childhood memories.

In each work there is a maximization of colors and textures and his great influences are: the film director Wes Anderson and the artist Mark Ryden.

On his own words: “ I was lucky enough to have a pretty idyllic childhood. I grew up sailing and skiing and traveling, so our house was full of souvenirs that parents collected, along with various bits of old boating junk and pieces of old cars”.

As an 3D illustrator / Art director from UK. He had worked with many different clients such as Nickelodeon, The New Yorker, Apple, McDonalds, Penguin, Bloomingdales and Ford.

His signature style is mainly the toys that he was never allowed as child, combined with fairground / neon signage and anything bright and fun that catches everyone’s eyes. He create works in Cinema 4D, also using the Adobe Illustrator, Photoshop and After effects.

Barbara Kruger

Barbara Kruger is a postmodern artist who was born in 1945 in New Jersey. Having grown up in a middle class family, her first job was as an operator. In 1965 she graduated from The Parson Design School in 1965 and worked as an art director in different magazines. By breaking some barriers of the modern art, Kruger and other women artivists ( art + activism) demonstrated not only against the bonds of patriarchy in society, but also within cultural production. Being an artistic medium an environment built largely by male hegemony, feminist art presents itself as a mean of liberating women. Her works examine stereotypes and the behaviors of consumerism with text layered over mass media images. Rendered with black and white, with a red background, Kruger’s works offer up short phrases such as “Thinking of You” and “I shop therefore I am”. Kruger uses language to broadcast her ideas in a myriad of ways , including through prints, T-shirts, posters, photographs, eletrônico signs and billboards. Despite the work of feminist artists of the twentieth century to change the way women are portrayed in the art world, today this representativeness still confined by a backward ideal. Thus, the work of Barbara Kruger proves to be even more relevant and undoubtedly necessary today.

Mike Perry

Mike Perry is an artist that makes paintings, animation, sculptures, books, public art installations, monographs, silkscreens and more. Mike Perry was born in Missouri, United States, and grew up in Kansas City. He started drawing at the age of four. He attended to the College of Art in Minneapolis, and earned a degree in graphic design. Mike Perry's style of using extremely vibrant colors, and making totally stylized designs with a lot of personality is something that draws my attention mainly. His letters are always around a totally imaginative space, which can be both a forest and even a city. The creativity in making those compositions for his posters is something very captivating, not necessarily making a poster that matches with the reality, but doing something perhaps lysergic. His works can be considered love notes to the abstract, unknowable future that is all possible in the present. Illustrator Ana Benaroya said that , “Mike Seems like a modern surrealist to me. His works feels like a childhood memory of slipping down a giant water slide during summer. Slippery and wet and innocent but not innocent. His drawings feel like they just fell right out of his brain onto the paper”. I think he is a great influence, especially for this project. Because I'm wanting to go overboard with the lyrics and the drawings, wanting to do something totally experimental, doing something absurd and creative at the same time. And with this nature theme, I want to make posters with extravagant animals and unconventional scenarios. How he uses photoshop and Procreate for most of his work. I would like to use Photoshop again for this job to continue to learn painting techniques.

Filipe Grimaldi

Filipe Grimaldi is a lyricist and designer. He has been working in the graphic design market since 2006 and, in recent years, has been focusing on the study of manual techniques of calligraphy, lettering and letter painting, migrating part of his work to the development of letterings and commercial decorative painting.

He even give practical classes in ateliers of other institutions. His works can be seen on walls, slates and thousands of plaques that circulate around with his characteristic traits.

Filipe Grimaldi works on the primary chromatic contrast, a key element for the graphic construction of the alphabet.

Letters, words and sentences are organically raised, avoiding the precise math of right angles.

I met Filipe Grimaldi at EBAC in 2019, when he taught a class of typography, teaching how to make a freehand letter. I was impressed, because I saw great perfection and lightness when he drew those letters.

In addition to using several very vibrant colors in his works, even looking like a lettering of an entertainment show.

He even painted on a mural at EBAC, where even I had the opportunity to give a light brushstroke in one of his letters.

For 13 years, Filipe has been specialized in manual techniques of calligraphy, lettering and letter painting. In his own words: “ My authorial research and commercial activities ended up leading me to rescue the calligrapher profession, an almost extinct activity in the development of technology and printing and clipping machines”.

Currently, he teaches typography and calligraphy, for college students, with the goal of encouraging people to try more hand-made letters.

Wayne White

Wayne White is an American artist, typographer, cartoonist and puppeter. A former set and character designer for the television show Pee-Wee’s Playhouse, White produces ironic, often subversive imagery. On Pee Wee’s Playhouse where his work for his set and puppet designs won three Emmys; he also did many voices on the show. He is best known for his word paintings composed of oversized, three dimensional text painted onto cheap landscape paintings he finds at thrift stores and markets. In 2000, he began painting words and phrases, on thrifted lithographs. “When you think about it, you’re surrounded by giant letters and words everywhere”. White said once. “We don’t take for it granted, but the whole American landscape is nothing but a giant letter forms”. One Journalist said his opinion about White’s paintings: “the weirdest landscape painter in America, White uses master painting techniques to create the illusion of words and phrases surreally disappearing into the horizon or jutting out from each lithograph’s place setting.” White’s famous “word art” paintings hang in museums and galleries across America. His paintings features technically proficient and wildly colored phrases that are funny and sarcastic. And critics have praise White’s series for being entryway to the artist mind. Over the past years, White has worked primarily as a fine artist with solo exhibitions of his paintings and sculptures in galleries in New York and Los Angeles. In 2006, he created a giant head sculpture, with a giant lettering next to head. This marks one of White’s other  passions, which is sculpting, and he like to exaggerate on the expression, of the characters that he is sculpting.

Joshua Noom

Joshua Noom is a famous illustrator who was born in Australia, in 1988. He is very popular in the social networks, specially in Instagram, where his minimalist illustrations and typography have earned him over 60,000 followers. He had created several illustrations for musicians and major brands like, Miller High Life, Sony, and Warner. Today Noom lives at Florida, and he is specialized in detailed and bold illustrations combined with an organic sense of typography. One of his most recent works, was recreating the Bible’s cover, with many other Christian artists. Each artist offers a visual entry point focused on a particular biblical theme or passage, setting a tone of reflection as readers engage with the Bible. I’ve been looking at Joshua works, and I really like the feeling of gritty and inky that he puts in his illustrations. Some of his works feels military inspired and masculine, while other pieces feel soft and feminine, like some vintage postcards that he produces. Something that Josh uses in most of his work, and that connects with my posters, is the use of wild animals and different situations. It can either make a tiger surfing, or even protest posters for the preservation of wildlife. He has a very intense passion for animals, and he enjoys drawing them in very expressive ways. With strong colors, with its minimalist style, and texts with different  fonts around it. In a interview Josh even discusses his style “ My inspirations for my style are mostly from music and other art, but one artist that I’ve been diggin’ is Mark Conlan. My style has just kind of developed over the time and I think I will probably keep evolving. After many attempts of trying new things and figuring out what works for me, and what doesn’t for me. I prefer to  draw in a more minimalist style, specially using my ink pens. Animals are one of my inspirations, specially here in Florida, we got many different species of birds and reptiles, so like to sit somewhere, and draw any animal that appears, and try to create a composition with different typefaces, to make future posters.

[chessireneko]

Late Night Call

Ok so this was a sort of challenge from this lil shit @theivonking f you very much ❤ and also my first attempt at writing smut ..kinda.. (ﾟ∀ﾟ ) and since I liked the idea I may or may not continue it with just a small part, kinda like an epilogue I guess? Enjoy!（〜^∇^)〜

Pairing: Wonho (Monsta X) x Reader

Genre: Smut

Type: Drabble

Word Count:  1501

*pictues for the moodboard found on pinterest credits to the original owners

|| M A S T E R L I S T ||

You just got back from work, feeling tired and desperately wanting a long hot bath to get the subway smell off of your clothes. While waiting for the water to get ready you pour yourself a glass of wine and put on some relaxing music. A few minutes later you check the temperature and discard your clothes soon after and get in the tub. Once your body comes to contact with the warm water you can actually feel all the tension leaving you. You applaud yourself for remembering to take with you both the wine and your phone to have that much-needed bath. After a while, you feel unable to keep your eyes open. You remember the guy you run into earlier at noon while on your coffee break. It was only for a brief moment but that was more than enough to leave you speechless. He was tall and muscular and his ashy blond hair really brought up his eyes. You closed your eyes again and brought the image of his shirt struggling to stay buttoned on his broad chest. You could feel your mouth water. You could even remember his voice especially when he spoke your name apologetically for almost spilling his coffee on you. And even with that, the whole encounter made it up for the fact that you somehow managed to lose your work id. Either he was too hot or it had been too long since you were intimate with someone. Probably the latter.

Just when you were about to fall asleep you heard your phone ringing. Unknown number? Please just be a wrong number…

You picked up the phone “hello?”

“Hey… Is this Y/N? Am I calling in a bad time?” you hear a rather raspy voice from the other side that almost sent you shivers.

“At 11 pm.? I could never see why this would be a bad time for a stranger to call. Who is this?” you return sarcastically with another question and your voice sounding just as raspy from your previous thoughts.

“Fuck.. you sound hot…guess I should’ve seen it coming huh..” he exclaims with audible excitement in his voice.

“..Seen it coming? What do you mean?” you asked him trying to sound normal but something about his voice and a slight hint in his tone made you just as excited.

“Well to answer your previous question I happen to be the guy who picked up your id at Starbucks around noon if my memory serves me right. I assume you must be looking for it?” he replied nonchalantly as if he didn’t just call you hot out of nowhere.

“Oh..?” you respond not sure exactly what to say to all of this.

“I almost spilled my coffee on you. Does that ring a bell by any chance?”

“Oh! Yeah, now I remember!” you exclaim as soon as your mind clicks, you’re left speechless that the guy you’ve been thinking of the whole day, is actually the same stranger that picked up your id. If you didn’t believe in fate before you sure do now.

“So uhm.. I was thinking I should make it up to you for almost ruining your clothes. How about I help you have some good time after a long tiring day?” he asks you with an obvious suggestion at his tone that makes you gulp.

“..good time?” you question him trying to mimic his tone.

“Do you want to tell me what you’re doing right now?” he answered with a question rendering you speechless for almost a whole minute.

“I’m actually taking a bath right now” you answer him with just as a suggestive tone. “Drinking a glass of wine and some music. And what are you doing ?” you continue in an attempt to gain control of the situation.

“Shit.. “ you hear him say sharply, “ I uhm.. I’m in my bedroom..picturing you all wet..” he said, his voice sounding all raspy again making yours hitch at your throat.

“Sounds like you’re having a good time. So you’re just… Lying there?” you asked him, surprised at your boost of confidence.

“Would you want me to do something else sugar?” he said never losing his composure. You started feeling your arousal growing at the sound of just his voice that you didn’t care he was a complete stranger.

‘Well, I assume you didn’t call a random stranger just to tell them you’re lying on your bed.”

You retorted not quite sure if you wanted to be the one to make a start.

“You’re right I didn’t call just for that. How would you feel about touching yourself for me ?”

“Bold aren’t we? I expect you’ll be doing the same then?” you didn’t really have to ask that, you could almost hear his arousal.

“Oh yeah..and to be honest with your sweet little voice I can barely hold myself right now.” his answer came in a bit too fast. You recognized the familiar feeling in the pit of your stomach.

“You don’t have to anymore… I already started… unless you want me to stop..” you said not able to finish your words in one go, from the stimulation you were giving yourself.

“Fuck! No.. don’t stop…. I wanna hear exactly what you’re doing!” he exclaimed with a sudden rush.

“I’m playing with myself… I got one finger in.. and hearing you get excited is really turning me on.” you said between small moans.

“God… don’t hold back babe you sound so hot… I wanna hear all your moans..” damn.. his own groans sent you into overdrive you actually wished he was right here right now.

“I won’t then. Tell me what you’re doing” you said losing all common sense left in you.

“I’m feeling myself babe…your voice is really working wonders…especially knowing you’re all naked right now… I wish I could actually fuck you right now..” he breathed out between moans.

“Tell me… how you’d fuck me… make me cum…” you could barely speak out by now. You were surprised at how quickly he was getting you there without even being actually there.

“First, my name’s Hoseok… I wanna hear you saying it when you cum for me..” he said letting out a low growl. “I’d hold you up, lead you to my bedroom and then pin you down..take your clothes off.. make sure you’re nice and wet for me…and then I’d spread your legs and I’d go in as slow as possible… make sure you never forget this… I’d play with your chest, bite your neck… and the closer you’d get the faster and harder I’d pound into you…  fuck… I-”

“Shit I’m close..” you breathed out your voice getting higher and higher. “Fuck .. Hoseok..I’m..”

“Cum for me babe!” you heard him just about to reach his high as well and that was the final draw for you. You cried out his name once more coming undone and heard him yelling your name right after you. Once you realized what just happened you didn’t wait for him to calm down to start asking questions.

“So uhm.. Is this something you do often?” you asked him getting nervous.

“Before you start getting suspicious let me assure you I’m not some kind of psycho. I just wanted to inform that I have your id and I just figured it would be better to retrieve it than going through the process of getting a whole new one.”

“Oh” is all you managed to say. You didn’t exactly know what to say.

“I know this is kind of weird but I couldn’t get your face out of my mind all day and I did have your number. I didn’t really plan on this. Not that I regret it though” he said with a small chuckle. “I didn’t expect you’d sound so hot. Would it be ok if I asked you on a date? A proper date. And if you don’t want to I can just leave it at your and we can forget this ever happened… Please say yes?” you thought he sounded pretty sincere. At least his plea did. You gave it a thought and decided a simple date wouldn’t hurt. Besides, you couldn’t deny the fact you found him just as hot.

“Uhm .. well… I guess a date is not the worst thing in the world. And yes I would prefer just getting back my id. But somewhere with lots of people! I’m still a bit suspicious about the whole thing.’’ you let out a small laugh hoping you didn’t sound too harsh.

“Any conditions are fine as long as I get a date!” he chimed brightly. “Uh, I’ve kept you up! Can I call you sometime tomorrow to set the time then?” you thought he sounded really cute now somehow. You couldn’t resist the smile creeping on your lips.

“Sure we’ll talk tomorrow,” you said just as cheerfully.

“Great! I’m glad I got to talk to you!”

“Mm.. me too. Goodnight! “

|| M A S T E R L I S T ||

[missmungoe]

A CERTAIN KIND OF ELOQUENCE (In Other Words, There’s A Whole Lot of Tongue) // Shanks x Makino // pre-series; rated M // because Shanks’ godawful 4kids dub will haunt me forever and I decided to remedy it (and I really wish accents and regional dialects in One Piece were a thing)

He has an accent.

It takes her a little while to notice, because there are so many other things fighting to claim her attention first, and she’s been too busy pretending that she’s not paying such close attention to what he’s saying to even notice how he says it.

It’s not an obvious one, demanding attention like everything else about him (hair so red it’s almost hard to look at, and the smile that’s so attractive it’s hard not to look at). And it’s odd, she thinks, as she listens attentively to the smooth variation of his vowels and the quick, laughing leap of his consonants. Like good scotch watered out, his inflections are softened, made mellow by that underlying chuckle that seems to cling to everything he says, every syllable and word and sentence.

But under that again, she finds it, a slight twang in his speech, discovered in the slow, purring roll of a single r. A rich vibrato, but subdued, like honey spooned into a sharp drink to sweeten the kick. It seems to sit on the back of his tongue, an echo almost forgotten but not entirely.

“Years on the sea will do that,” Shanks tells her, when she musters the courage to ask, and Makino pretends she doesn’t notice the way his eyes fleet downwards, curving with amusement. She’s been wringing the life out of the dish-rag in her attempts at feigning causal interest. “You’re on a ship with people from all over the world. Doesn’t take long before you start to forget things. Old habits, accents…”

“Inhibitions?” she interjects, before she can stop herself, and with a glance at his open shirt that fails rather spectacularly at being discreet (the glance, that is. But the shirt, too).

The grin she gets in return is both an answer and a suggestion, and it takes her a moment to compel her eyes to look elsewhere. Subtlety might not be a particular virtue of his, but it’s not hers, either, although that’s not for lack of trying (and she does try, god help her, she’s been trying since they met).

Going by the grin that’s only gotten wider, Shanks hasn’t.

She listens while he speaks, and tries to catch it again, that fleeting thing that comes and goes but refuses to stay; a slight ebb sinking back on his tongue, before swelling gently with his enunciation, but it’s slipped through her fingers before she’s had the chance to register it properly, and to catalogue the different stresses, the small quirks and tonalities.

“Get him drunk,” Ben tells her, in a rare lull of silence where his captain has relinquished his claim to Makino’s personal space to join in the singing across the room. “You’ll hear it.”

She tries to keep her face blank, she really does. “Hear what?”

Ben only lifts his glass to his lips, and looks at her.

Makino is sorely tempted to chuck the dish-rag at his face.

She doesn’t, because then Shanks is back, and her personal space isn’t hers anymore, although it feels less like an invasion and more like a relief, his presence filling cracks and fissures she didn’t even know were there, everything about him claiming space, from the width of his shoulders to his laughter to his voice.

He’s still singing, an easy rhythm tapped with his fingers against the edge of the bar-top, and the words sitting under his breath, as though it comes as naturally to him as breathing. As though it’s one and the same, breathing and laughing and talking.

And he’s not drunk yet but getting there, and it’s increasingly difficult to pretend she’s not noticing the accent slipping through when Ben is still smiling into his drink.

She manages to maintain her composure for a whole thirty seconds, but then Shanks looks at her and smiles, the last, lingering note and words of a final refrain offered up like a token, a deceptively tender lament about the sea’s dark loveliness and a poor, infatuated sailor’s fate, swallowed by her generous depths – at which point he winks, his grin as shameless as the vulgar suggestion, and it takes every ounce of control Makino has not to seize in place like she’s been shot.

And she thinks it can’t get any worse, but then the word lover leaves his mouth, the poor sailor condemned as such, or the sea (she forgets, she’s too busy staring at his mouth to focus on what he’s actually singing). He elongates the sound of it, the slight upwards curl of his tongue after the last syllable seeming to hold it back, before he lets it go, and it drops like a shot of hard liquor down her throat, straight through the bottom of her stomach to her core, and she nearly shouts an excuse to escape into the storeroom.

She hears his laughter as it sends her off, and feels his eyes on her back as she makes her retreat, but like the slow warmth of his voice burning through her body, the word lingers in her mind much, much longer.

—

Ben wasn’t kidding, she discovers later, when she’s reemerged from the storeroom back into the fray, still with her wits half in tatters but clutched with the last, stubborn ounce of self-preservation she possesses that his voice hasn’t stripped away.

He lets the accent slip when he drinks.

Just as the stories he tells her become progressively more improbable, the vowels seem to cling a little longer to his tongue, and the constants have a sharper bite. He still laughs the same, if a little louder, but the accent creeps forth a little bit more with each drink knocked back.

“Another?” Makino asks, fingers curled loosely around the long neck of the bottle. Night has gathered in the far corners of her bar; soft, seductive shadows lengthening along the legs of chairs and tables, slipping under and between like thieving fingers up a woman’s skirt, and the low-hanging lamp weaves gold between the tightly woven straw of his hat, tipped back to reveal his face.

The sweep of his gaze lingers a moment on the placement of her hand, and Makino’s brows furrow, but just before she can ask what that look means she sees it – the suggestive image prompted by the way her fingers are wrapped around the base of the neck, and the slow raise of his brows has her dropping her hand from the bottle so fast she nearly knocks it over.

His eyes flick up to hers, laughter in them. “Slippery bottle?” he asks, innocently.

She glares, but fears the furious blush in her cheeks renders it somewhat ineffective. “Slippery fingers,” she counters, and with a look that dares him to comment on it.

Her look is ignored, and cheerfully. “Hmm. I’m surprised,” Shanks says.

The purse of her mouth betrays her irritation, but she doesn’t let herself stop to wonder why she’d expected more from him than presumptions based on an old, persisting stereotype. “Why?” she asks. “Because all tavern wenches are supposedly adept at handling – bottles?”

She stumbles over the last word. She doubts it slipped him by, from the warmth of humour in his eyes.

He didn’t mean offence, she realises, but the amusement on his face is so bright she feels like screaming at him anyway. “I don’t like to make assumptions about people based on their professions,” Shanks tells her, eyes glittering. “And I’m sure your bottle-handling is perfectly respectable.”

His smile crooks then, full of sensual mischief. “You have very deft hands,” he quips, and before she can choke out a protest, he’s forged on, “A firm grip, I’ll wager, but friction is a tricky thing. I should know – I’m a swordsman. You need a good, sure grip, or you’ll fumble your sword. Then awkwardness ensues, someone usually cries, usually me…No one wants that.”

She’s flushed so spectacularly Makino wonders if she isn’t about to pass out (and if it might be for the best, with the promise found in his eyes now, of even worse innuendo than he’s already subjected her to), but, “Another?” she asks, a half-strangled word, and doesn’t know if it’s meant to sound like a question or a command.

From the look on his face, she thinks Shanks might have preferred the latter.

“You know,” he tells her, nudging his tumbler forward for a refill, and she keeps her gaze on the glass, not his hand, tanned skin and strong fingers wrapped loosely around it, the pad of his thumb rubbing distracting circles on the crystal, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to get me drunk.”

She studiously looks at the tumbler, and concentrates on pouring his drink. She tries not to think about how she’s holding the bottle; if it’s as suggestive as it suddenly feels, her fingers curved around the long neck, gripping until her knuckles bleed white. “I’m just doing my job, Captain.”

“Mhm,” he says, the low hum followed by the lift of his glass to his lips, and it’s a feat to keep her eyes from latching onto his mouth now, and the bob of his throat when he tips the tumbler back, the glass fogging with his breath and his lips grazing the rim with an obscene smile.

She drops her eyes, and regrets it, finding little mercy in the open shirt that threatens to make her forget that she’s trying to run a business, taking in the distractingly bare chest and the hairs fanning downwards, from his sternum towards his abdomen and the loose sash hanging low at his waist, disappearing beneath it–

She shoves the bottle away and out of sight before she has to look at it another second.

Ben has made a strategic retreat, the traitor, and it’s just the two of them at the bar now, the din of the room behind him barely holding her attention despite the noise level, pushed to the back of her mind in favour of the way he’s enunciating his words, the incentive given by the drink coaxing forth odd little inflections from deep in the back of his throat, and after his most recent glass his voice yields a timbre she hasn’t heard before, a rough-edged, seductive purr.

“One more, my dear,” Shanks says, and by the deliberate stress put on the last word, the slight lilt of his accent sending it skipping across his tongue, Makino knows she’s been caught, even before his grin sweeps, wide and laughing along his mouth. “If you haven’t stashed that bottle away permanently, that is. Saving the rest for a special occasion? And here I thought my presence was occasion enough. Guess not.”

He doesn’t call her out on her poorly concealed scheming. Instead all he does is talk, but it’s not much better, Makino discovers, because he might not accuse her outright of trying to lure out old speech habits, but he’s more than ready to let her suffer for her curiosity, and happily, by the way he’s deliberately rolling his rs.

She’d be more upset about it if she had a mind to focus past the fact that it’s not a diluted accent that greets her now, but a concentrated shot of the real thing, sitting on his tongue like it’s always been there – the way it sometimes feels with him, sitting at her bar like he’s always been a regular, in her business and her life, patron and companion and something that she doesn’t have a name for yet, even if he does. And she doesn’t need him to say it for her to hear the implication, trickling between the syllables on his tongue with the promise of a kiss (and quite likely one with a good deal of tongue).

Except he doesn’t kiss her. All he does is continue to talk, about every conceivable topic between sky and sea, not a single touch offered, even accidentally. Instead all she gets is the occasional, fleeting glance and the knowing edge of an impish smile, but the way it leaves her feeling makes her wonder if this wasn’t more effective.

And knowing him, wholly, unashamedly deliberate.

—

She imagines it later, after closing when it’s safe to do so, when it’s just her and the quiet solitude of her bar, and his voice, an always-laughing caress against her memory.

And he has a fondness for endearments, but she imagines how her name sounds, each syllable tasted and spoken, rolled back and forth across his tongue, like the push and pull of a mouthful of scotch, smoky and sharp, or the sea against a ship’s hull, a salt-tinged kiss. She pictures the shape of it on that attractive mouth, and thinks about how he would speak it, laughing or gasping; as a plea, as an order.

She skips her chores halfway through her closing routines, thoughts otherwise preoccupied and her hands finding other means to keep themselves busy, the cool quiet of the storeroom swallowing her sounds and offering nothing else back where she’s hiked up her skirt and shucked every ounce of shame she’s ever possessed.

It takes her a little while, hands fumbling a bit (deft they might well be, but they’re small, slender fingers and knuckles without scars, her callouses rubbed soft and gentle, and his would be different, she thinks, and that’s what nudges her the rest of the way, imagining the feel of them within her, along with the rumbling sound of his laugh, and one more, my dear).

She’s so mortified later by her complete and utter lack of restraint she downs three glasses just to drown out the sound of him.

(it doesn’t really work, and in her half-embarrassed, half-sated daze she forgets to mop the floor)

—

The next morning she can barely look him in the eye.

He takes notice, of course, because she’s not exactly subtle about it, and when he tilts his head, bemusement pulling at the corners of his smile, and asks her, the accent just an echo now but his voice as warm and laughing as ever, “Did I come at a bad time?” Makino very nearly drops the glass in her hands at the underlying suggestion, although for once he isn’t even trying to be lewd.

It doesn’t help that there’s something like the beginnings of realisation kindling in his eyes, and for a whole, terrifying second she’s sure he knows exactly what she’s been up to.

But, “Nice day we’re having,” Shanks chirps, taking a seat at the bar, and the blatant redirection doesn’t even try to be anything but painfully obvious.

She feels like screaming again, but all it does is remind her of what she’d been doing the night before, and the memory has her fumbling so much with the glass in her hands she drops it in the sink.

“You okay?” he’s asking her then. “You look a little flushed.”

She curls her fingers together. “I’m fine.”

“You sure? You seem tense.”

She feels, a twinge hysterically, like laughing. “Believe me, I’m not.”

“Mm yeah. After last night, I didn’t think you would be.”

She fumbles the glass again, and it clatters back into the sink. When she looks at him, panicked, Shanks only blinks. “You seemed very relaxed, I mean,” he says, brightly. “With us. I’m tempted to say we’ve finally grown on you.”

She doesn’t manage to release her sigh discreetly enough, but it will have to do. She claims a small victory, and makes to pick up the glass again.

Then he smiles, and, “Sated is a good look on you, though,” Shanks says, and there’s nothing ambiguous about the tone of his voice or the look he gives her now, and when she drops the glass this time it shatters.

She scrambles for the shards, and for something to say – anything that will salvage the rest of the morning, and to keep her whole dignity from shattering as well, before she up and announces to his face that she’s been fantasising about him.

As it is, what she settles for isn’t much better.

“I like your accent!” she blurts, with about as much grace as if she’d downed a whole bottle with her breakfast (although at the rate this conversation is going, Makino wonders idly if she wouldn’t have fared better if she’d done just that).

“It’s, ah, nice,” she’s quick to amend, although it doesn’t really feel like she’s mending anything, just digging a deeper hole for herself, as she watches his grin widen with every word that sees fit to leave her mouth. “Is it common for West Blue?” she asks, and considers shoving the dish-rag into her mouth, if only to keep it from running.

Shanks is still grinning. “Variants of it,” he says. “A particular legacy of my mother’s, this one.” He cocks his head, and for a moment his eyes are far away; his smile too soft to be teasing. “I chucked it when I set out to sea. Wanted to sound more worldly.”

“Worldly?”

“Yeah,” he laughs. His grin turns suddenly sheepish. “When you’re trying to convince your captain that you’re not in fact thirteen years old, it helps not sounding like you just stepped off the farm in some remote, godforsaken village.” He slips her a wink. “Not that I have anything but the deepest fondness for godforsaken villages. Every good pirate knows you’ll find the loveliest treasures in the most remote places.”

She’s gaping now, too surprised for the compliment to even faze her. “You were thirteen?”

Shanks waves her off. “By the time they found out, Captain liked me so much he let me stay.” He shrugs, smile crooking a bit. “The accent didn’t. Guess it became part of the person I left behind when I decided to become a pirate.”

Makino just looks at him, seated on the other side of her bar – thinks about the whole life he’d lived before the moment he first stepped through the doors; the little tidbits offered like the occasional slip of his tongue, his thicker inflections and harder consonants (his mother, his village, his old captain).

She tries to imagine him at thirteen, a show of skilful misdirection put on to convince a ship’s captain to bring him aboard, and then all the cheek and innocence he must have offered when he was ultimately discovered.

“You’re making me reconsider the wisdom of that decision now,” Shanks tells her then, and her eyes leap up to meet his. And she’s sure her blush is as brilliant as she’s ever managed, by the open delight on his face now.

“I’ve heard that accents are usually a big hit with the girls,” Makino says before she can think it through, the attempt at a smooth redirection failing at redirecting anything. “I’m surprised you haven’t considered it before.”

His delight deepens, warming his expression with something that leaves her suddenly short of breath. “I guess it took the right girl liking it,” he tells her simply, the accent not an accidental slip of the tongue now, and she hears how he cradles the sounds on it, as though rediscovering the feel of them.

There’s a moment where all she does is look at him. And they’ve toed this line for weeks, stolen looks and touches and breaths, but she’s tempted to erase the whole thing completely now and drag more of the sound from his throat, with whatever means would do the trick.

By the way he’s looking at her, Makino doesn’t think he’d be hard to ask.

The doors to her bar swinging open shatters the moment like the glass in her sink, the arrival of the rest of his crew filling the cracks, and he’s quick to regain his composure – quicker than she is, heart still racing at a breakneck pace and her hands shaking, from his eyes holding hers and the lingering echo of his voice in her ears, imagined and real, the two overlapping until she can’t tell them apart.

A glance stolen over her shoulder tells her that her distraction hasn’t escaped him, and she doesn’t think he has talking in mind when he looks at her now. And if she’d been bolder she might have suggested he keep her company in the storeroom next time.

She doesn’t, because she isn’t – bold, that is.

Of course, going by the dry, enduring look Ben slides between them, Makino doubts she needs to say it aloud for either of them to hear it.

“Oh just eat your eggs,” she huffs at Ben, dropping the plate on the counter before him before striding off, steps short and want fisting her fingers in her skirt as she seeks an escape, preferably somewhere safe, except nowhere really feels like that, with Shanks’ laughter still in her ears, and his voice, that languid caress of his accent along the words, and I guess it took the right girl.

—

They eventually reach the point where flirting over the counter of her bar eases into something more physical, although she’s not surprised to discover that talking still features into it quite a bit.

She learns that in between everything else (he’s enthusiastic, he’s loud, he likes her on top, likes her back turned, he’ll steal her kerchief before any other piece of clothing; will tie her wrists and kiss her fingers with no less care than the rest of her), but it’s not a nervous habit, it’s as deliberate as everything else he does, and he knows what he’s doing, like he knows it doesn’t take more than his voice to unravel every single inhibition she’s ever cradled so safely, and every ounce of shame to go with them.

The low-spoken invocation of her name against her is what does it, the first time; the sound of it on his tongue and his tongue on her, the slightest flick of it against her entrance discarding the last syllable, before his mouth shapes the sound in a firm kiss. It doesn’t ease her into a climax, it shoves her clean off the edge, and his laughter is both delighted and amazed when it carries her down.

(his fingers are rough, just like she’d imagined, but there’s nothing rough about his handling, only that same, deliberate care shown, ever-mindful of her reactions, and the feel of them inside her is so good it’s almost too much to bear, they’re too large, too warm–)

The sound that leaves her takes Makino a second to recognise as her own, such a loud, unashamed declaration of pleasure that for a moment it’s all she hears, the echo ringing in her ears, between the walls of her bedroom, and punctuated by the almost startled grip of his hand on her thigh. Like he hadn’t expected it, either.

And she might have felt a twinge of vulnerability at having offered up herself in such a way, and so much of herself at that, but even if she does there are few regrets to be found in the eager and reverent kisses cushioning her descent, seeking the soft mound of her stomach, the insides of her thighs.

“Should have known,” Shanks tells her after, sunlight on the sheets of her bed and his hair a tangled mess from where she’d gripped a fistful of it. His laughter sounds sated, his accent thick and dripping rounder vowels from his tongue, savouring them, as though they taste of her now.

He’s draped himself across her bedding without reservations, stark naked and making no excuse about the fact, one large hand with a firm grip on her rear, his thumb drawing lazy circles on her hip.

She allows her eyes to rest on his chest, the hard, toned muscles that make up the shape of him the long-earned legacy of years of training; a swordsman’s life found in the pale scars on his skin, darkened from years on the sea under the sun.

Gaze sweeping lower, it’s to find him hard, the almost cheerful press of his length against her making new heat rise in her cheeks, but when she flicks her eyes up there’s no shame on his face, only a slowly widening smile that looks curiously adoring.

“A girl of words, you are,” he says then, the smile softening. “I should read you one of your books next time, see how that goes.”

She slaps his chest, grinning into his skin, smelling of him, and of her. It’s warm to the touch, the soft hairs on his chest pearled with sweat. Her bedroom smells like sunlight and sex, and she’s never been more ready to just curl up in his arms and sleep.

“Don’t you ever stop talking?” she asks, the words murmured into the skin at his collar. Her eyes have slipped shut, the sunlight burning red through her lids, heavy like the rest of her body, half-wrapped around his.

The hand curved around the back of her neck trails down her shoulder, to cup one small breast. It fits into his palm, a delicate contrast of size and shape; like the rest of her fits against him, smaller limbs and gentler curves finding harder edges to soften, and to lay her claim.

The flick of his thumb across her nipple precedes his mouth, the warmth of his grin around it leaving her lightheaded and the scrape of his beard against her skin prompting a small, mewling sound from her parted lips, and there’s still laughter in his voice when it rumbles out of him, “Let me stay the night, and you’ll find that no, I really don’t. I talk in my sleep, but I’ve been told it’s delightful.”

Her own laugh sounds breathless and spent, and when he tightens his grip on her Makino moves closer, slipping her arms under his to rest her cheek against his chest.

He kisses the top of her head. Her responding hum trickles out, a small sound of contentment.

“People are always telling me I’ll talk myself into an early grave,” Shanks muses then. She feels the rich tremor of his voice beneath her ear, the slight vibrations, deep and lovely; hears the slight curl to his rs, and the twang of his consonants.

She starts when he gives her ass a cheerful squeeze, before he quips with an audible grin, accent as thick as she’s ever heard it, “But if death is what my talking will give me, I’d rather it be a little one. And I’d rather it be yours.”

She snorts so hard she chokes on it, and then she’s laughing herself out of breath, all thoughts of sleep forgotten, feeling him returning her laughter, his naked body curved around hers, large frame protective and claiming and just a little bit insufferable, with the way he tries to trap her arms and her laughter both.

A kiss has him yielding, before a full surrender is offered to the careful brush of her fingers along his length, tempting a shuddering groan into her mouth. He’s large in her hand, all of him large compared to her, but when she nudges him onto his back he goes, strong limbs slack under her touches and the whole of him sprawled across her bed without pretence.

And he’s still talking, filthy promises and lewd jokes offered up to her kisses and no pause for breath between them, before it hitches with his words at the deliberate grip of her fingers, curled around him without embarrassment where he’s hard in her hand.

It shuts him up, she discovers, even before the first stroke turns a wordless groan of her name. He doesn’t even have the voice to make a quip about her respectable bottle-handling skills.

(understandably, Makino takes the opportunity to demonstrate them)

—

It starts to feel a little bit like hers, that part of him – the one that remembers who he was before he became a pirate, West Blue waters in his voice, and a heart that didn’t always belong to the sea.

He doesn’t let it slip often, the accent. It comes out when he drinks, and when he’s trying to make her laugh. When he sings he’ll hold her gaze and make a point of exaggerating it, but it’s a conscious effort, made for her, and it’s such an odd little thing to do just to make her happy, but she’s not the least bit surprised that he would.

And it’s a distraction, Makino knows, whenever the subject of their approaching departure for the Grand Line comes up. And maybe that’s for her sake, too, but maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s a little bit for his own sake, remembering the young man who’d had a home on land, once, before he found it on the sea.

It doesn’t make things better, not really, but – ten years, she thinks, and kisses his knuckles, and takes the promise like she takes his laughter, and everything else he can give her.

(it’s more than she thinks, she’ll realise one day, but wisdom in hindsight is an easier burden to bear than hope in the present)

—

It comes out when he drinks, when he sings and when he comes, but there’s a final thing that tempts his tongue to stumble over old, forgotten habits and vowels, although it brings her no joy to know it, and sitting at his bedside, eyes fixed on the bandaged stump of his left arm, Makino wishes she didn’t have to discover it this way.

“Hey,” Shanks says, voice a tired croak, the word seeming to pull loose of him before he’s even dragged himself fully into consciousness. And there’s a smile in the speaking, even as he seems too exhausted to manage one, and he slurs and stumbles over the words when he tells her, roughly, “You should get some sleep.”

It’s said with kindness, although the dip of his brow holds a quiet reproach. She hasn’t slept in twenty-four hours, and Makino knows she looks the part.

She also knows she can’t lie, but that’s never stopped her from trying. “I’m not tired.”

The corner of his mouth juts upwards, and the word curls off his tongue like a caress, an endearment rather than a reprimand, the two syllables bleeding together, into each other, every part of them touching and the last sound lingering a little longer before he lets it go. “Liar.”

She tries a different approach. “I don’t care that I’m tired,” she says. Pushing her hair behind her ears reveals it coarse and brittle to the touch, and she tries not to grimace at the feel of it. “Or that I look it.”

“You look beautiful,” he says, not a beat missed, despite the fact that everything else seems to take effort, his breaths heavy and laboured. “I’m the one with a three day beard and the violent fever sweat.” He spares a glance at his shoulder, and for a moment she can’t read the expression on his face. “Oh, and then there’s this. God, that thing really took a bite out of me.” He looks at her, his eyes bloodshot but his smile still quirks, tired and cheeky. “This is what I get for claiming I could get you off with one hand tied behind my back. I’m actually more surprised the irony didn’t kill me than I am that the amputation didn’t.”

Despite herself, Makino laughs. She can’t help it.

She can’t help the sob either, clinging to the back of it.

She doesn’t bother reaching up to wipe at her eyes, settling for wrapping her fingers around his instead, tucking them into his palm.

His expression softens – eases from lightly teasing into something a little more earnest. Of course, that doesn’t stop him from saying, “That look either means ‘Shanks, you’re being unfairly irresistible on your sickbed’ or ‘if you crack one more insensitive joke I will make sure it becomes your deathbed’.” He flashes her a half-delirious grin. “Of course, by deathbed you know I mean something else entirely. I’m ready to go when you are. Well, I’m not really fit to go anywhere, so you’ll have to come here.” His smile slants a bit, into a suddenly goofy thing, “And yes, I do mean that as a promise. You know I always deliver.”

Makino snorts into her sleeve. It does little to stem the tears, or her laughter. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry with you.”

“Are those the only alternatives?” he asks, and she tries not to be distracted by the way his tongue wraps around the last word. “I can think of a few more that are much better. Like that delightful little noise you make when–”

One of the discarded pillows finds his face, before she realises what she’s done, and then it’s a scramble to make sure he’s alright, although his startled laughter chases her touches away even before his fingers wrap around hers to keep them still.

“I was wondering what it would take,” he says, and holds her fingers captive when she tries to tug them loose. “You don’t have to treat me like I’ll fall to pieces,” he tells her, but not unkindly. “I’m not dead yet, although I know I probably look like I have one foot in the grave. I really hope I get it back, though, seeing as I’m a little short on limbs at the moment.”

At her unamused look, his grin only brightens. “I know, I’m terrible. Want to whack me in the face with the pillow again? I promise you that you’ll feel better. If you need other incentive, I have a few more comments in store, although I’m warning you, some of them are spectacularly filthy.” He seems to ponder the words a bit, and then, “You know what, some of them are actually my best work, so I think I’ll tell you either wa–”

She cuts the rest of the words off before he can finish, fingers slipped from his to cradle his face, and she feels their speaking, the shape of them on his mouth and the honeyed drip of the vowels on his tongue, pushing back against hers in a fierce kiss. The hand that had been gripping her fingers fists in her hair, and there’s no laughter in this kiss when she sinks her whole body into it, and into his.

Drawing back finds him slightly dazed, fever in his eyes and in the sweat coating his brow, but he doesn’t let go of her hair completely, the unrelenting grip loosening only slightly, before the weight of his palm settles over her neck.

“Don’t you ever stop talking,” Makino says, the words thick with a sob she hasn’t let go yet, and she can’t tell if she means it as a question or an order, the first a familiar, teasing quip, the second holding the desperation that had been left to fester while she’d sat at his bedside after the surgery and he’d been silent so long she’d started to imagine what it would be like if he never woke up again.

(she can’t remember the last thing he’d said to her before he lost consciousness; knows it must have been an assurance of some sort, but she doesn’t want it to be – doesn’t want anything he tells her to be the last)

Shanks looks at her, smile lifting slightly, and he probably has more to say to that, Makino knows (he always has something more to say; he’d chatter all the way across the river into the afterlife until the ferryman tips the boat and tosses them both in just to escape, but she’s not ready to let him go there yet, not into the river or beyond it), but all he says is, “You’ll live to regret those words one day.”

One day, he says, and this time she lets the sob go, along with a laugh that shakes something loose within her, but she doesn’t come apart, only sinks against his chest when he wraps his remaining arm around her back. And she doesn’t doubt what she means to say now when she speaks the words against the living throb of his pulse –

“You better make sure of it.”

—

He lives, and he leaves. Ten years pass. Things change – the world and the sea and the people on it, eddies of a new era stirring in once-familiar waters, reaching even as far as the quiet surf of her home.

She changes – grows a little more wary, and world-weary. She misses noise in her life, the one he’d brought once and left as an old echo, in her bar and her heart. She misses the loud boys who’d filled it after, gone now, too.

She watches the broadcast of the war, like the rest of the world. It’s the first time she sees him in ten years, the first time she hears his voice (her memories haven’t managed to hold onto it; not the laughing cadence, or the accent, or the way he’d say her name, and my girl, and heart), and she’s never felt so starved for it, but there’s little that’s familiar about the hard, clipped tones that greet her now. There’s no undercurrent of laughter and none of that smiling, teasing lilt to his words, just a sparse practicality of speech that sounds wrong, wrong on his tongue and wrong in her ears, and when the broadcast cuts off it severs something within her, too.

But the very worst thing is that it sticks, the memory of how he’d spoken on that battlefield. It sits in her mind, until it’s driven out everything else, those last few bits of him that she’d been keeping; the cheeky young man who’d set out to sea at thirteen, and the captain who’d barged into her life with all the intention of staying.

He didn’t stay, of course. She doesn’t know why she thought holding on to those parts of him would change that.

And he’s not coming back, she thinks, with a detached sort of acceptance. Or if he does, it’ll be a different man than the one who left her.

She doesn’t know which alternative is kinder, or even which one she’d rather have, if kindness isn’t what’s meant for her.

But then – are those the only alternatives?

The memory finds her, a small, long-forgotten thing, like a shard of glass having slipped between a crack in the floorboards, escaping the sweep of the years across her memory, tucked away and safely out of reach. And she finds his laughter in it now, finds his voice; the elusive sound that had been slipping through her fingers, long before the broadcast.

She doesn’t know whether or not to hold on to it now, or if it’s just disappointment it will bring her, trying.

(of course, the futility of trying with the expectation of failure has never once stopped her from doing just that)

—

She’s on the docks when steps off the gangway, months after the war. She’s been waiting since they spotted his ship, anticipation and hope and longing leaving a twisting knot of her insides, and she doesn’t know what to expect, or what she wants to expect (she’s afraid she expects too much, and that’s the worst thing, really; worse, even, than not remembering the sound of her name on his tongue).

She notes the differences that she knew would be there already – the harder edge to his movements, and the sharper lines of his face. The years have leeched away the last of his boyishness, the cut of his jaw a blade’s edge sharpened long past gentleness, and his features made severe by a thicker beard, a dark shadow on his sun-warmed skin. His eyes sit deeper in his face, more lines at their corners and between them. She finds the weight of the last ten years carried on his brow, in his eyes, on his broad shoulders.

His mouth is a hard, pensive line, the once-sensual curve of it yielding little of the smile she remembers, and the ache in her heart bleeds bruises under her skin, leaving her feeling raw and hurting, but then he lifts his eyes to find her –

The grin cleaves through the differences, but not to cut them away. Instead it settles, makes room for itself on his face like it had never been missing, all teeth and a bright, boyish delight that lights up his whole countenance, and so much she almost takes a step back in surprise. The lines at the corners of his eyes deepen, and she knows then that he’s spent the years laughing, and often, even before he does so now, a near-breathless chuckle that doesn’t even come close to the volume she knows he’s capable of, and all she can do is stand there with her heart cut open, bared to the air and the sting of salt from the sea.

Then he’s talking – an apology first, for keeping her waiting, followed by another for not having shaved first (“although I think it’s a good look on me. I don’t care what the guys say, I’m the prettiest vagrant this side of the Red Line”), and another for not calling in advance (“would you believe me if i said our Den Den Mushi escaped? Yeah, I figured that was a stretch. Truth is I wanted to surprise you, which by the looks of things I’ve managed pretty well, although I realise now that mortified look might also be because of the beard…”)

He doesn’t stop for breath, and Ben looks one second away from pushing him off the docks into the water, and still all Makino has managed is to stare.

His smile softens then, draws his altered features into something she knows, the harder lines making little difference to the warmth that settles across his expression, along his mouth, and deep in his eyes.

“Regretting your words yet?” Shanks asks, and that hasn’t changed, not the inflection or the desperate fondness behind it, his accent bleeding through, and with more ease than it used to. As though it doesn’t take him long to unearth it now; as though he’s reclaimed that small part of himself, one tether among many, to a life that doesn’t shift with the tides.

And he has more things to say, she knows, but she doesn’t give him the chance to open his mouth again before she’s covered the distance between them, hands gripping his cloak and her mouth pressed to his in a kiss that nearly knocks them both off the pier.

And that hasn’t changed, either, she thinks, his laughter swallowed by a kiss that has so much tongue the feigned mortification from the crew at his back chokes on their own mirth.

She’s always had a knack for shutting him up.

[lizthefangirl]

If Bellamy heard her.

Now on Ao3!

madeoficeandfire said: Do you think you could ever write about Bellamy receiving the messages, but not being able to respond??? Your writing is incredible

So this is now my second fanfic ever—and it’s a monster. The reception of the first one about Clarke’s radio log was so positive, I truly appreciate it!

By the way, I referenced this incredible article about the mysterious ship in the finale, that explains a lot about the Eligius Company. A fan actually pieced it together two months before the finale aired! 

Word Count: 5,209 

Enjoy!

-Liz.xx

The sunlight shone through the trees, onto her hair—green and gold. Clarke surveyed the valley beneath them, that little crease between her brows. “Not long now,” she murmured.

She always said these things. Cryptic, awaiting. Though he never got a real answer, he still ventured, “Until what?”

This time, she peered at him, eyes sad. “’Til you have to go.”

Bellamy stared, surprised. He shook his head slowly. “I’m not going anywhere, Clarke.”

She just smiled, stray locks of hair drifting over her face as she tilted her head to the sky. “But you already did,” she said softly.

He followed her gaze, heart hammering as he saw the rocket take off in the distance. “No,” he rasped. “No, I’m right here—”

She was gone. The trees bore a metallic sheen, branches becoming angular—square. Vines turned into tubing, stretching and elongating towards the horizon until he sat in a hallway, thousands of miles above—

99 DAYS 

He woke with a start, tremors wracking his body. As usual, his skin was slick with sweat, but he wasn’t warm—just the opposite.

An oxymoron, she quipped in his mind. 

Bellamy snarled, throwing the covers off of him and stumbling to the sink in the attached bathroom. The light flickered on at the movement, and he splashed water over his face and neck, suddenly feverish. 

He dabbed away the excess moisture on a towel, catching his reflection as he stormed out—bruise-like shadows beneath his eyes, cheekbones jutting. They’d all lost a bit of weight since they’d arrived on the Ark due to their new diet, but he could hardly keep down a meal the first couple weeks. 

Mind still addled by the dream, he wondered if she knew—had known—how she’d shaped him. He had always been malleable in her hands. She was right, of course, when she told him he lived by his heart; it was always the people he loved that drove him.

Most of them existed in memory, now.

There was a time, not so long ago, when knowing that his sister was safe—and she was, as safe as the ruined planet would allow—would have been enough. Always her, his whole life. 

He had never anticipated that another person would wrap her fingers around his heart, his lungs. That even in death, the grip would not relinquish, but hold firm.

Use your head, Clarke chided.

“Trying to,” he shot back, flopping onto the cot. “But you won’t get out of it.”

100 DAYS

Raven was fiddling with something in one of the main rooms early the next morning, as she had been for the past few days. She’d waved everyone off when they’d tried to ask about it, until she simply bit out, “Radio.” 

No one bothered her further, knowing that logic was the last thing she needed. 

Bellamy studied her, concerned. She looked worse than he did. Murphy told him this was how she had been in the lab—completely out of it. Only, she wasn’t now, he was sure. She was still present, just… focused. Obsessed. 

A high-pitched keen rang out, and he covered his ears. “Ow?”

She didn’t respond. Her movements had quickened in the last minute, eyes sparking. “C’mon,” she hissed, turning a knob. 

The same noise rang out, twice as deafening. He imagined his friends being startled awake, half-expecting to hear Murphy bellow from his quarters—

“I really need to go outside, Bellamy.”

He stopped breathing. 

Raven sagged, a slow smile crossing her features as Clarke—voice riddled with static, but still—Clarke—spoke again.

“I think I’ve memorized every inch of this fucking place—”

“Say something back!” he cried, hoarse. “Raven—”

“I can’t,” she whispered, eyes glassy. “But she’s there. She’s alive.”

He was shaking. He sank down next to her, bringing his ear to the speaker. 

“Even hoped there might’ve been a spare rocket tucked away someplace… If I could get up there to you, I would. I’d do anything.”

There was a click, and she was gone, leaving them in hollow silence. 

365 DAYS

Raven eventually installed the radio into the control room’s console, and the transmissions continued, every single day around the same time in the late night or early morning. Some were devastatingly brief, others went on for minutes. And every one of them was addressed to him. 

Eight months, and they still couldn’t find a way to radio her back—it was simply not possible with the equipment on hand, Raven informed them. 

Still, he would be a fool if he didn’t hold onto every word. 

The day after the first message, the others listened with varying levels of awe as her voice rang out in the next one. Even Murphy and Echo appeared to be suppressing emotion. 

“I, uh. I started drawing again.”

These words came one year after Praimfaya, and he alone heard them. The others had not joined him that night to listen, and he was glad for it, moved by their understanding.

“Wish I could see,” he murmured back, mouth curving into a grin.

“I haven’t told you before, because… I dunno. I’ve drawn all seven of you—even Echo. You’re hard to draw, did you know that? Not because you’re too handsome to be properly rendered on paper. Don’t flatter yourself, Blake.” He snorted. “I think it’s the hair. Or maybe the eyes…” Her voice grew slurred with sleep. “Or the freggles. Hm…” 

After a minute or so of silence, he clicked off the radio. That night, he went to sleep with a smile on his face for the first time he could recall in over a year.

410 DAYS

He stood outside of her old cell. 

Since he’d forced himself to check the surviving prisoner records a week before to confirm its location, he had come here every night, unable to enter. He had the code memorized, but his legs seemed hardwired to the floor. 

Her transmissions were everything. And… nothing. They were ephemeral, there and gone. But this room… She’d been held inside during one of the darkest times of her life, and he was afraid of what he’d find within. Yet it called to him—she called to him.

So he used his head to open his heart, dialing the numbers into the key pad until a faint beep sounded. The door slid away, dim lights flickering to life.

Blood pounded in his ears at the sight of walls covered in drawings—exquisite sketches of all that existed on the ground. He recognized the monuments they studied in history books, as well as the various plants and animals. Her bunk was untouched. He hadn’t realized his legs had carried him forward until he glimpsed at his feet.

It was a night scene, a slender moon hovering above the trees, reflecting onto a lake below. An image that neither of them imagined they would ever see, years ago. A memory brushed at the back of his mind as he studied the sea of stars.

I wouldn’t even know what to wish for, he’d said to her once. 

He knew now. Every second, he knew. 

Careful not to smudge the marks, he lowered himself beside them, welcoming the exhaustion that swelled and dragged him under.

521 DAYS

“I went outside today. I went outside and I didn’t die!”

All seven passengers laughed (at least, the five that were capable of freely expressing emotion), sharing in her relief. Monty cuffed the back of his neck. 

“Maybe someone else is alive, after all… Maybe they’re even cute.”

This drew chuckles all around, and Bellamy vowed that he’d deny the heat that rose in his cheeks at her words until his dying day. 

702 DAYS

“Bellamy. Your rover is trying to kill me.”

He beamed at her irked tone. He had wondered if she would locate it. It had been Monty’s suggestion, to stash it away with some extra fuel—on the off chance of survivors, he’d reasoned.

She was certainly that.

For a few minutes, the feed went silent, until the strong hum of the engine crackled over. “I have conquered the beast,” she announced. “Raven will be so proud.”

She was, when he told her the next morning.

902 DAYS

“I found some guns on the opposite end of the island. They were tucked away in a barrel, just like the ones we found that first year on the ground. Only, these were in pieces.

“… You remember that, Bellamy? That was… quite a trip.”

Did he remember? He loosed a breath, exasperated. Did he remember. 

Long before now, the memories of that day—however warped by the hallucinogens they’d ingested—met him frequently. In the time she’d been away after Mount Weather, he would abruptly recall those odd, tender moments as he loaded his rifle, hands faltering in the memorized movements.

It was all fleeting sensations: His arms circling her own, such a natural gesture until the vaguely soapy, earthy scent of her hair hit his nose. Until he became aware of his heart stuttering in his chest at the way she held the weapon, with such stubborn determination. The realization that she was letting him touch her, instruct her—such a departure from their initially venomous encounters.

It had stolen the breath from his lungs, and thoroughly complicated things.

Clarke had gone quiet on the radio, but he lingered. When the words came through, his quiet fondness vanished at her quivering voice. “Bellamy, I… I hope you’re alive. I hope you all are. But if you aren’t—”

A sob tore from her throat. He stared at the speaker in wounded shock, flinching as he heard a sharp crack, as if she’d dropped her own. Panic flared, but he forced it down, waiting, waiting—

“I’ll see you again,” she said, words clipped with resolve. She was so accustomed to silence, and he hated it. How many times over that year on the ground had he wanted to reach for her, comfort her, and decided against it? Wasted it?

“Yes, you will,” he strained anyway, knuckles white on the edge of the console. “You will, Clarke.”

1,109 DAYS

“So you will never believe what happened today,” she hissed. “I found another person. A little nightblood girl named Madi.”

Today, Bellamy sat with Echo, of all people. She’d slinked into the room to listen. Even after three years in a confined space, they didn’t exactly have a friendly report, but they were civil enough. She cooperated with the rest of the team, and came in handy as he’d anticipated with tasks involving brute strength or a warrior’s precision. He couldn’t help but be moved by her moments of restrained surprise at the eternal night around her over the months—both hers and Emori’s. Each time it happened, he’d see Octavia in her makeshift mask, beaming as she gazed out the window. 

Echo’s eyes widened as she heard the news. Clarke went on to tell them how the child had travelled to the island on a raft, following her mother’s instructions. He was struck by the same awe in her soft words.

“Bellamy, I’ve never had a… Someone younger than me. You had Octavia, and I… I know I just found her, but I don’t want anything to happen to her. I won’t let anything happen to her.”

He felt… He couldn’t name it, exactly. Pride? Relief? Echo’s staunch eyes were on his face, and he glanced at her, emotions shuttering. “What?”

She remained expressionless, but only just, a lilt to her full mouth. “You were smiling,” she said.

1,481 DAYS

The crew aboard the Ark was enraptured by word of Clarke’s new companion. They listened eagerly over the next year as she would recount the girl’s steady progress in learning English, her existing knowledge of hunting and wildlife from Trikru, and general quirks she possessed that seemed to amuse Clarke to no end. Some while ago, the pair had decided it was time to return to the mainland, check on the remnants of Polis and the surrounding territories. All of them were anxious to know the state of the bunker and those it held.

Clarke told them of the failed vessels they’d constructed together to carry themselves, supplies, and the rover, though her hopeful tone never erred. At last, they successfully hit the current, using the satellite in the lab to ensure an ideal sailing forecast. She gave limited reports in the days of the voyage and Bellamy’s stress would subside each time they arrived. 

On the third day, her transmission was delayed longer than all the rest—by almost a full twenty-four hours. Everyone had paused in their tasks, riddled with worry. 

“We’ve hit the mainland,” she crowed, causing her friends start suddenly. Many were keeled over with sleep. Their eyes cleared quickly as they processed the information. “The rafts worked. Even the one for the rover.” In the background, high, muffled cheering rang out. “I can’t believe we pulled it off, after all of those tests—”

“I want to talk to him,” a young voice announced. 

The others exchanged bemused looks, and he shot them a withering expression, flushing. They had heard Madi speak several times, but never directly into the receiver. Nerves crept into his gut at how important this child had become to Clarke—to all of them.

Then she spoke, plain as day. “Bell-amy. Clarke says that you are tall.” 

Stunned silence swept the room, promptly shattered by peals of laughter. He waved at them to be quiet, even though a low chuckle had bubbled passed his lips at her matter-of-fact tone. 

The child continued, only a vague inflection to her words, which came quite smoothly. “It is night and the moon is full. You have black hair, and my hair is brown. Almost black.” Finally, she finished through a yawn, “I want to see the ship, please.”

Harper brought a hand to her mouth, eyes lined with silver. Monty smiled sadly. Murphy’s eyes went to the floor, though Emori’s hand tightened around his. Raven stared at the controls as if she could see the wiring beneath. Echo lifted her chin slightly, face blank. 

Bellamy wordlessly rose out of his chair and walked out. They knew better than to follow him. 

He didn’t leave Clarke’s cell until the next transmission was due to arrive, and when it did, he listened alone.

1,623 DAYS

“Bellamy, the temple collapsed. The bunker is sealed underneath. I’ve tried to reach them on the radio, but it still isn’t working.”

“I am so sorry, Bellamy. I thought… I thought…” 

The knowledge struck the group like a blow. They’d all seen Polis leveled in the lab. They knew the planned protocol: Five years of resources, of refuge, and then… The last of the clans was to rise from the ashes.

Perhaps it hadn’t occurred to them that the ashes simply would not permit it.

1,795 DAYS

“A month,” Clarke said faintly, desperately. “You could be back here in a month, Bellamy. You could—you could meet Madi, and…” She paused, catching her breath. “Thirty days. Why do I get the feeling they will be longer than the past 1,795?” She laughed weakly.

Thousands of miles above, Bellamy squeezed his eyes shut, an empty glass in hand, the nearly drained Baton sitting before him with hardly a finger left.

Because it wasn’t thirty more days. It would be another hundred. Two hundred. Another year, at most.

And she couldn’t know. He couldn’t tell her. 

He eyed the liquor. 

“I miss you. I need you back here—”

He almost dropped the glass as he lunged to click off the radio, forcing himself to exhale. He knew the exact date he would finally down the remaining contents, yet he sat tempted each night, contemplating it until his vision blurred.

Use your head. This time, the command was in his own voice, not hers.

He put the bottle away.

1,825 DAYS

He wouldn’t drink from it when the day finally came. For the first time in a little under five years, he didn’t tune in to her message. No, he would put as much space between himself and that transmission as possible.

When he arrived at Echo’s quarters, he told himself he was still following Clarke's instructions—using his head. Because it was a plain fact that the kind of pain ripping through him could be stifled by only a few things, and alcohol wasn’t strong enough. His arm didn’t feel like his own as he rapped on the door. She answered it almost immediately. 

No words came, but he could see that she had anticipated this on some level. And he wholeheartedly expected her to let him enter—not because he was entitled to her or anyone, but because she understood ravenous emotion, and what relieved it. 

But she did not shift. She merely looked at him, unyielding. “It will not be enough,” she said at last.  

He blinked. “I know.”

“It will not help you.”

At this, he glanced away, jaw working. “You don’t know that.”

“I do know,” she spat. 

He met her eyes, saw the fractures there and swallowed his shame. “Please,” he breathed, voice cracking.

She held his gaze. “Azgeda has a proverb,” she began. “’Kom ai tombom, ai nou slip daun.’” He pieced the words together a moment before she translated, “’To my heart, I do not fall.’” 

“That’s a shitty proverb,” he said dryly, dismissing her cold expression. “It’s not possible. We all fall to it, in the end.”

She did not respond, only leaned out slightly, looking towards the end of the hall. A window revealed the curve of the earth, an ember still smoldering after all these years. “Or we rise above it,” she murmured. Some emotion had surfaced on her face, and he quickly averted his eyes. The entire basis of his being here was detachment, which had managed to dissolve in the person who wore it best. 

“Tell me what to do,” he pleaded roughly. “Don’t tell me to fight it. To overcome it, because I can’t. I won’t. I—I left her five years ago, and I’m leaving her again today.” His eyes stung in wake of the truth, pressure building in his chest. 

He was relieved that there wasn’t a whisper of sympathy on her face as she studied him. But a wrinkle formed between her brows, as much expression as he’d ever seen from her. She seemed to steel herself before she spoke. “My king banished me, and still I tried to save him,” she said huskily. “The only time that I have saved someone is you, when we arrived here. And that was fulfilling a life debt.”

He dipped his chin, remembered finding her upstairs, covered in warpaint with a blade to her gut. The woman who he had saved once before in Mount Weather, who had killed Gina, who would have gladly killed his sister. When he stopped her the second time, it was because she would be an asset to the group. It was because time was running out and Clarke had not returned, and she would not have let her die. 

“Do not waste my efforts by breaking yourself further, Bellamy,” Echo ordered. “And do not dishonor her fealty to you after all this time.” 

He stiffened at the words, left gaping at the door as it slid closed. 

1,833 DAYS

“You sure?” 

Monty spoke, sitting with Raven and Bellamy in the control room. For the past week, he’d been unable to listen to the transmissions. The others had, though—and each one looked ill afterwards. But he needed to hear her voice, even if it was agonized. He needed to face this. 

“Yeah,” he rumbled. Monty still hesitated, glancing at Raven before turning on the radio, which had notified them of an incoming signal a moment before. 

“—been five years, and a week. It’s been five years.” 

She sounded hysterical. Bellamy bent until his forearms rested on his thighs, fingers curling into fists to keep them from trembling. 

“Clarke?” Madi’s voice was barely a ripple in the static. 

“I told you to go to sleep, Madi. I’m sorry, please just—go to sleep.” A pause, then louder, sharper: “Please! I can’t talk to you right now, I can’t—it’s been five years. It’s been five years, and he’s not—” Her voice cracked. “Oh, God. Bellamy.”

The feed cut out. 

He covered his face with his hands, unable to conceal his wheezing gasps, the way his shoulders quaked. He heard Monty’s shoes scuffle against the floor, a placating hand appearing on his shoulder, squeezing tight. Raven rubbed soothing circles on his back, pressing herself close. Both of them barely controlled the sounds of their own grief. 

“She’s strong, Bellamy,” Monty said a while later, after they’d parted. “She won’t give up.”

“Neither will we,” Raven finished, quiet and fierce.

He could tell that they truly believed what they said, and he willed himself to do the same.

2,059 DAYS

Clarke’s words did not stop coming. Slowly, their tone seemed to shift to something like determined optimism. A little over half a year later, she reported that they had found other nightblood children hiding away in Polis, and had managed to convince them to join their ranks. Together, with the oldest of the eight, they continued to attempt to remove the rubble blocking the bunker, to no avail.

“But if I know your sister,” she told him, “there’s no way she isn’t still fighting.”

He smiled a bit, gazing out one of the windows he so often evaded of late. 

The repairs to the rocket were nearly finished. Various studies were completed that could prove helpful to the planet below. Raven now estimated they would be on the ground in a few months.

Hope flared in him, and he clutched to it with all he had.

2,061 DAYS

“Madi found this spot for us the other day, overlooking Azgeda territory. The mountains.” 

Bellamy’s crew was prepping for the trip to the ground.

“It’s so beautiful. She told me she wants us to come here everyday so that I can talk to you, and she can have her lessons in peace.”

Each day, information was finalized, forecasts were checked. Trajectories. Emergency procedures.

“Her English is so good. You can barely hear the accent anymore. I’ve said it before, but you really would love her, Bellamy. All of the kids, I think.”

He glanced up from the inventory list he was reviewing at her final statement.

Exercising reason was key to surviving up here. He managed it well enough, though his dreams were exempt from control. As the remaining days until the departure dwindled, his dreams seemed to explore both the greatest joys and the worst horrors of his imagination. They fluctuated randomly, and he desperately wished for something to force them away altogether. Last night, it was one of the too-good ones (though the too-bad ones usually started that way). 

He stood on that overlook she’d described at dusk, surveying a sort of party. Madi—who usually appeared in his dreams suspiciously similar to a young Octavia—played with the other Grounder children around a fire, leaping and twirling. The rest of the Ark crew sat in their own parties: Monty and Harper—who cradled an infant in her arms—and John and Emori, smiling down at the child. Echo, sitting stoically with Roan, was dressed like an Azgeda queen. Raven was laughing with Sinclair over some broken device, her leg brace gone; Jasper was drunkenly slow-dancing with Maya, howling the lyrics to some song and dipping her in his arms. Kane and Abby stood by Thelonious and Wells Jaha, chuckling warmly with Miller and Bryan. 

And just across the clearing, Bellamy’s sister met his eyes from where she sat with Lincoln, flashing a grin. 

Best and worst of all, he felt no fear, no guilt when Clarke Griffin appeared at his side, rising on her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek like it was the most natural act in the universe. She smiled at him fondly, hair shorn to her jaw, and handed him a glass before lifting one of her own. “How about that drink?” she said quietly, eyes sparkling in the firelight as they had on a night years before. 

It was an impossible future by all accounts, he told himself. And for that he was grateful. 

2,199 DAYS

“Medical stock is good,” Murphy said flatly as he entered the control room with Emori.

“So is fuel,” piped Harper.

“And water,” said Echo.

Bellamy nodded at them, marking the items off his list. “Good. Raven, is the final check done on the repairs?”

“Yeah,” she panted, swiping a hand over her forehead. She held her helmet under her arm. “Everything looks right.”

“And probably won’t explode,” Monty added cheerfully from her side, also in his suit. 

Bellamy breathed in through his nose. “Even better.”

Everything was set for them to leave, but the weather forecast suggested it was best to wait another two to three days. He’d be damned if they stayed a moment longer than that, regardless of what it predicted.

“Hey, Clarke should be on,” Harper said, walking to the radio and clicking it on. He didn’t look up from where he worked, but listened closely as the familiar high-pitched squeal broke into static, and then her voice.

“—can hear me—if you’re alive—it’s been 2,199 days since Praimfaya.”

The crew settled around the room as her relaxed voice filled it.

“I don’t know why I still do this everyday, maybe it’s my way of staying sane, not forgetting who I am—who I was. It’s been safe for you to come down for over a year now, why haven’t you?”

He stopped writing, as he always did when she said things like that.

“The bunker’s gone silent too, we tried to get them out for a while, but… there was too much rubble, I haven’t made contact with them either. Anyway, I still have hope—”

You still have hope? she’d asked him in Arkadia six years before, voice thick with tears.

He didn’t know where his next words came from. But it was a fact, and those were good—certain. We still breathing? he’d replied.

They were. 

“Tell Raven to aim for the one spot of green and you’ll find me. The rest of the planet from what I’ve seen basically sucks. So—”

His head bobbed up as her words cut away, feeling concern spreading amongst the others as the moments passed. And then—

“Never mind,” she breathed, “I see you.” 

“What the fuck?” Murphy blurted. 

Bellamy blinked in bewilderment, waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t, he practically threw down his tablet, surging for the radio. He pressed the call button as hard as he could. “Clarke,” he rasped. “Clarke.”

Raven’s voice was thin. “Bellamy—”

He cursed, bringing his fist down onto the speaker with such force that it crackled and keened. “Enough,” he barked, turning to the others, their faces drawn. He pointed at the window.  “I do not give a shit if the third apocalypse is waiting for us down there. We have to go—”

Someone else said his name, but he couldn’t—

Who did she see—

Ice kissed his throat, and he jolted. Hands clamped down on his arms. 

But all he saw was Echo, glaring at him over her short-sword she always carried, the blade’s edge poised at his jugular. “Kom ai tombom, ai nou slip daun,” she hissed. 

To my heart, I do not fall.

He panted, blood pounding in his ears.

The only way to make sure we survive, Clarke whispered in his head, Is if you use this, too. A phantom finger tapped his temple. 

He relaxed his muscles with a shallow gasp, and waited. The grips on his arms loosened, but Echo did not retreat until he met her eyes. She read his, and stepped away, lowering her weapon. 

They watched him warily. “Raven,” he croaked. “Check the forecast again.”

He didn’t look at her as she complied, fingers clicking rapidly over a keyboard. “It’s the same,” she reported tightly. “Strong storms across Clarke’s region over the next two days, clearing out on the third.”

“She definitely saw a ship,” Monty said quietly. “You could hear it.”

“We haven’t seen another ship in six years,” Emori choked.

“Wait.” They all looked at Raven. Her brow narrowed, then her eyes widened. “I—hang on. Hang on.” She limped out of the room, Monty glancing back at them in confusion before following her. Harper went next, then Emori. Soon, all seven dashed through the corridor, Bellamy and Murphy at the tail.

Raven sat before a screen in one of the labs, typing frantically. “All records were synced from Becca’s lab. I’ve read them all since we got here, and there was one… Shit, what was it—here.” A window popped up, containing what appeared to be an old article. The headline read:

CONTACT LOST WITH ASTROID MINING PENAL COLONY

“It was called the Eligius Mining Company,” she explained. “Jackson and Abby… God, it was so long ago, and I’m pretty sure I thought I was imagining it with Becca in my head, but they found some stuff about this while researching nightblood. Which should be in the database…” She made a triumphant noise and another window popped up. “This must have been the record they saw. Criminals were sent to space in hypersleep for long-duration missions. And Becca was supposed to give them nightblood to protect them from solar radiation.” She laughed once and sat back, breathless.

“So… they’ve been woken up, now,” Harper ventured carefully. “Sent back to earth?”

“I mean, it has to be them,” Raven said. “We couldn’t track them on the Ark because they aren’t in range—there are plenty of viable astroids to be mined. Tens of thousands.”

Monty remarked, “Maybe we never found them because we never really looked. Earth was always the priority.”

“Did you say criminals?” Murphy asked.

Everyone went quiet. 

“It’s the same,” Bellamy murmured. “It’s the same as six years ago. A batch of delinquents sent to the ground… But Clarke is the Grounder, plus Madi and the others. They might be the only ones. Everyone else is still in that bunker—”

“Mountain men,” Echo whispered. He nodded, grim. 

“We can’t land yet,” Raven said, shaking her head absently. “We have to get to her—alive. We can’t risk leaving too soon.”

“And if they kill her and the kids first?” Murphy said. 

Emori smacked his arm. “John.” 

“What?”

“They won’t,” Bellamy said firmly, reading the bolded words on the screen a final time before meeting their eyes, one by one. “Because they don’t know what they’re dealing with.”

A slow, feral grin spread over Echo’s face. “Wanheda.”

“No,” he said, thinking about the walls of the prison cell, covered in images of Earth. “Hope.”

[misssophiachase]

One Summer, three best friends, a fortune teller and a mysterious new arrival in town.

I Can See Clearly Now

“I can see clearly now the rain is gone, I can see all obstacles in my way.”

June 19 - Virginia

Looking back, Caroline blamed her unexpected discovery on boredom that summer. The temperature had hit a stifling 103 degrees mainly due to low cloud cover containing the heat and the girls piled into the car headed for the cool sanctuary of the movie theatre to catch the latest Nicholas Sparks adaption. 

Well, that’s what Bonnie and Caroline wanted to see. Katherine on the other hand preferred a lot less mush, as she liked to put it, and a lot more violence. Knowing her dogged determination, Caroline knew this was going to be a difficult argument to win.

They’d been best friends since they were six. Class bully Jimmy Johnson had been teasing Bonnie mercilessly and one day went too far, earning himself a smack from both Caroline and Katherine. The girls still maintained that their ‘time out’ punishment was more than worth it to see him return to school with two very attractive, black eyes. After that he’d never messed with Bonnie again.

Now here they were about to embark on their Senior Year of High School. All Caroline had ever wanted was to leave Mystic Falls but even now she was beginning to feel nostalgic for the only place she’d ever called home. Not to mention her best friends. They’d chosen not to discuss their plans for the following year, too scared to contemplate separating.

“Um, last time I checked the cinema is in that direction, Katherine,” Bonnie gestured behind them.

“Who needs GPS when I have Bonnie Bennett barking directions at me from the backseat.”

“Well, she does have a point, Kat,” Caroline chimed into the conversation. “Surely the prospect of Nicholas Sparks isn’t bad enough to make you drive in the complete opposite direction.”

“Ah yeah he is, that Notebook movie you guys made me watch has scarred me for life.”

“It’s okay, we promised not to tell anyone you cried,” Bonnie mused.

“There was something in my eye, I told you that,” she shot back. “Anyway, I just thought we could do something a little different today. You know given it will be our last high school summer and all.” The dread lingered between them for a while, each girl feeling the overwhelming sadness that came with that very fact.

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Bonnie murmured, finally breaking the silence.

“You’ll love it, trust me.”

“The last time she said that I ended up dancing on the bar at the Mystic Grill in a tequila fuelled haze,” Caroline recalled.

“And look how much fun you had. Well, you know after the hangover subsided.”

“And the subsequent grounding from the Sheriff. Katherine, she was this close to pressing charges against her own daughter for public drunkenness.”

“Yeah those were good times,” Caroline drawled, raising her eyebrows. “Please tell me this little surprise doesn’t involve illegal activity of any kind?”

“You two really are boring,” she muttered, checking out her appearance in the rearview mirror. “But no this isn’t illegal, well not that I know of anyway. If I’m being honest, I’m not completely across the laws in Maryland.” The girls were rendered speechless just as the 'Thank you for visiting Mystic Falls’ sign rushed past their windows.

3 and half hours later - Maryland

“You brought us all the way to Maryland for this?” Caroline scoffed, throwing open the car door and stepping out before slamming it shut with a bang. “Some fortune teller called Madame Ophelia? I mean as if that’s even her real name.”

“More like Madame needs a new marketing image,” Bonnie murmured, taking in the run down, brick house with the makeshift wooden sign outside that looked as if it was going to topple over at any moment.

“Mock all you like but Madame Ophelia is considered one of the best mediums in North America. According to Psychic Weekly her predictions have proven to be eerily correct time and time again. Her services are highly sought after but I managed to get us appointments. You can thank me later, ladies.”

“Well, you’d think with all that talent she could afford to fix that rickety, front path and tame that unruly wilderness over there that kind of resembles a garden.”

“Come on, live a little,” Katherine pleaded, making her way up the path.

“I am not going in there,” Bonnie baulked. “I’d rather not live out a real life rendition of Hansel and Gretel.”

“Yeah especially without the enticing gingerbread house for added inducement,” Caroline joked just as a loud crack of thunder sounded out and fat drops of water began to fall from the sky. Usually the rain would provide some relief but given the temperature was still so high it only made the conditions more humid. “Just great.”

“If this isn’t a sign, I don’t know what is, Katherine,” Bonnie squealed, just as the rain began to fall in sheets. “Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

“You can but I’m going in and last time I checked I was the one holding the keys to the locked car, so it’s your choice to either get extremely soaked or come with me,” she teased, dangling the keys in front of them teasingly. Bonnie and Caroline regarded each other seriously knowing they didn’t have much choice and followed her inside out of the pouring rain.

“You like to be in control,” Madame Ophelia said to Caroline a half hour later.

It was more like a statement than a question and Caroline was entirely too dubious to properly reply. The inside of her house had been just as run down as the outside and there seemed to be a severe shortage of lighting except for the unmistakable glow emanating from her crystal ball as she peered at Caroline. Her dark grey hair was piled on top of her head in a bun, a coloured scarf wrapped over the top.

“I didn’t think crystal balls were real,” she scoffed, by way of response. “Much like this whole facade you’ve created here.”

“They aren’t, same as this ridiculous outfit. I just use these elements to add a little bit of theatre, people apparently like that sort of thing. I’m guessing you’re not one of them.”

“No offence but I just don’t believe in this whole thing.”

“I’m getting that vibe from you.” Her heavy set wrinkles even more so pronounced as she said it. “Katherine is very much a believer although I’m not entirely sure she agreed with my assessment of her future.”

“Don’t take it personally, she’s high maintenance,” Caroline snorted.

“Bonnie is very closed off although I think that had more to do with the fact she was so scared.”

“Well, you might want to look at improving your customer service then. Redecorating this place might be a good start, Madame Ophelia. You know, if that’s your real name.”

“It’s Gertrude but I didn’t think it had the same ring to it,” she smirked, playfully. “You could never be frightened, Caroline,” she smiled, knowingly. “In fact, your inner energy is extremely powerful. You’re very different to your friends.”

“Different how?” Now Madame Ophelia had her attention.

“You know what you want and aren’t afraid to follow your dreams,” she added. “I have no doubt you will be a successful journalist, in fact Brown University will be very lucky to have you in their class next year.”

She felt the breath hitch in her throat. Her lifelong dream had been journalism and Brown was at the top of the list. How did she know that? Maybe this psychic thing wasn’t so bad, as long as she was telling the truth of course. Before Caroline could ask about future job possibilities she continued. “But that’s not the most pressing future event I can see.”

“Excuse me?” What could be more important than her future career?

“I can see him.”

“Him?” She squeaked. Was she referring to a possible love interest? Caroline had always placed romance at the very bottom of her cluttered list of life goals.

“He’s foreign. Dark, blonde curls, blue eyes and lips the colour of deep crimson.” Caroline couldn’t respond mainly because she didn’t know what to say or what this all meant. “You’ve both been looking for each other without really knowing it.”

“Who is he?”

“Your soulmate.”

“I don’t believe in soulmates,” she uttered.

“You will,” she smiled, knowingly. “Now, I believe our time is up.”

“But,” before she could argue further, Madame Ophelia was gone. Caroline wasn’t sure whether it was an optical illusion she’d employed to add to the theatrics or whether she’d been wrong about her. The skeptic in her wanted to believe the former but something was telling Caroline not to discount her abilities.

Three hours later - Maryland/Virginia border

“Obviously Madame Ophelia knows nothing about me,” Katherine ranted. Caroline rolled her eyes from the backseat wondering when she was going to finally stop whining. This thing was her whole idea in the first place after all. “And when the hell is this damn rain going to stop!” The summer storm had been relenting and the water was beating heavily against the windshield as the sun was beginning to set lazily on the horizon.

“She said you were highly ambitious and were going to be an extremely successful Harvard trained lawyer. I’d say she knows you pretty well,” Bonnie offered.

“Harvard has been your dream ever since I’ve known you, Kat,” Caroline added, trying to ignore Madame Ophelia’s prediction about her mystery soulmate. She figured no one could get everything right. Brown was what she wanted not some unnamed blonde.

“That I can handle,” she growled, looking into the mirror at her friend briefly. “But she obviously doesn’t know my taste in men. Apparently I’m going to meet some serious, thoughtful and protective brunette who is going to change my perception of things.”

“How is that a bad thing?”

“Well Bonnie, serious isn’t really my type. You realise serious is just another word for boring, right?”

“Last time I checked it isn’t,” Caroline shot back.

“Only you would have memorised the thesaurus,” she groaned. “Whatever the case, Katherine Pierce is not interested in someone like that.”

“Woah, she’s referring to herself in the third person, this must be serious,” Bonnie joked from the passenger seat. “Oh sorry, pardon the pun.”

“It’s so easy to joke when you find out that not only architecture at Stanford is a sure thing but so too a cheeky, brunette that challenges everything you’ve ever believed. Maybe we should swap future, mystery men?”

“I don’t think our destinies are interchangeable.”

“Come on you guys,” Caroline interrupted. “Do you really believe in all of this stuff?”

“And what exactly was your reading, Care?” Katherine asked, slowing down as they entered the main street of one of the smaller towns on their route. “You’ve been reluctant to share so far.”

“It’s not important,” she murmured, eyes downcast all of a sudden. For some reason she’d been too afraid to relay the details given it would make it all the more real and Caroline wasn’t ready to entertain some guy who may or may not be her soulmate.

“Oh come on, that’s not fair,” Katherine argued, turning around briefly to send her a dirty look.

“Katherine, look out!” Bonnie cried, just as her car ran straight into the back of a black SUV. The jolt from the impact was immediate and Caroline felt herself repelled forward into the back of the driver’s seat.

“Ouch,” she moaned, finally coming to from the initial shock. “This is why I don’t like driving with you, Pierce.” The girls emerged from the car slowly to inspect the damage. Funnily enough the rain had all but stopped as they did. 

“It’s not my fault that driver was going like ten miles an hour which is like thirty-five below the speed limit in this area,” Katherine growled, rubbing her forehead. “I bet snails could drive faster than this grandpa.”

“Grandpa?” A stern voice exclaimed. “Not only do you run into me but you have the audacity to insult me too?" 

Although shaken, Caroline had to admit the stranger was extremely good looking with his English accent and in that fitted, dark suit. She was slightly relieved he was a brunette given Madame Ophelia’s earlier prediction about her supposed, blonde foreigner.

"Well,” she began. Bonnie and Caroline knew she was about to erupt in true Katherine Pierce fashion if they didn’t intervene and given the accident was clearly her fault they didn’t want to exacerbate the situation any further.

“How about we all talk about this calmly,” Bonnie interrupted, before jumping in fright. Another attractive brunette had approached flashing a cheeky smile in their direction.

“Grandpa is extremely appropriate, trust me,” he smirked, raising his eyebrows at Bonnie. “I have to drive with the guy.”

“Really, Kol?” He drawled. “Your immaturity never fails to amaze me. Could you maybe wait in the car while I organise the insurance details?”

“I was bored,” he pouted. “Anyone like to get a drink? I know this town is tiny but I’m sure we could find a beer somewhere.”

“There’s been an accident little brother,” another accented voice chimed into the conversation. “This isn’t an excuse to blatantly and desperately pick up women.”

Caroline’s blue eyes immediately flickered to its source. 

Dark, blonde curls, blue eyes and deep crimson lips curved into a knowing grin. Madame Ophelia certainly had impeccable timing and Caroline knew she could possibly be in trouble. His eyes searched hers before glancing at his brother lazily. “Can we move this along and just get to Mystery Falls already.”

“It’s called Mystic Falls,” Caroline corrected him tersely, trying to ignore the way those dark jeans and navy henley fitted him way too snugly

She’d only just met the guy but he was already wearing on her last nerve. She wasn’t sure if it was because he couldn’t get the name of her hometown right or whether it was the fact he could be her soulmate. Either way it looked like she wasn’t going to be rid of him anytime soon.

TBC?

[marginalgloss]

the great chain

It is well known by now that The Last Guardian almost did not get made. It entered development almost ten years ago for Sony’s previous games console, the PS3, but it was only released for its successor the PS4 at the end of 2016. For many years its name was a joke in the games industry.

From a distance, its production difficulties were puzzling. The game did not appear to be doing anything especially unique. It featured highly advanced animation amidst huge environments, but essentially this appeared to be just a sequel to the two games with which director Fumito Ueda had made his name back on the PS2: Ico and Shadow of the Colossus. Here was another wilfully abstract game about clambering through a ruined world with a strange companion; the jokes about killing off your giant cat-bird-dog friend at the end of the game wrote themselves.

Years passed with no news until Sony abruptly announced in 2015 that the game really was coming out this time. This was remarkable enough, but it was further surprising to see that the game shown in the new trailer was essentially the same thing promised back in the original trailers from 2009/2010. It’s not uncommon in the industry for late titles to arrive looking like a totally different game; yet this was simply a bolder, sharper version of the same thing.

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Perhaps we only had to wait for technology to catch up with Ueda's ambition: but when this happens, it’s usually the case that ambition is swiftly curbed by the pragmatic demands of software development. In this case, The Last Guardian as it was released feels to me like exactly the thing we were promised all those years ago. It is, for better and for worse, the realisation of an artistic vision, free from the kinds of compromise that litter the modern video games industry.

You play a nameless boy who wakes up in a strange world. There is a wounded creature next to you. His name is Trico, though I don’t think this is ever specified in the game itself; the boy calls him something like Turico in his language, which is also fictional. It soon becomes clear that establishing trust between yourself and the creature is the only way to proceed. You must pull spears from his back, keep him fed, and show him the way to go; in return, he can fight off the army of animated stone knights that secure this place, and most importantly, he can traverse this world of tremulous scaffolding and vast crumbling towers.

It’s a neat (and entirely deliberate) inversion of Ico, which had the player leading a sort of alien princess by the hand through a series of puzzles and challenges. Even the controls recall the earlier game; one button on the controller is dedicated to focussing the camera on Trico, much like how the player had to hold a button to hold hands with the princess while leading her through that strange castle.

Here, the player is the vulnerable one, but the relationship now feels like something mutual. It isn’t until you actually see Trico in motion for yourself that you understand what this means. It is one thing to say that the animation is beautiful, but it’s quite another thing to experience it yourself, with a controller in hand. Watching a video of someone else play the game is not a comparable; because the creature is entirely responsive to your actions, you feel that when he looks at you, somehow he is really looking at you.

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The Last Guardian is dedicated to making the player feel as though they are in control at all times, even when they are essentially just following a course of action that has been planned out in advance. To this end, everything the boy and his companion do occurs not because it’s pre-rendered, but because it’s the product of a series of complex interacting systems.

When Trico’s ears fold back in a certain way when he brushes against a wall, or when he shakes his fur, or when the player flicks their controller in such a way as to send the boy's fleet sliding across a smooth stone floor — when these things happen, the player is not watching a little clip of a movie, but something that is the product of a million little calculations occurring simultaneously. That some of these movements might feel heavy or awkward compared to other video games only lends them a sense of deliberation. The player is looking at something which only exists for them, in that moment. How different the game would have been if Trico had thin fur instead of feathers, all of which move and drift dynamically in the slightest breeze.

One of my favourite examples of this systemic approach to action comes in a moment that is perhaps halfway through the game. The player has only just come to develop a relationship with this creature when it happens. They are on a rickety wooden bridge between stone columns which stretches above an abyss. It’s much too far for the player to make it alone, but they can tell Trico to jump across. But the shock of his jump is too much for the old bridge to bear, and it immediately starts shaking and crumbling.

Here is what happened to me:

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I knew that the game had give me only one option to get out of this situation. Why, once I had done it, was I left with the feeling that this was something I had discovered myself? It was partly down to how much character had been invested in every aspect of the animation — from the bridge slowly breaking, to the soulful, uncertain expression of the creature — but it was also that I was in full control the entire time. At any moment, I could have failed in any number of un-cinematic ways.

In the video above, you can see that at one point, the boy turns around on the tip of the broken bridge. This is the moment in which I thought: no, this can’t possibly work, that’s much too far to jump. And that’s the point at which Trico gives a little sort of cry-bark, as if to say: come on, you've got to do it. And that was directed not at a hypothetical player but at me, in response to something I had done.

It is difficult to dwell for long on the game’s problems when it so frequently presents me with some of the most extraordinary things I’ve seen or felt in a video game. Its potency lies in the way in which it goes beyond words. The game didn’t need to explain anything about that scene to me, and equally, I’m aware that to explain it in this way feels underwhelming, and perhaps somewhat trite. You had to be there to get it; the context my explanation lacks is the terrible immediacy of the feeling that you could fail at any moment.

(what follows contains significant spoilers for the ending of the game.)

As the player approaches the end, the game seems obsessively preoccupied with notions of failure and the fragility of control. The player soon discovers that Trico is not the last of his breed to inhabit this ruined city. Others appear, wearing enchanted armour, and they are hostile to the both of you. Watching them attack Trico is awful - for all that modern video games might depict extreme violence, serious scenes of cruelty against animals like this remain a rarity.

A pattern emerges of upward progression meeting with sudden downward regression. Often a long and arduous climb through the world will be suddenly thwarted by the appearance of an angry beast who casts you back down to where you began. At one point, the only way to save Trico from a dreadful mauling is to send him and his attacker crashing down the inside of a vast stone chimney together. Like they say about history, it feels like just one damn thing after another.

Certain suggestions emerge from this narrative. Our lives are shaped by strange forces that we do not understand, and are only partly within our control. Progress doesn’t come easily, and often it doesn’t look like progress at all; but we must move through life together, because what choice is there? The spirit that keeps us going is not conscious, but animal.

At the end of the game, after passing many obstacles, the player and Trico finally reach the top of a very tall tower. Almost immediately, Trico is set upon by a swarm of his fellow creatures. This is one of the most unpleasant sequences in the game. They do terrible things to him. They pull off his tail. But after a mighty struggle, the boy manages to destroy the machine controlling the other creatures. And suddenly, they all fall from the sky.

Trico reawakens. He is not quite dead. He picks the boy up in his mouth and flies him all the way back to his home village. We saw this place in an earlier flashback, where Trico was seen plucking the boy carefully from his dormitory at night. This time Trico has barely the strength to fly, but he takes him home regardless.

The villagers, astonished and terrified, surround the creature with spears. Even when Trico disgorges the boy, only barely alive, they jab and shout at him, while he only cries in response. And the last action the player performs in the game is to tell Trico — using the same buttons they’ve used to call him countless times throughout the game — that he has to leave. Because if he doesn’t leave, they will kill him.

Trico leaves. The credits roll. In the sidebar, a series of little videos play, recounting some of the things boy and beast did in the game together. Here’s the first time Trico jumped into a pool of water, sending a massive wave crashing over the pontoon on which the boy is standing. Here’s the time the boy had to slowly lift a gate so Trico could save him from a pack of animated stone knights: the gate halfway up, the enraged creature is lying on his side trying to wriggle through, his claws flailing and grasping at thin air. Here he is being fed, petted, climbed all over; there he is leaping, lying, swimming, climbing. Here are all the things you did together.

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This is not quite the end of the story.

Once the credits are over, the camera comes to linger on a strange, smeared image of rust red and dark green, faintly florescent. It is the same image that appears on the menu screen when you start the game. For several long minutes, nothing at all happens. And then the camera very slowly begins to pull back until you realise that the smear is actually the rusted side of a little green mirror, the same mirror that the boy carried throughout the game, now half-buried in the ground.

The boy is an old man now. There are children with him, and they stare at the thing he’s taken from the ground. He holds it as he once did, and shines the light from it up into the air. For some reason I am suddenly reminded of my father's watch, and how its glass reflected a similar spot of light through the countless rooms of my youth. The camera rises above the village and follows the light far into the air, up above the high, lonely clouds; it flies for what seems like miles back, way back, back to the ruined city where we spent all those hours with Trico.

And then we are diving back into it, flying into the past through places familiar, back through the halls and caves where we travelled so long ago. That's where you were, when you did that thing. And then, at last, we are gliding through the very first area of the game, back to the place where the boy and Trico first met. We see the hole in the ground, and the great chain leaning into the darkness — one of the first images ever released from this game, almost ten years ago. And in the darkness you see one pair of eyes, glowing; and then, next to them, a second pair of eyes, glowing.