#it’s bitter but surprisingly not as bitter as I was expecting nor as bitter as what I’m used to

[age-of-moonknight]

Moon Knight: Black, White & Blood (Vol. 1/2022), #4.

Writers: Christopher Cantwell, Nadia Shammas, and Paul Azaceta; Pencilers: Alex Lins, Dante Bastianoni, Chris Sotomayor, and Paul Azaceta.

[ficnation]

Chapter 1: Dig In

Series: “Eat Your Heart Out” Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Female! Reader x Will Graham Word count: 4,6k+ Warnings: canon-typical warnings

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Will Graham hasn’t seen you in years—years that felt like centuries to him. When you greet him, your voice is like a songbird’s serenade—sweet, peaceful, and meant only for his ears. It was a melody he missed dearly yet never dared to summon in his mind, even as the memories of you bled into his dreams.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice breaking at the last word. The question is not hostile, but it’s not friendly either. He knows you didn’t expect him to greet you like an old friend would. You know him too well for that—or at least you knew him before Hannibal Lecter barged into his life.

A smile crawls up your face, but it never reaches your eyes. You came here because you know, you know someone’s version of the story. But you crave to see the truth—to find out exactly what happened—and you know that Will is the only person who can provide you with the answers you’re looking for.

Jack Crawford raises his hand, his palm facing Will in a silent greeting—almost a peace offer. He keeps his distance as he lifts your suitcases out of the trunk of his car. He’s the one that called you, told you everything you needed to know, how Will lost his mind, how he keeps insisting that an innocent man—someone he considered a friend—is the Chesapeake Ripper.

Will can’t help but snicker at the thought of how this conversation went. You don’t seem bothered by the change in his expression—you hardly ever were, and he was always surprised by your unflappable composure.

“I’m going to stay with you, Will.” It’s not a question nor a suggestion fueled by concern over his well-being. It’s a declaration, and he has absolutely no say in this matter. Jack Crawford has already made that decision for him, and Will is in no position to object—he’s well aware of it.

Will nods and gesticulates to the door of his house. It’s a reluctant invitation forced out of him by his boss’ incessant gaze.

You don’t let him think about it for much longer, fearing he’ll withdraw the offer. You walk up the stairs of the porch and cross the doorstep. The inside is no warmer than the bitter winter on the other side of the door. You shiver slightly, wrapping your arms around yourself for heat.

A flock of dogs runs up to you, wagging their tails in excitement. Some of them you’ve already met before, and some of them seem like recent additions to Will’s collection of strays. You pat each dog on the head as you take off your boots by the entrance. You note that you no longer feel like you are just another stray Will has taken into his home.

The warmth of the friendly dogs quickly makes you forget how much you don’t belong here; you enjoy their company for a moment before reluctantly moving on to explore the room.

Not much has changed since the last time you were here. Will’s bed is still in the room, and you remember the time he confessed to you that it makes him feel more aware of his surroundings—gives him a sparse flicker of safety. He has easy access to the windows overlooking the outside, and he hears whenever someone walks up the stairs to his porch. It’s a small shred of comfort to cling to in the midst of his torment—you understand his reasoning.

The fireplace is the same one you used to warm up in front of every morning when you slept over—just surrounded by more dog beds than before. The old, simple in their design but surprisingly comfortable armchairs stand in their designated spots. Dog toys litter the carpeted floor, while books and familiar trinkets overwhelm the shelves, though if you look more closely, you find new additions mixed in with the old.

“Nothing has changed,” you say to yourself and the chill air of the room. You don’t hear Will’s footsteps as he joins you in the heart of his house.

“I did.” His words make your head whip around to face him, your eyes finding his. There’s a certain darkness in his statement—one you recognize.

The brown curls on his head frame his face in an untamed mess. He’s beautiful, and you find yourself still affected by his proximity.

“I don’t think you did.”

“You’ve been here for seven minutes, I can’t imagine you know much,” Will retorted.

“I know you, Will.” You meet his eyes for a few seconds—it doesn’t take much longer for him to look away. He hasn’t changed.

“Not anymore. Believe me,” his voice is certain and steady, but his hands shake as he reaches for your cozy black coat.

You let him slide it off your shoulders—the chill of the room refreshing. Will Graham isn’t a gentleman—he’s never conformed to society’s expectations. The gesture isn’t meant to impress you, make you swoon, or simply check a box. He does it because he still feels something toward you—he still cares.

You don’t talk much after that. Will makes some space for your stuff in his closet and leaves your suitcases in one of the many empty rooms. You thank him with another smile that doesn’t reach your eyes—there’s too much worry in them to convey your gratitude.

He goes on a walk with the dogs while you decide to take stock of his fridge and cupboards in search of any ingredients that you could possibly turn into a late dinner—french crepes filled with whatever jam or other sweet spreading he has in his kitchen.

You make yourself cozy in one of the armchairs in front of the crackling fireplace, your legs tucked comfortably beneath you when the door opens, and a blast of cold winter air rushes in along with seven dogs, melting snow clinging onto their fur stubbornly. They sniff around the room in search of the source of the sweet, delicious smell.

Will follows in their steps, taking off his boots by the door. It won’t take long for his socks to soak up the drops of water scattered over the floor—remnants of the snow shaken off by the happy furry beasts. He says nothing for a few long minutes, merely taking in your form, the sweet smell, and the cozy atmosphere. It feels like you belong here, even if just for a moment until you deem him deranged and leave again for long years.

“Crepes?” he asks finally, sliding off his heavy jacket. Will imprints on his memory the image of you so peaceful and comfortable in his home, in his presence.

You hum in response, sticking the fork back into your mouth. “I only found jam and peanut butter.”

“It’s an accomplishment you found anything at all.” He chuckles but isn’t truly amused by it—it is a pitiful sound.

The brunet disappears into the kitchen, and when he returns, his plate is filled with food. He sits down in the other armchair with a heavy sigh—a sound so murky only an old man could make or someone so exhausted with life they didn’t see a point in it anymore.

“I believe you, you know?”

Will’s head shoots up in your direction; he almost chokes on his crepes. He didn’t foresee that at all—the thought of you believing him without even hearing his side of the story, believing in his conviction that Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper without even asking for evidence. When everyone around him considered him delusional and regarded his accusation with ignorance or anger—you believed him. He straightens up in his seat, looking at you expectantly, begging silently for you to continue.

“I suppose Jack didn’t tell you why exactly am I here, huh?” Will shakes his head, making you sigh deeply as you mindlessly stab the remaining crepe on your plate with the fork—he notices the anger simmering behind your irises. “Figured. They found my father’s killer in our old house.”

“Dead?”

You nod in confirmation.

“Suicide.” Your voice isn’t relieved; it doesn’t incandesce with light like it should.

Will knows that sometimes, even when the murderer is caught or killed, it takes a while to really settle into witnesses’ minds, and sometimes, they never taste that sweetness of relief for the rest of their lives. Yet, it doesn’t seem to be the problem in your case.

“He was missing a lot of blood and it didn’t appear to be anything abnormal back then so they considered the case solved. Let us come out of hiding.”

“Except it wasn’t a suicide,” the man finishes your thought. He’s right—like always. “Someone wanted you to come back… The real killer?”

He looks at you for confirmation, but his idea seems to be too facile—child’s play. If that were the case, the FBI wouldn’t let you stay with him without protection—unless they considered him your protector. Something feels off about it.

“Will, my sister was killed by the Chesapeake Ripper.”

Will stares at you with his eyes wide open. He’s looking at your face in a way that he’s never looked before. He can finally see you, your emotions, and despair—the mask you hid them under shatters into crumbs and floats away with his shaky breath. He hears the misery in your voice now—almost sees your winsome heart smashed into a million pieces inside your chest.

“I’m so sorry… I—” Will’s words are automatic as he processes your statement. He stays perfectly still in his armchair. “I didn’t—”

“What’s done is done, Will,” you interrupt him, shaking your head—a silent plea that he doesn’t blame himself for it. It doesn’t help—he still does.

The moment you stop talking, he can hear the faint ticking of the watch on your wrist. He looks at you, waiting for more to come, but you stay silent. Your eyes linger on your plate with a half-eaten crepe—the jam spilling out onto the white ceramic canvas; you seem to be contemplating something.

He remembers back on that stormy night when you came home at the end of a particularly complicated and brutal investigation—soaked and chilled to the bone. You had a small cut on your arm, not big enough to require stitches, but he wanted—no, he needed—to clean it up and kiss it all better, anyway.

Will could tend to a cut on your skin, but he couldn’t scour the one on your soul—he couldn’t kiss it all better. He always felt the need to fix things—fix you. Now? He has no idea how to take that pain away from you.

He knows he should be glad to see you—glad to see you again. But right now, there’s only sadness, confusion, and guilt because, somehow, this isn’t quite you. There has been this beautiful, bright light shining from you, but it’s missing, and the man feels the loss of it inside. He wants to reach out and take this sadness away from you, comfort you, and bring back that light you always had. He almost wants to cry—he doesn’t even know why himself.

Will swallows hard and finally speaks, voice shaking, “Can I ask you something?”

He hesitates as if afraid of the potential answer. The only thing keeping him from sinking into emptiness is your presence, and asking the wrong question might have a devastating effect. Will looks at you—eyes pleading for understanding.

“Yes. Of course…”

“What did he take?” He almost doesn’t recognize his voice. It seems to be a mere whimper—a noise buried deep within a wounded animal’s throat.

“Her heart.”

Your words strike him like a bullet. Will closes his eyes, trying hard to keep the salty water from filling them. The loss of one heart was unbearable, losing another one physically… He tries to find a reason not to be angry at fate—but there is none. The world gave you back to him, but at what cost?

He reaches out, taking your hand in his. His touch seems reassuring and gentle, but his eyes betray his anger. “I never should have let you leave...”

You ignore his words, looking into the void, and continue, “Her lungs.”

Another cruel twist of the dagger in his gut. He feels your hand squeeze his, almost as if it were asking for comfort. Yet, Will cannot be a comfort at this moment—he is too enraged at the thought of such brutality.

His gaze turns cold as stone, his hand tightening around yours as he holds back the emotions boiling up inside him, threatening to explode and tear everything apart. His eyes remain closed—unwilling to see any more of your pain. You can feel the anger radiating from him like heat.

If she stops breathing, my heart will stop with it—those were his words to Hannibal. Another therapy session he now deeply regrets. It is his fault—his fault that your sister died. And amongst all the hatred, anger, and remorse, he feels a bone-chilling relief that it wasn’t you in her place.

He knows it’s twisted to think like that; he shouldn’t even feel like that, but he can’t imagine his life knowing you were buried deep—six feet beneath the earth he was walking on and still breathing. He doesn’t know whether it was Hannibal’s well-thought-through plan or his fucked up mistake, but Will is grateful.

You are breathing, alive, and your pulse is beating fast beneath his tight grasp. He does not want to let go of it—not yet.

Will opens his eyes, still unable to see your face, yet so very relieved. He doesn’t let go of your hand, his fingers running over your knuckles as if, by touch, he can somehow reassure himself that you weren’t his imagination.

The anger inside him still roils, but he no longer shows it. The only hint of his discomfort is the tightness with which he holds your hand.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he mumbles out, almost inaudible.

“No, Will, I won’t let anything happen to you.” You meet his gaze, your eyes almost begging. “I can’t lose you too. You’re the only one I have left.”

Will smiles at you sadly. His eyes filled with a strange light, his fingers running through your hair. Your plates have been long forgotten on the nearby windowsill as he leans forward and carefully touches your cheek, running his forefinger across your lips and down to your chin.

At first, you think the gesture is affectionate—intimate. But then you notice that he’s trying to remember your every feature. It’s painful to think that someone who loved you so dearly might have forgotten your face, the feel of your skin under his touch. Maybe it’s this thought that makes your eyes well up with tears; maybe it is the gesture itself. Or possibly even both.

This moment feels so real, so raw—you are tempted to believe in it, to be hopeful for your future, at least for a moment. But after all you went through, you know that hope is a dangerous thing, and it can turn against you. It’s been so long since all your hopes have been crushed you almost forgot how to have them... And just like that, the moment vanishes, and reality crashes back.

Later that night, when you come out of the shower and crawl into his bed—your clothes sticking to the slightly damp skin, your hair in an unruly mess—he simply opens his arms.

“You claim to be my friend, yet you sleep in my bed like a lover would,” he says—he still remembers the words you whispered to him when the roles were reversed.

Will smiles at the irony, his arms wrapping around you. Your hair is still dripping, the water sliding down your neck and onto his chest. It trickles down in rivulets to his stomach, creating wet spots on his shirt, but he doesn’t seem to care.

You notice his grip is tighter than usual, yet you feel no pain, no discomfort. If he wanted to hurt you, he would. But you’re safe here—in his arms. Safer than you’ve ever been.

“Don’t pretend you don’t love having me in your bed,” you mumble against his neck, your minty breath tickling his skin.

His body shivers, and a soft sound escapes his lips. Your words remind him of the years of loneliness, of his body yearning for your touch. The sound is almost a whimper, and you feel his fingers twining in your wet hair.

The feeling is intoxicating. For years, he couldn’t touch a woman, didn’t even dream about having one so close to his skin, couldn’t feel someone’s body pressed tightly against him in a bed because they weren’t you—they dimmed in comparison. He missed it; he missed this connection, this skin-to-skin contact.

His hand lingers in your hair, the other one tracing your skin, exploring every inch of it, memorizing every imperfection, every bump beneath his palm.

“You haven’t been with anyone else, have you?” It’s not really a question—more of a sure statement—because, after all, you know Will like the back of your hand.

His head shakes, and both of his hands now run down your body. Will takes his sweet time exploring every inch of you—your hips, thighs, your stomach, and neck.

“I haven’t,” he whispers, almost embarrassed. As if his body belongs to someone else, and giving it to you now is a betrayal of that person.

Betrayal of you—the one he once knew—because he’s not entirely sure you’re still the same person. You were always so cheerful and full of life before—anything you touched, growing wings, flying out of the confines of its cage.

He yearns for this contact, craves a woman’s body—craves your body. He touches your skin, lightly running his fingertips over it, trying to bring back the memories from before. Will’s mind spins, trying to place the puzzle of you in the present.

He holds your face, trying to remember the way your eyes shined, the smile on your lips, the way your hair used to look. The feeling of your body, skin to skin, is almost painful. Your lips are so close, your heart beating so fast…

Winston jumps onto the bed, the weight and heat of his furry body on your calves makes you both pull away hesitantly.

“Sorry,” you mumble out the apology into the stillness of the air.

Will looks at you with a soft smile and a faint blush on his cheeks. “It’s fine.” He glances over at the dog. “What’s the matter, little fella? Can’t sleep?” He reaches over to pet the dog, then he turns his attention back to you.

The atmosphere changes completely, filled with the sounds of the night and Winston’s heavy breathing. Yet, although your physical proximity to Will has changed, you still feel connected to him in a way that only two people who are truly close can. The warmth of Winston’s body seems to melt the tension.

The dog snuggles up against you both, the three of you creating your own little world of peace. Will is the first to speak, “I’d rather be in bed with you only,” he sends you a smirk, “but I would still get the same amount of hair on my clothes.”

You feel your lips part in a grin; your breath catches in your throat, and it takes a moment before you’re able to answer his playful jab.

Will catches you in this moment of surprise as if he can smell your anticipation in the air. His hands wrap around your waist, dragging you closer until your bodies are pressed snugly once more.

When he smiles at you, it’s as if the world stops briefly. Your eyes lock, and for a second, there is nothing else but the two of you.

“It’s a sad thing your smile is so rare,” you whisper, your fingers tracing his stubbled jaw.

Will's heart pounds in his chest. He takes your hand in his, running his fingers along your skin. There's always been an undeniable spark between you, but this time, it feels different, more intense. Like if you let yourself go and let the spark ignite, the fire will burst out of your chest.

Will leans closer to you; your noses are almost touching. His brown eyes are so close you can see every detail in them despite the darkness of the room. You can feel the tension in the air, and you know what would break it...

“Will, I... I can’t—” You stumble over your words, gaze parting from his.

Your stutter is cut short by Will’s lips touching yours. A soft sound escapes him as if he’s been waiting for you to stop speaking so he can taste you. His tongue slips over your lips, exploring your mouth.

This is not the clumsy, almost animalistic lust he had for you in the past—it’s something different. Something tender, almost sweet.

Your hands fall limply onto the duvet, your heart beating faster, your breath catching in your throat as you sink deeper into the kiss. You don’t want this to end… So you pull him closer.

Seemingly annoyed by the nonstop movement, Winston jumps off the bed and retreats to his place by the lit-up fireplace. You almost giggle at that, but you’re far too busy with kissing Will’s lips raw.

Your hands find their way onto his neck next, your fingers running through his curls. With lips almost glued to his, you pull him back every time he tries to move.

The sound of your heavy breathing is enough to make his heart pound in his chest as if his very blood is racing. He’s holding you so tightly you fear you might break. Will breathes in the smell of you, almost intoxicated by it. Your scent enriches him—sends his emotions into a whirlwind.

After a moment, he manages to pull away, gasping for breath. He is still holding you, hands pressed against your back, as if not wanting to let go. Will tries to catch his breath—it feels like his entire life is contained in those few moments.

His eyes find yours, looking for some reassurance, as if he expects to wake up from a dream any moment now. He opens his mouth to say words but can’t find any. All he can do is look at you, so beautiful in the darkness. Will closes his eyes as if trying to cling to this moment.

“I’m glad I’m back. Despite the circumstances...” Your fingers play with his curls, your breath just as shaky as his.

“You’re back...” Will murmurs, looking at you relieved, touching your face as if to make sure you’re still here. He wants to speak, to tell you everything that is going through his mind, but when he opens his mouth again, no words come out. He tries to collect himself—tries to bring his heart to your level.

“It’s been a long time... We should probably talk. You know, just to catch up.”

“You like talking now?” Your grin is electrifying, it sends heat down the man’s body. But when he notices it doesn’t reach your eyes, his neediness crumbles.

A veil of insecurity falls over his face. “No… I don’t like talking. But I still do it if I have to, so can we just…” Will gestures to the two of you, the room—just a sign of exasperation and need to do this now. He swallows hard, trying to find his voice. “It’s just... it’s been a long time. And I... you know... there is just a lot that happened.”

“Will,” the way you say his name halts him, “it’s okay if you want to talk.”

He blinks slowly, suddenly confused—why did he even try to lie about it? Hannibal gave him his voice and showed him the power of his words—the good one and the evil one.

Will lets out a deep breath and then closes his eyes. It’s always been hard for him to tell people how he feels. Especially when he wants to say more than any amount of words can describe—and there is a lot to describe. There is so much he has to tell you, and yet when he tries to form the words—to get them out—his mind goes blank.

He opens his eyes and looks at you for help, but you look just as confused as before. “I don’t even know where to begin,” he says softly. “So much has changed.”

“You haven’t. Not as much as you think you did.”

He sees the impossibly black creature in his peripheral vision. It stands behind you, completely still, and its antlers seem much more massive than ever before when he catches their shadow falling onto you. He wants it to be gone so badly, but deep inside, he knows it’ll never vanish if Hannibal is still alive, and maybe even after his death, he’ll never get his peace back.

“Your opinion will change quicker than you realize.”

The creature’s still there, Will looks it straight into its void of color eyes. It’s just in his mind, yet the shiver that runs down your spine tells him you might feel its presence, too. He hates that he can’t tell if it’s his imagination or not or if you can indeed see it, too. A feeling of dread seizes him, a cold sensation that runs up his arms and into his bones.

“Hannibal...” he whispers, but when he looks around the room, he sees no sign of the creature. The sense of dread lingers, nevertheless.

“The Chesapeake Ripper?” you question, and he tells you all about it. All about Hannibal’s mind games—what he did to him and then what he undid.

Will tells you about the therapy sessions, his transformation, and the darkness that took hold of him. He talks about his memories of your sister, about his guilt, and then he moves on to you—your absence and the reason why you left. The void he felt for all those dark years without you—until he was given the chance to have you back, a light guiding him back into reality. And you listen carefully to all of it; you let him speak his heart out until he no longer feels the need to speak.

When he is done telling you everything, Will falls silent. It feels like he laid bare his soul, exposing his most intimate thoughts, yet you still lie in front of him, unchanged. He looks at you, almost expecting you to leave. After all, how much can a person handle? But your gaze is still strong; you still care about him at least a little…

It’s almost as if you’re reading his mind. “I still care about you, Will. My feelings never changed and they never will. I’ll do anything I can to help you get him.”

His eyes soften at your words, and he closes the distance between you two. Slowly he kisses your lips, tasting your breath, feeling his mouth move against yours. The sensation is so intense that it almost sends sparks through Will’s body.

“I’ve missed this,” he whispers into your ear before he turns your head and kisses you again. His hands rest on your back, pulling you in even closer as his tongue dances against yours. “And I’ve missed you. So goddamn much...”

Will pulls away, breathless, as if his entire body is aflame. He looks at you, studying your face so intently it’s almost as if he wants to burn your image into his brain. “So much,” he repeats softly.

He rests his head against yours, breathing in the sound of your heartbeat, listening to the rise and fall of your chest. “You’re here. You’re really here.” He exhales a sigh of relief as if your presence is the sweetest gift he could have ever wished for.

[mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess]

Love and marriage

"I will never get married." Seven year old Lan Wangji proclaims to his uncle as he practices calligraphy under the senior's guidance one evening. It had been about six months after his mother's passing, and only two days ago that little Wangji waited dutifully in the harsh winter storm for the door to the gentian house to open.

It did not. It never will again. But Wangji's resolve seemed iron-clad, and he did not leave until curfew that day.

It had been a miracle how he did not become ill - or worse! - spending time outside in such conditions. But though his body seemed surprisingly unaffected, his mind had not, falling into a deep, pensive state, even more quiet than before.

It had been for this reason that Lan Qiren brought the boy in to spend time with him and observe him - all under the guise of teaching. Despite his young age, Wangji had already mastered calligraphy.

The boy's statement made his uncle's eyes lift from the book he had been reading, an eyebrow raised. Part of him wished to say "you better not!", as any other paternal figure would tell their child at this age. But Lan Qiren had a feeling there was more to those words than it appeared on the surface, so he asked:

"What brought this on?"

"I have been thinking." Little Wangji says, a long pause following as he places his brushes neatly to the side of his parchment paper. "It is because mother married father that she is...gone."

Lan Qiren stared, stunned, at the little boy before him. He seemed confident in his assessment, though nevertheless saddened about it, like a man that had found a treasure that brought him no joy.

"It is also because their marriage that you and your brother have been born." Lan Qiren countered, in a way that was almost gentle, if slightly chiding. "Life is not as simple as it appears to be. And not all marriages are the same."

Not all marriages are like your parents' - but Lan Qiren could not have said that without sounding bitter and resentful, which was unadvisable in dealing with a grieving child that was not an orphan only if by virtue of his father still being alive and nothing more.

"How do you know?" Wangji asked, earnest though disbelieving, "How can one be sure their marriage will not be... lonely?"

Lan Qiren stared at the boy again, seeing so much of his father in his honeyed eyes. How could he respond to that? Lan Qiren had never been particularly romantically inclined. If anything, he preferred the company of books and studies more than people, and he had never found himself yearning for even the concept of a romantic relationship. He had received numerous requests for courtship or marriage - some even for mere physical encounters - but he had never felt the need or the desire to pursue anything of that nature with anyone. What would he know about marriages, let alone happy ones?

"It is never guaranteed how such things may turn out." Lan Qiren replied, after a while.

Wangji did not seem to react to that answer. His uncle sighed quietly - what had he been doing, working himself up over the words of a seven year old? Kids his age are fickle, as it is expected. Why had he been treating the boy's words as final? For all he knew, Wangji may change his mind by supper or by next morning - after all, children his age do not have the conviction of adults, nor do they even remember their promises by the time they may have to make good on them.

"Regardless, if you do not wish to marry, then you may not if it is not necessary" Lan Qiren added, and little nodded slightly, satisfied with the answer. He picked his brush back up and continued to write.

After a while, he spoke: "I will neber keep anybody against their will."

--

Lan Wangji was 15 years old when he first met Wei Wuxian and it became apparent to all their peers and the rest of the Lan sect that they did not get along. With Wei Wuxian boisterous and relentless pursuit of friendship and Lan Wangji's ice-cold refusal of it, it appeared that whatever cordiality one might expect between young masters of their standing was lost forever.

However, Lan Qiren had raised the famed Second Jade of Lan and he could easily see it was not disgust or anger that he expressed over Yunmeng Jiang's head disciple, but rather an annoyed, relentless denial of his otherwise normal desire for human connection.

It did not bring Lan Qiren any ease though - Cangse Sanren's son was so visibly her own that the man sometimes felt like he interacted with her ghost - and he did not believe that to be a good thing for Lan Wangji. Despite his indifferent exterior, his heart was fragile, and Lan Qiren worried for him in the presence of Wei Wuxian.

It had been this very topic that had come up as Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen shared tea one day, enjoying the fresh magnolia blooms.

"It appears Wangji may not keep to his childhood promise." Xichen smiled, "I believe you have noticed it as well."

Lan Qiren sighed deeply as he took a sip of herbal tea. "You appear unnecessarily happy about this development."

Xichen smiled again, fox-like, and for a moment Lan Qiren saw his brother, young and mischevous, concocting plans over tea.

"Does he know?" Lan Qiren found himself asking.

"He seems to be struggling with it." Xichen replied, looking into the distance towards the training grounds, wherefrom a lot of otherwise unusual noise was echoing.

"As expected."

Silence befalls the two. Xichen smiles meaningfully into his tea.

"Would it be wrong of me to assume this is one of the reasons you have entrusted young master Wei's punishment to Wangji?"

Lan Qiren's eyes narrow, but he does not reply. Xichen's smile widens, but conversation lulls.

---

Lan Wangji had so desperately hoped Wei Wuxian would listen. He had hoped Wei Wuxian would be able to understand all the things Lan Wangji could not say, all his intentions, all his worries and all his feelings - and he would have listened, and agreed.

But he had not.

And for a moment, a traitorous few seconds, it had crossed Lan Wangji's mind. It had, despite how much he had tried to convince himself it never would, that such a thing would never even occur to him.

But it did.

He had thought of trying to do what his father had done in his pursuit of protecting his mother - he had thought of taking Wei Ying with him to the Cloud Recesses whether he opposed it or not, and keeping him there, safely, for the rest of forever.

He had refused even the thought of it, dismissing it as quickly as it had appeared, and it disgusted him to know his mind had been able to conjure it in the first place - the very thing he had sworn he would never wish for let alone ever do, had presented itself as an option in his mind.

And Lan Wangji hated it.

He had visited the gentian house that day, and stayed there until curfew.

"I wish to bring someone back to the Cloud Recesses... take him back and hide him away... but he is not willing."

---

For all the agony Lan Wangji suffered, he felt no remorse at all, as if he had fulfilled his fate in a way he had not even known had been intended for him. He had accepted his punishment with placid resignation, not even once declaring himself regretful of his actions. It was difficult for him to assess whether he had failed or not, but at least he had tried to protect the man he could have finally allpwed himself to accept he loved.

But, almost as though fate was keen on fulfilling the promise he made at seven years old, that very man had just been pronounced dead, the news delievered by celebratory letters and festivals that bore more evil than Wei Wuxian had ever done.

Lan Xichen carefully assisted the healers cleaning and bandaging Lan Wangji's wounds, a process he had grown to despise as much as he looked forward to it. It was only with this pretext that he could visit his little brother now, as he had been sent into seclusion, and it worried Xichen not to know how he was dealing not only with the new knowledge, but his own state as well.

As the healers left the room, Xichen stood by his brother's bed for a few minutes, in silence. He had hoped some words would be coming to him at some point, but he could not find anything appropriate to say at the moment, stroking Wangji's hair off his face instead.

"Were you there?" Wangji asked after a few moments, voice hoarse and empty, as if he had screamed it raw.

"I was not."

"Who was?"

"I do not know."

Lan Xichen had chosen to lie that day, and did not regret it. As much as he valied honesty, he knew it was not the truth Wangji needed then.

What was Xichen supposed to even say? That their uncle had watched the last few moments of Wei Wuxian's life alongside the other sect leaders? That the besiegers cheered on his death as his body disintegrated into nothingness under the force of the Burial Mounds?

That they slaughtered innocent people like cattle?

"Did they find him?"

"No."

That had not been a lie. Many had believed Wei Wuxian had not died, even if they saw him enveloped in resentful energy as he screamed in pain until all that was left was silence. They wanted proof of it, a body, a shred of anything - perhaps to only defile him more.

But they had not found anything.

Wangji sighed, the breath heavy from his lungs.

"I dreamt I married him."

Xichen's eyes turned soft, pitiful, "Perhaps in another life."

"Perhaps."

---

Thirteen years later, the Cloud Recesses murmur with excitement as groups of disciples move to and fro, carrying decorations and supplies like tireless ants of a busy hive.

The wedding is in a couple of weeks, but sect leader Lan as well as master Lan Qiren had ordered the preparations start early in order to ensure all is ready for the great celebration.

"For how much your uncle disapproves of me, he sure is invested in our wedding." Wei Wuxian laughs as he and his soon-to-be-official husband inspect the ancestral hall, the designated venue for the event.

"Uncle is very thorough." Lan Wangji replies, "And his distrust of you has lessened over the past years."

"I would hope so." A laugh, "Though he is probably more concerned in doing right by you."

"Nevertheless, I believe it is for both of us."

Wei Wuxian laughs again, squeezing his beloved's hand. "Say, I heard something from a very, very reliable source..."

"What did my brother tell you again?"

"I heard you said you'd never marry anyone when you were a kid. I bet seven year old Lan Zhan would be disappointed!" Wei Wuxian jokes, a teasing smile on his lips that Lan Wangji cannot be blamed for kissing right now.

"Seven year old me had not met you yet." He replied, softly, "He would've known better."

[thoundcarriers]

 tis a very old au of mine about sniper who's lived all his 27 years in New Zealand and never got to be a mercenary. read more insanity under the cut lolol

in this universe, his biological father got inside the capsule instead of little Mun-dee. an hour later, he crashed somewhere in Australia and died. on the next day, some old married couple found his body and buried him on the lonely hill. Mundy and his mother never got to know what happened to him, and the latter did not give a single shit about it.

raised with the weird feeling of being lost and bitter taste of hatred of his mother towards the man who left them in an underwater cage, Mick tries his best to recover the schemes of his biological father, hoping for the opportunity of escaping, too. years later, he finds nothing and gives up. nor that he had any skills for engineering, too.

on the day of his 27th birthday, an unknown ship hovers above the glass dome of the city, and a female voice on the communication lines politely demands him to climb into the cabin this instant.

spy and pauling are happy beyond themselves - they finally found him. the sniper, even though he's clearly not remembering his past self. but they hope that he comes back to his original self eventually.

poor lad is confused and nervous, he's expected to know stuff he never did. he's told that as soon as he gets into it, he'll be back in no time. the problem is that he has never held a sniper rifle in his life, not mentioning about killing someone.

ms p comes up with a wonderful idea - his parents that adopted him must be still alive in that universe. there's no better teacher at shooting stuff than the Mick's papa himself. the only thing left to do is to convince them that Mick is actually their son somewhere in another world. and if they don't agree to help, it'd all be lost to hell. pretty easy!

surprisingly, the gang handle the old couple well after finding their village and introducing themselves. the old man doesn't trust them, always squinting and spitting behind their backs. yet there's the only thing he likes about that lanky guy - he doesn't complain much, spending hours under australian sun and soaking wet with sweat in his weird purple shirt, while learning the grounds of weaponry. miss mundy is on the contrary - really happy to have guests in their village and is pretty supportive of the young man she knows only for a moment.

for a moment, Mick catches the sight of someone's grave in the distance in his lense. for some reason, it fills him with rage he never felt, and it fuels him to train even more. i know i know most of it doesnt even make fucking sense. but let me dream aight. tagged as 'left alone au' on my blog is u wanna look up for some old cringe

[francesminos-tt]

I sent the question before completing it but one more request to toxic!joffron

Luke becomes the lord of the tides and, although he doesn't have a good relationship with his uncle-brother-in-law, Daeron is competent in his field of work and therefore becomes one of Luke's helpers...

Daeron is behaving more decently to make a good impression and ignores an attempted fight from his husband, this makes Joff jealous/moody/bitter/upset

Obviously, when night comes, he begs Joff's forgiveness

Joffrey lay back on his armchair and threw a handful of berries into his mouth. The fruit was fresh, sweet with the right amount of tang, an exotic delicacy to have on a late summer evening. The sun was just about to set, the gentle evening breeze bringing the fresh scent of the garden through the window to his room. Joffrey bit into the fruit, letting a few drops of juice drip down his lips as he watched his husband’s back in front of the writing desk.

“What are you doing?” Joffrey asked, grabbing another handful of berries and throwing them at Daeron. The small fruit landed on Daeron’s white shirt, leaving a trail of purple stains on the fine silk. Joffrey chuckled, pleased with himself that he managed to somehow ridicule his proper husband.

“I am busy now, Joffrey.” Daeron said, not even bothering to lift his head, “I need to send this letter by tomorrow morning.”

“Since when did you become so diligent?” Joffrey scoffed, “Who are you writing to, anyway?”

“Your brother Lucerys.” Daeron replied, his tone calm and civilized, “Old Town is ready to correspond with Driftmark in unifying harbor taxes. It’s a huge step to regulate trading laws of the realm.”

Joffrey hummed as he gulped down the remaining wine in his goblet. He almost forgot that Daeron was a good negotiator, unlike Joffrey himself, who believed in actions rather than words. Joffrey knew Daeron was polite and gentle to others. He just didn't realize his brother Lucerys was one of the nobles that Daeron decided to be polite to. Lucerys had inherited Driftmark and become the new Lord of the Tide for only a year, but he had proven himself to be a capable ruler. He had restored trading between the Triarchy and Driftmark, replenishing the Treasury with harbor taxes and sorts, thus weakening Old Town as the main trading port in the realm. Lucerys wanted to strike a deal with the Hightowers, and surprisingly, instead of sending his own husband, Aemond, he turned to his uncle/brother-in-law for help. Daeron had grown up in Old Town and once served as cupbearer of the current Hightower Lord, so he was the natural choice. Not to mention everyone would agree that Daeron was better negotiator than Aemond.

But still, Joffrey didn’t expect Daeron would actually take the job seriously.

“What do you expect to get from this, huh?” Joffrey walked to his husband and sat on the edge of the desk, pulling the quill from Daeron’ hand, “Are you expecting Lucerys to kiss you on the forehead and call you a good boy?”

Daeron lifted his head to look at Joffrey, irritation palpable in his light violet eyes.

“Give it back.” Daeron demanded, “I don't have time to play your game, Joffrey.”

“What if I say no?” Joffrey curled his lips up into a mischievous smile, twirling the quill in his fingers, “What are you going to do about it? Spank me?”

Daeron’s eyes narrowed and his lips pursed into a thin line. Joffrey could see his nostrils flare, as if he was trying to hold back the desire to lash out.

But Joffrey didn't want him to. Come. Lash out. Show me how angry you can be.

They stared down at each other for several minutes, until Daeron broke eye contact first. He didn't push Joffrey to the ground, nor did he pull Joffrey’s hair or grab the brunette’s neck. Instead, Daeron sighed heavily and rolled his unfinished parchment up before standing to leave the room.

“Where are you going?” Joffrey asked, shocked at Daeron’s self-control. Daeron had never showed any mercy around him. Daeron was always quick to anger, easily provoked by Joffrey’s insult. He would turn from a polite prince to a violent beast in the blink of an eye. Their sex was filled with bites and rough thrusts, collecting bruises on each other body like triumphs.

Joffrey liked it. He liked his influence on Daeron. How he managed to bring out the worst side of the gentle prince that everyone loved. How he was able to make Daeron forget all about proper etiquette. He was proud that he was the only one who could break Daeron’s polite facade.

Until now.

“Somewhere I can write my letter in peace.” Daeron replied without looking back. Before he reached the bedroom door, the door was pushed open by maids with dinner plates in their arms.

“Go on. Get the fuck out of my sight.” Joffrey cursed, throwing the ink bottle at Daeron’s direction, only to have the intricate glass bottle land on the floor, staining the fine Lysene carpet with black ink.

Daeron did just that. He left the room with the roll of parchment in his hands. Joffrey was furious. How dare Daeron act like he was the useful one in court? He was just a cheap ambassador picked out by Lucerys. Why did he have to act like he fucking mattered?

“M-my prince,” one of the poor maids asked in a trembling voice, “w-w-where should we put your dinner?”

“Don’t bother.” Joffrey said through gritted teeth, “I am already stuffed.”

By anger.

Daeron didn't come back until midnight. Joffrey wasn’t counting, of course. In order to fight the frustration, he ordered a hot bath. He submerged his naked body into the scorching hot water and stayed there, watching his skin turn pink from the heat. Joffrey sat in the bathtub until the water turned cold, until he began to shiver and goosebumps formed on his wet skin.

Still, Joffrey didn’t come out. He curled into a ball under the cold water, shivering and swearing, cursing Daeron in every way possible.

Hypocrite. Traitor. Liar. Insufferable motherfucker.

Why did Joffrey feel so betrayed? The answer to this question was right there, but Joffrey stubbornly refused to look at it. He would never, under any damn circumstance, admit that he was upset because he could not get his husband’s attention.

Fucker.

“What are you doing?” Daeron’s voice jolted Joffrey out of his trance. Joffrey lifted his head, only to find his husband was looking at his trembling frame with an unreadable expression.

“Taking a bath. Isn’t that obvious?” Joffrey rolled his eyes, his teeth chattering.

“In icy cold water?” Daeron raised one of his eyebrows mockingly. God, Joffrey hated his perfect eyebrows.

“None of your business.” Joffrey lowered his gaze again and continued to dwell in his own frustration. He didn't need Daeron’s pity or anything.

“I am going to bed.” Daeron declared, “And I’d like my husband to enjoy me.”

“Fuck off.” Joffrey said, looking at his own twisted refection on the water surface, “Why not ask Lucerys to enjoy you, since you are working so hard to kiss his ass? Oh, wait, is it because you cannot get pass his husband?”

“Are you jealous, Joffrey?”

“Of fucking course not!” Joffrey threw the deadliest glare he could manage at Daeron, “Do I look like I care about you for the tiniest bit?”

Daeron chuckled. The motherfucker dared to chuckle. Joffrey was so furious that he splashed icy cold bath water at him, soaking Daeron’s perfect hair and wiping off the smug smile on his perfect face. It was childish of him, Joffrey knew, but he couldn't help it.

“Okay, enough.” Daeron wiped his face with his hand roughly before putting his hands under Joffrey’s armpits and picking the brunette up from the bathtub like a wet cat.

“What the fuck! Let me go, you traitor! I am going to kill you!”

Daeron dumped Joffrey on the bed sheet and covered the brunette’s naked body with his own. He didn't care the water dripping down from Joffrey’s body would ruin his silk shirt. His shirt had already been ruined by the berried Joffrey had thrown at him anyway.

“Fuck off!” Joffrey kicked his feet vigorously, but the cold water had made his muscles stiff. His husband caught his ankles swiftly and gracefully.

“Do you want me to fuck you so badly, that you have to repeat the word for so many times?” Daeron pressed his knee between Joffrey’s legs, and brushed the brunette’s pussy with his kneecap.

“Go to hell-” Joffrey’s sentence was cut short by Daeron’s lips on him, the alpha’s tongue invading his filthy mouth without mercy.

The kiss was ruthless and suffocating, just how Joffrey liked it. Even though he didn't want to admit it, Joffrey melted under Daeron’s touch, the alpha’s skin hot like a furnace, warming him through the core. Joffrey moaned into the kiss, wrapping his legs around Daeron’s waist and holding the alpha there with all his limbs.

“I like when you are jealous,” Daeron said after he broke the kiss to nibble Joffrey’s neck.

“I am not jealous.” Joffrey said stubbornly before adding, “Don't mention my brother’s name in bed.”

Daeron bit down on Joffrey’s collar bone, hard enough to draw blood. He licked the tiny bite mark he had just made before moving on to bite Joffrey’s chest, nipple, waist, hip and everywhere. Joffrey’s cold skin had regained its heat, so hot that it nearly evaporated the water drops on his skin. Joffrey grinded his hip against Daeron’s, trying desperate to satisfy his desire.

“Fuck! Don't stop there!” Joffrey cursed when Daeron’s lips stopped just above his omega parts, the alpha’s nose brushing against the dark bushes between his legs.

“I apologize for ignoring you, dear husband.” Daeron said, blowing some warm air at Joffrey’s twitching pussy lips, “So I am going to make it up to you. Just how you like it.”

Joffrey had to bite the back of his hand to prevent himself from screaming when Daeron parted his fat lips with teeth. Bite by bite, the alpha took apart Joffrey’s pussy, folds, clit, entrance. He licked and sucked, tasting the sweetness of Joffrey’s slick, devouring Joffrey as if the omega was a rare delicacy to enjoy.

Joffrey twitched and tossed, grabbing fistful of sheets so hard that he almost tore it apart. He was exhilarated, satisfied that Daeron’s attention was finally on him.

“You are cute when you are jealous.” Daeron murmured against Joffrey’s twitching entrance.

“Shut up.” Joffrey retorted.

[saiilorstars]

ch.13: The Lost Pieces 

Steve Rogers x OFC fic • squeeze your eyes for a Bucky Barnes x (2nd) OFC

taglist: @ocappreciationtag​​​​​​​​​​​​ @arrthurpendragon​​​​​​​​​​​ @anotherunreadblog​​​​​​​​​​​ @maaaaarveeeeel​​​​​​​​​​​ @stareyedplanet​​​​​​​​​​​ @gloryekaterina​​​ @averyhotchner​​​ @foxesandmagic​​​​​​​​​​​​ @lenonizi @kmc1989​​​​​​​​​​​​

Story Masterlist • Seren’s Masterlist• Chloe’s Masterlist​​

Also available on Fanfic ○ Ao3 ○ Wattpad

If you’d like to be a part of this OC’s work/edits, let me know!

Maria Hill was the savior that no one had expected given their streak of luck lately. But she showed up with a game plan that she explained in a very rushed manner as they headed to some secret base not too far outside the city. She assured them that those inside were people they could trust, and she had to reiterate that to Seren when the latter saw a medic approaching them. Natasha was still nursing a bullet injury in her shoulder and given the severity of the blood she was losing, Seren didn't make it harder. Besides, she had other things to worry about.

"I need some tech — a control room — whatever you have to help me locate Chloe." She was right on Maria's tail and actively searching for a room before Maria even answered. "We need to find Chloe as fast as possible!"

"We'll find her, but I think you'll want to see someone else too," Maria said, sounding oddly confident too.

Seren didn't quite care for it right now, honestly. She couldn't find it to be confident with just about anything right now. Their track record as of late was just awful. "Unless it's God himself — because I have a few questions to ask him — I'm not quite interested, Maria. I need to find Chloe."

"Follow me, guys." Maria picked up her pace and said nothing more, leaving the group with no choice but to follow after her. They followed her down some dark corridors until they came into a dimly lit room where the last person they were expecting was lying on a bed in pretty bad shape...but alive.

Seren became a statue. It took two seconds for Steve to go from surprised to irritated. Natasha was relieved. The only one who didn't understand was Sam.

"About damn time," Nick Fury said to a room full of wide eyes.

There wasn't a word spoken for minutes except for the medic giving Natasha instructions for her injury. Eventually, Fury was the one to break the silence. He did so with a long list of his injuries.

"...lacerated spinal column, cracked sternum, shattered collarbone, perforated liver, one hell of a headache…"

"Don't forget your collapsed lung," the doctor reminded him, as if he needed it.

"Oh, let's not forget that. Otherwise, I'm good."

"Good?" Seren nearly snorted, still unable to pull herself together from the shock. She was trying to remember to be a decent person and not lose it like she very much wanted to.

Natasha was a lot more calm about the situation, and neither Seren nor Steve were surprised about that. She was always the best at controlling her emotions. She looked at Fury cautiously like he would disappear if she blinked. "They cut you open, your heart stopped…"

"Tetrodotoxin B. Slows the pulse to one beat a minute. Banner developed it for stress. Didn't work so great for him, but we found a use for it."

"Why all the secrecy? Why not just tell us?" Steve asked, despite already presuming what the answer would be. Like Seren, he was keeping himself calm and surprisingly was doing a better job at it than Seren. He kept glancing in her direction and she was actively avoiding all of their eyes.

"Any attempt on the director's life had to look successful," Maria replied.

"No," said Seren abruptly, shaking her head. "Even if that wasn't the endgame, you still wouldn't have told us anything. And that's the truth." Nobody could ignore the sour resentment in her voice. "Because another truth is that you only tell the full plan to those you trust and clearly," she let out a bitter chuckle, "we weren't on that list. Except for Chloe, of course, and even then..."

"Agent Soul—"

"I'm not 'agent Soul' anymore," Seren snapped. "I never was, apparently! Because SHIELD never existed! Because the whole time there were moles everywhere and even when you did know about them, you didn't tell anyone, Fury!"

"I couldn't tell anyone, Seren, because—"

"Because you didn't trust us!? Are you serious!? Me!?" Seren laughed. She saw Steve reaching for her shoulder but in her anger she stepped away from him. She focused all her attention on the one man who, from her perspective, had a lot of the fault right now. "I've worked my entire life for you and you didn't trust me enough? You doubted my loyalties!?" She started laughing again and brought a hand up to her mouth. "You must be kidding me right now! You gotta be!"

There was a long silence in the room after which everyone except for Seren looked at each other. Steve gazed specifically at Fury with a 'she's right' look. Fury all but rolled his eye and let out a big breath.

"Yes, alright, you have a point but I did what I could," he ultimately said, not that Seren appreciate it. It wasn't what she wanted to hear. I couldn't risk them taking SHIELD's highest agent."

"I could take care of myself," Seren muttered. "Obviously today I'm off my game for reasons beyond my control."

"But that's just it, Seren, I had no idea where to start," Fury said. "I didn't know who was part of the moles and who wasn't. Not even Atria could tell."

The mention of Seren's grandmother put the woman even more on edge. "Excuse me?"

Steve's eyes fell shut. This isn't getting any better...

"My grandmother knew about this?" Seren walked up to the foot of Fury's bed, eyes blazing with newfound anger. "She knew and she didn't say anything!?"

"She couldn't say anything if she didn't know anything, Seren," Fury said. "All she would have done is make you panic. If it's any consolation, she didn't know about this when she brought you on. It was until later and by that time, you were so deep in SHIELD that there wasn't any point."

"Oh, there would've been a point," Seren said. "Because if either of you had told me, maybe Chloe wouldn't be where she is now. With HYDRA."

"That's not on you, Seren," Natasha cut in. She thanked the medic for helping her out and slid off the bed to rejoin the group.

"Yes, it is! I brought Chloe straight to HYDRA! If I had known that there were moles, I would've done things very differently!" Seren's angry eyes were shining with tears. "But now she's out there, God knows where, and I need to find her!"

"We will find her," Steve assured her. He was finally able to claim one of her hands and held it tight. "We're going to find Chloe, we're going to find Bucky too, and this time we're going to make sure that HYDRA goes down."

"Winters was always a target but I never thought it would be like this, much less from who," Fury said. He shifted in his bed to sit up better. "My best guess was always the tech piece she absorbed."

"What could Hydra want with a Hivemind?" Natasha wondered. "Chloe was never able to fully understand them. Nor them to her."

Seren stiffened when she recalled Sitwell's words.

'Hydra lost one of the pieces years ago. The dormant piece can't be activated until they have the other.'

"There's two pieces..." She said with a heavy alarm. "Sitwell said Hydra lost the other piece years ago. The one that HYDRA has couldn't be activated without the other...and now they have Chloe..."

"Wait, wait, how would they activate that piece if Chloe's already absorbed the other one?" Sam asked. "She told me that SHIELD tried taking out her piece but it was impossible."

"It still is," Maria confirmed, having been present for many of those attempts.

"So if they can't take her piece out...then they're going to try to..." Seren gulped as dread filled her chest. "I need to find her!" She had only turned halfway when Fury called her to wait.

"We'll find her but we need to make a plan first," he said.

"With you?" Seren's sharp tongue wasn't something they heard very often. Then again, seeing Seren close to losing it wasn't a very common sight either. Today was an exception for many, many things. She now gazed at her former boss with ire in her eyes. "For what? You want me to work for you like the clueless puppet I've been all my life!? No!"

"Seren—"

"No!" Seren stopped Natasha in her tracks. "You always said that I needed a backbone and so here it is! Words cannot describe how awful I feel right now — how stupid I feel! I mean, how the hell could I have been so blind!? How could I have not seen it before!?" She looked at Fury again. "You just stood there and let all this happen! You couldn't trust SHIELD but what about the Avengers? What about the Initiative I worked my whole life for? The people you managed to get — you didn't think about telling us then!?"

"You were barely a team as it was," Fury reminded her of her own thoughts before. "Even Rogers was more than reluctant to join."

"But I was there!" Seren yelled. "I was always there, Fury! I saw the walls of SHIELD bases than my own home! But you let me keep working in the dark! You let me bring an innocent girl into this web and you let her stay in it! And now you want me to jump back into my role as naive Agent Soul? Ha, I don't think so!" She spun around and stormed out of the room.

For all the attention that Steve suddenly got when Seren left, he didn't really feel as awkward as the others. He gave a small shrug of his shoulders as he met Fury's gaze. "I would just be grateful she didn't go supernova..."

~ 0 ~

Chloe struggled every now and then with the agents behind her. Her wrists had been bound with special cuffs meant to negate her abilities. Apparently, while SHIELD had developed a special pair for Seren, HYDRA had been working alongside with the project on a similar model just for Chloe. Wasn't she just lucky...

"Where the hell are we going?" she demanded from the pair of agents. Of course, just like the last time she asked, nobody answered her. "Where did you take the others?"

No answer.

They pushed her into some building, a bank by the looks of it, where she found a much heavier load of agents waiting for her. As brave as she wanted to be, she couldn't deny her racing heart nor the fear that was growing inside her. She was outnumbered by the dozens. The thing about always being on the run is that she was not used to facing heavy numbers like this. Hell, she wasn't as skilled of a fighter as her friends, definitely not like Seren. She was a runner, Seren was a fighter.

Now here she was, facing the shadows that had been after her for so long. She had plenty of faces to match said shadows.

And she was afraid. She was alone and so very afraid.

She dug her heels in the floor, forcing the agents behind her to physically push her forwards. She, in turn, put all her efforts to slowing their pace. "I don't want to go anywhere with you!" she yelled. "I want to see my friends! I want to see Seren!"

"Why, so we can blow her brains out right along with yours?" She heard Rumlow's voice ahead of her. She stopped fighting against the agents as he approached her.

Disgust etched across Chloe's face as she looked at him. "You wish you could get that close to her. She'd wipe the floor with you. And that's if Steve didn't get to you first." She smirked for a brief moment before Rumlow made to smack her across the face. She instinctively flinched but for some reason, Rumlow didn't go through with it. "Where...where are the others?"

Rumlow's lip curled into a deep scowl.

Ifthey'redeadthentherewouldbenoanger—

Chloe squeezed her eyes shut and groaned with the sudden blast of words in her head.

Hadtheybeenkilledtherewouldbeatotalsatisfactiononhisface—

"Stop, stop, stop," she whimpered.

—buttherewillbeaguaranteed100—

"I said STOP!" she yelled.

Rumlow laughed, making her open her eyes to see the grin on his face. "I always knew you were damn crazy, Winters."

"Shut up," she muttered.

"She's not crazy, Rumlow. She's gifted." Alexander Pierce arrived on the scene with his own flock of agents behind him. He smiled towards Chloe like she wasn't being detained against her will. "She took a little longer to be ready but that's alright. HYDRA is nothing if not patient, especially with its greatest assets."

"I am not your asset," Chloe spat. "Where are my friends? You didn't kill them. He" — she nodded at Rumlow — "would've bragged about it already. But instead he scowled."

"Did you deduce that on your own?" asked Pierce, eyes already studying her in a way she absolutely hated. "Or was it them?" For her own safety she would stay quiet. "Tell me, do you know what they are? Where they're from? It must be magnificent to have an entire race in your head."

"Not as much as you would think," she said. "It gets loud."

"Well, it's all your fault, really. Nobody asked you to stick your nose where it didn't belong," Rumlow said with a sarcastic smile. "But you've always been annoying like that, haven't you?"

"And you've always been second best, right?" she countered with a smug smile. "And in case you're wondering, I deduced that on my own." Rumlow's face fell before she finished. He made a move against her when Pierce shut him down.

"Stand down." Pierce's word was law by the looks of it. Now it made sense to Chloe why she wasn't really hurt (beyond the emotional trauma). Pierce wanted her for something. "Your friends, as you say, escaped but it won't be a problem. We have powerful weapons, after all."

Chloe stiffened. Her eyes roamed the hallway. It was abandoned judging by the dirt accumulating on the walls. But it was dead quiet. Her eyes started glowing blue. Pierce watched with an almost fascination. Up until now he had only heard from their infiltrators in SHIELD what their Hivemind looked like inside Chloe Winters.

And suddenly, the glow in Chloe's eyes faded and she was back in the present. Her eyes flickered back to Pierce with the sense of new knowledge. "You have him here, don't you?" She asked what she already knew. "This whole time, the ghost you had following me was the supposedly late Sergeant Barnes."

"The Hivemind again?" Pierce's lips stretched into another clean smile.

"I was there when his mask fell...but yes, the Hivemind helps connect the dots. He's here right now. So what do you want from me?"

"They haven't told you, then?" Pierce seemed to take extra satisfaction learning her disadvantage. "Let's walk," he motioned to her.

She raised an eyebrow at him, hoping that every part of her body was screaming that she hated him. The agents behind her, however, shoved her forwards. She stumbled a few steps until she was able to reclaim her balance. She swallowed hard and raised her head to walk alongside Pierce.

"The piece that you absorbed when you were a kid, didn't you ever wonder why you couldn't fully connect to the Hivemind?"

Of course she had but in the beginning, she was just terrified that she had a piece of tech in her body in the first place. "What the hell was it doing there in the first place?"

"Ah, mission gone wrong," Pierce rolled her eyes. "Decommissioned the agents who failed there. The tech pieces were left behind from an old mission in the 60s. It took us forever to find them but imagine my reaction when only one piece made it to my hands?"

Chloe suddenly felt a tiny bit of pity for the agent in charge of that mission. "What did you want with them?"

"It was HYDRA's hope that we would learn how to wield the pieces correctly. We didn't know they were part of a Hivemind until we examined the piece we had."

"What did you think they were before?"

"Nobody knew except that they were alien," Pierce said. "And you'll understand that anything foreign can always be of value if wielded correctly. HYDRA takes anything it can and this wouldn't be an exception. So even when we only had one piece, we made it a priority to figure out what the tech could do. But unfortunately, we soon realized that we didn't have anything without the other piece." Pierce finally looked at Chloe, who gulped. "It was even more unfortunate when we learned where the piece had gotten to — into. A clueless girl that one of our own agents brought to S.H.I.E.L.D."

Chloe looked away. Seren. Seren had unknowingly brought her to the very organization that would try to kill her later on. "You wanted to kill me—you tried to kill me several times. What, did you expect to yank it out of my corpse?"

"Initially," Pierce said without a care of Chloe's horrified face. "But that was before we got all your test results. When SHIELD conducted its initial tests on you, HYDRA learned how the piece had fused to your body. It is now part of your body, meshed with your DNA. Even if we had killed you, we wouldn't have been able to salvage the piece you absorbed. We would've damned ourselves."

That's why they stopped trying to kill me, Chloe realized. They needed me alive. "But...but you started following me? What for? And trying to kidnap me?"

"If we could not take the piece back, we had to at least make sure we could harvest its power regardless of its whereabouts. But you turned out to be one smart cookie." Pierce stopped in front of a gated door. "Fury never shared the statuses of your missions. There were no reports of it either. You were hard to find, Miss Winters, and that is very impressive for someone on Hydra's list."

"I don't feel very honored," Chloe moved her arms a bit to remind them of the very special clamps on her wrists. "In fact, I feel more like a prisoner which" — she bobbed her head — "I'm sure is what Sergeant Barnes has probably felt this whole time too."

"The cuffs are merely precautions," Pierce said with a smug smile Chloe wished she could wipe off with her powers. "You need to understand first."

"Forgive me if I don't understand the people who have made my life miserable for the past 8 years! I lost my family because of you people! I couldn't go back home anymore! They think I ran away! I lost everything!"

"For a good cause, our cause," Pierce remained uncharacteristically calm despite the shouting in his face. "You're young, you don't understand what we're trying to do."

"My age doesn't define whether or not I understand good and bad. I am more than competent to decide what I want and let me tell you that being here is something I don't want. What I would want is to get the hell out of here and see my friends—scratch that," she nodded towards the gated door, "I would like to take that poor man with me and get the hell out of here!"

"You're here to serve us now," Pierce's voice took a more natural hard tone. That's the one Chloe thought would be more his style. "You don't say 'no' to HYDRA. I know your limits, Winters. We've studied them right alongside SHIELD, make no mistake of that."

Chloe's eyes flickered to the agents surrounding them. "Why am I here?" she asked. "What are you going to do with me?"

"Connect the pieces, what else?"

"No," she shifted her gaze to the gate. Her eyes took on a soft blue glow. "That's not why I'm here. You could've done that anywhere. I'm here for another reason."

Peace. He's under duress. They cannot control him.

She straightened herself up and looked directly at Rumlow. "Open the gate," she commanded, much to his shock.

He scoffed at her. "In case you forgot, you're not in charge."

She cocked her head at him. "Open. The. Gate."

Just as Rumlow's face twisted with anger, Pierce spoke up. "Open the gate, Rumlow. She understands now."

Rumlow's head snapped in his direction. "But she's not—"

"Open it," Pierce reiterated, tone cold as ice.

Rumlow's jaw clenched but he went around the pair to open the gate. A scientist was coming up to the other side when the gates opened up.

"He's erratic, sir," he fumbled with Pierce, especially when he saw Chloe. "I-I don't know…"

"She'll know what to do," Pierce said with such a certainty that brought more nerves to Chloe. She sure hoped she could figure out that 'what' part in the span of the walk there.

Eventually, she was led into a room that couldn't possibly be filled with more agents and scientists. For a split second, she got the gist of Seren's fear of doctors. All the prodding and the experiments they could do with nobody to stop them. Only in this case, the "subject" wasn't a Celessian but a human man.

Not completely human, don't kid yourself Chloe.

She stopped as soon as Piece did—this would be the only time she would fall in line with him—and looked ahead. All the pictures in the world wouldn't compare to the sight of Bucky Barnes today. He didn't look a thing like the museums portrayed him as. Steve would always say that Bucky had the sharpest of looks and a charming smile. Chloe often agreed with him when she saw the pictures but not today. Today, he looked like a man with a blank slate.

He seemed beyond exhausted in his chair. His eyes were low and detached. His bare shoulders rose every now and then with a visible breath but Chloe suspected that he was too tired for even that. His hair was long enough to almost reach his shoulders and it looked in dire need of care. Chloe's eyes lingered over his metal arm that rested idly on the arm rest. Whatever damage Natasha had done to it earlier was gone. But she still couldn't get past the ugly red that marked the connection between the metal and his flesh. She wondered if it hurt all the time...

"Has he been here the whole time? With Hydra?" she found herself asking as if she would be privy to any answers.

To her surprise, Pierce did give her a response. "His work has been a gift to mankind."

"He...he died," Chloe shook her head. "He's been dead since 1940 — you've had him since 1940!?" She was absolutely horrified at the idea of just how long Bucky had been (no doubt) tortured since then. "Decades..."

"He has a bit of a head-start than you, of course. But he'll be a great teacher. And you will make a good ally."

"A what—?"

"You can see the future!"

"I can't really—"

"You would help devise the Winter Soldier's plans and execute them. Together, you'd be unstoppable and thus make HYDRA invincible."

Chloe let out a humorless, loud laugh. "I will die before I become anything of HYDRA's!"

"Funny, that's what Barnes said in the beginning too. Least that's what the reports said."

Chloe swallowed very hard and whipped her head in Bucky's direction. He's a ghost of who he once was. It terrified her to think that she could end up like him. "N-no..." she took a step back and bumped into Rumlow. She turned and saw the other agents stepping towards her. They had surrounded her and blocked off the entrance.

"You are here to do a job, Winters," Pierce said. "One that you will do a lot in the future now. SHIELD kept a good record of that ability. Peacefulness."

Chloe sucked in a breath as the Hivemind started whispering in her head. The fight. It's left him troubled. Chloe glanced at Bucky again. He looked like he was in an endless struggle. "The fight...he's starting to remember, isn't he?"

"He can't remember what's not true," hissed Pierce.

Chloe's head snapped in his direction, looking rather indignant on Bucky's behalf. "You're joking right?" Now instead of fear, all she felt was anger. HYDRA was prepared to act like they didn't kidnap and brainwash a whole man for decades. If she had the power to give him even just a little piece of all those memories, then she had a duty to at least try. "I need my hands," she said firmly.

Pierce glanced at the agent holding the key and nodded at him to go ahead. Chloe was perfectly still as the agent stepped up to uncuff her.

"I'm sure the Hivemind will tell you that your chances of escaping here are very slim," Pierce warned when Chloe was free. "Rest assured if none of my agents catch you, he will," he gave a nod in Bucky's direction.

Chloe had no doubt about that. She took in a breath and stepped towards him. Her fingers danced on her sides the closer she got. "Sergeant," she decided to go with for the moment. She doubted he remembered his own name right now anyways.

"He hasn't been that in decades," Rumlow said.

"I don't think I asked for your opinion," she snapped and came to stand in front of Bucky, though leaving a cautious distance for the moment. "We met before at the attack on the bridge…"

At the mention of the bridge, Bucky's eyes finally lifted from the floor. Chloe held her breath for a moment. Even the shine of the blue eyes that Steve talked about were gone.

"The man on the bridge…" Bucky said, his voice gruff, "Who was he?" She would know. She was on their side. She was always on their side.

"Don't answer," warned Pierce on time because Chloe had been just about to do that.

"You send him to kill Steve and you don't even have the courage to tell him who he is?" She shouldn't be surprised. HYDRA were made up of cowards. "Maybe you're not as brave as you think."

"Agent Winters, you seem to think like you're in control but I assure you that you are not," Pierce's face hardened. "You figured out what you're here for, now do it."

Chloe turned away from them. She met Bucky's gaze and had a very limited time to think of what to do. It wasn't like she had options to begin with. "I'm Chloe." She said, maybe it would matter if someone gave him a name. After decades and missions like these, she doubted Bucky recognized any of the agents with a name. "I, um, I think we've already met...in a way. But, um, that fight on the bridge—"

"Agent Winters—"

"—left you very, uh...tired, right?" Chloe smiled nervously at Bucky. He, in turn, remained blank. "I can help you." It was harder to go on when all Bucky did was stare at her. He had to be calculating her moves. If only he knew that she had zero moves right now.

But in truth he was placing her. She was the mission that he didn't understand right-away. She was the mission that, in a way, allowed him to rest. There was never any fighting for her missions, never any kind of encounter with someone. He just watched from a distance and reported back.

Now she's been captured. He knew what that meant for her...what could come next.

"...run." His quiet whisper managed to elicit a sharp gasp from Chloe. It even startled the rest of the room. The Winter Soldier hardly ever spoke when he wasn't addressed.

Chloe's shock wore off as she realized what he tried to do for her. Her expression softened. "I can't," she replied to him. She smiled sadly at him. "I...I have to stay here. But if I have to stay here, then I at least want to help you. I, um...I have an ability that, um, well...it's known to ease the mind. I won't look through any of your memories. I only want to help calm you down. I just need to touch your temples." She gestured to her own temples with her glowing blue hands. "May I?"

"Why are you asking? Just do it already," one of the scientists told her.

Chloe's eyes flickered to them. There was no point in being incredulous bug she couldn't help it. "Just because you all chose to violate his body and his every thought, doesn't mean I'm doing the same!" With that, she shifted her gaze back on Bucky.

He hadn't moved, not even an inch, he only stared. At the very least he could be trying to figure her out, which was a fair thing to do. She was a bit too bright for his usual interactions. As much as he thought, he couldn't understand what her purpose was. Everyone around him had a purpose, whether it was to fix him or give him orders, but everyone had a purpose. It all typically came down to make him more efficient.

"You have the Hive Mind..." He remembered, and watched her face pale. Was her Hive Mind like his metal arm? Her "advantage"?

Chloe wasn't surprised that he knew that. "I do," she nodded, "But I only want to help you. I know a thing or two about having your mind violated. And it's also because of these people."

Bucky's eyes flickered to the others. Chloe took that as a win. He was listening. She reached for his temples only for him to seize her wrists. She flinched then heard the shifts of the weapons behind her taking aim on Bucky.

"Stop!" she told them. She tried not to budge as much under Bucky's tight grip. He was rightfully suspicious of her. She doubted nobody before her had ever used a "good guy" tactic on him. His eyes frantically searched hers for any sign, a clue, of what she would really do to him if he allowed her to touch him. "If you don't want it, I won't do it," she eventually said to him.

For a second, he lost his grip on her. It was evident that he'd been expecting anything but that. He turned his head towards the others; the weapons were still on him.

Chloe followed his gaze. "Lower them," she ordered. "You want me to do this, then lower the weapons. Otherwise you'll have one dead Hivemind and bye-bye evil plans."

With that logic, it was only time before the weapons were gone.

It was almost bemusing to see the shock on Bucky's face when it happened. Chloe smiled slightly at him. "Can I?" She gestured her wrists still bound by his hands.

The shock wasn't enough to cover his expression when she asked for his permission. Because of that, Bucky gave a slim nod of his head. Now he was curious and that was a novelty. He hadn't been curious about anything in...he didn't know how much time had passed.

Chloe's smile widened with his nod. She just wished her hands wouldn't shake so much. You are way out of your element here. No matter. She had to push through.

Bucky was still as a statue when her hands reached him. As much as he despised foreign hands on him — he learned to hate it once he got the gist of what typically happened whenever somebody touched him — he still didn't move. He did note, though, how unusually soft her fingers were. And gentle. That was entirely distinctive from the others.

She looked at him with a light that nobody else possessed. It made him curious again — and the novelty came again — about what she would have to do for Hydra. It also made him feel sorry for what was to come because no matter what was coming, it wouldn't be good.

"Just think," Chloe whispered to him. She was very slow when it came to pressing her forehead against his, closing her eyes. Usually, she didn't do this step but given the amount of years Bucky had, she needed to go big. She often did it with Steve as well and he had that gap of 70 years in the dark. She was grateful that Bucky didn't immediately shove her away. She could feel his nervous breath and definitely felt the subtle moment in which he flinched at the closer connection. She just hoped that she could keep his trust going. "The uneasiness, the questions, think about that and feel the ease that I'll send through."

Bucky had not closed his eyes, wanting to be alert as much as possible, though it really didn't seem like Chloe was going to try anything. She seemed very different from everyone else — she was. All the scientists around him were always rough and brief with him. Yes, he was enhanced to withstand 'rough' but it didn't mean he liked it. Chloe was very far from that. Her fingers were so soft pressed against his skin. She smelled so nice too. And the best part? She genuinely wanted to help.

Chloe focused all her power on Bucky. Never had she tried so hard to make it work. While Bucky had no idea what was supposed to be happening, he felt it. It was strange. His mind, as fuzzy and conflicted as it was, started to shift. Every thought, no matter what it was, was dissolving to allow this wave of serenity to wash over him. How could this woman be producing that level of calmness? As much as he had planned to stay alert, his eyes fell shut. For the first time since he could remember, everything dark around him slipped away. He knew nothing but sweet bliss and calmness.

And it was in that sweet bubble that he saw flashes. They were quick, disappearing almost as soon as they showed up, and very fragmented. Voices filled his ears, unknown but at the same time very familiar. And then he saw him. The man from the bridge. He was smaller, but the same face. They were an old street—

"That's enough," came Pierce's order.

Chloe's fingers pulled away from Bucky's temples and she pulled back. She met his gaze sheepishly. "I hope it helped you," she said honestly. He seemed surprised, and a bit troubled again. Maybe she hadn't helped him...

Bucky looked at her with wide eyes. "The man on the bridge...I knew him. You...you showed him..."

"I didn't..." Chloe said nervously, glancing back at Pierce. The last thing she needed was for him to think she was showing Bucky images of his past life. "I can't — I can't actually do that..."

Bucky was sure of what he saw. "He was there. And..." The voices he heard now began to sound a lot like the man too. "Who was he?"

"You met him earlier this week on another assignment," Pierce answered him.

Chloe looked back at him, her eyebrows knitting together with incredulity. "You can't just wash this over, you know. He will figure it out."

"It's been seventy years, Winters."

"So this is the first time they met again and look at what's already happened?" Chloe gestured towards Bucky. He was clearly trying his best to remember. "As much as you can brainwash with your high tech, the brain is a complicated thing. It's surprising."

"I knew him," Bucky said, inadvertently proving her point.

Chloe very quickly confirmed it. "You did!" After that, she had agents coming to retrieve her. She thrashed and yelled at them to leave her alone.

Bucky watched her with new curiosity—it was almost becoming familiar to him in a way. Being curious. Despite her loud yells, she seemed confident about what she was saying. He did know that man.

Pierce walked up to him while Chloe was forced to stay a good distance back. "Your work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped the century, and I need you to do it one more time. Society is at a tipping point between order and chaos. Tomorrow morning we're gonna give it a push. But, if you don't do your part, I can't do mine, and HYDRA can't give the world the freedom it deserves."

"What!?" Chloe's face scrunched. She knew that it was in her best interest not to speak but when had she ever been prudent about anything? "What kind of bullshit is that—"

"ENOUGH!" Rumlow pulled out his gun and pressed it against her temple. "I swear to God, Winters, say one more thing!" Chloe naturally recoiled from the cool metal on her skin, but being restrained didn't help get very far. "You don't have to die but we can sure as hell find a way to shut you up."

The natural fear in her whimper brought Bucky to make his conclusion that she was most certainly not like the others around him. If that was the truth then she had no reason to lie. She said that he did know the man on the bridge.

Pierce cleared his throat to remind him that he was still waiting for a response. Bucky's eyes left Chloe to meet the man's. "But I knew him," he insisted. He hadn't been certain about anything in a while, but now he was. "I did."

Pierce shook his head. "Winters, your little act is going to cost you."

Chloe made a face. "But I didn't—!"

"Prep him," he ordered the scientists.

"He's been out of cryo-freeze too long," one of them said.

"Then wipe him and start over!"

Chloe watched the people around them hurriedly move to do whatever Pierce instructed them to do. "What...what are they going to do?" She could see that whatever it was, Bucky was no stranger to it. He seemed ready for it but with a deep, and genuine, fear. She got the idea why when clamps shut around his arms. "Woah, woah, woah, wait!" She pushed herself towards them, forcing the agents around her to hold her back. "Leave him alone! It's my fault! I did it — leave him alone!" Her eyes started glowing a radiant blue, causing the agents to scramble to cuff her again.

Pierce was out of patience. "Implant the other piece," he commanded.

"What!? No!" Chloe's eyes widened with horror. "N-n-n-n-no!" The agents started pulling her away and as much as she fought, she couldn't stop them. "NO! NO! PLEASE DON'T! NO! NO!"

Bucky heard her screaming as she was dragged out of the room. It triggered a few more memories of himself in very similar situations. Endless screams just before the torture began. It was his last thought before his hell started all over again.

[seekingdecay]

If nobody will write trader fics ill do it my fucking self. Eat p03 and trader fans eat!!!! This is super headcanony with the idea that The Trader had to bribe the other scrybes into letting her do business.

Fine Pelts.

Warnings: None Apply

Words: 1,015

Characters: P03, The Trader

Summary: [Pre Game Events]. "Perhaps it was a warning, but if it was she did not pay any mind. There was business to take part in. If the sound of the door did not announce her presence, the sound of her boots certainly did. She watched as the gaze of the Scrybe of Technology was torn from his work."

~~~◇~~~

Steel lines the floors of the platform, the Temple of Technology was raised off the ground. Likely to keep nature outside of its lifeless walls. Despite its efforts however, heavy soled boots thunked against the metal, tracking mud on the ground leading up to the door.

The Trapper slowed as she approached the entrance, her thick clothing definitely helped up here. The elevation was much more than most would think, it was cold. The steel and iron was no threat to her, the only thing that made her hesitate was the idea of speaking with the scrybe inside. 

But, she pressed on.

The door hissed open, it was a sharp sound that reminded The Trader of an adder hiding in the grass. Waiting to strike and kill the prey with its potent venom. Perhaps it was a warning, but if it was she did not pay any mind. There was business to take part in. If the sound of the door did not announce her presence, the sound of her boots certainly did. She watched as the gaze of the Scrybe of Technology was torn from his work.

"Are you a challenger? Let me see your–" the scrybe halted in its speech, the broken lights on his monitor flickered as though it had an eye twitch. "– why are you here? Did that beast send you over?"

The Trader did not reply at first, eyes staying level with the Scrybe's.

"... I wish to trade." she finally spoke, tone holding as little emotion as The Scrybe's. 

"I don't have any interest in your stinking animal skins, brute." P03 spoke with a particular bitterness, as if it's heard this many times before. "I don't have any."

"I do not want your pelts, nor your foils." The Trader raised a hand, the thick mitten stained with aged blood. "I wish to… Offer you… A pelt."

P03 threw up one of the eyebrows on its display for a moment, before it flickered back to its typical expression.

"I don't want 'em, either."

"Humour me." 

The Trader and P03 met gazes for a moment, there seemed to be a tense crackle in the air. The Trader knew that bargaining with the scrybe would be difficult, and at this point she knew P03 was well aware of her stubbornness.

"... Fine. What do you have." it was stated as a demand, not a question.

The Trader approached the table, moving some cards aside. P03 seemed to grumble in annoyance as she did, but its complaints were quickly silenced as a large object was placed on the table. Wrapped in paper and tied with twine, it surprisingly did not have the thick smell of blood hanging around it.

"This… May be of interest to you, machine." The Trader began to unwrap it, as she did P03 leaned over slightly to get a closer look. How it craned its neck reminded her of a bird. What was contained shimmered in the low factory light, a fleece made of glimmering gold. She spread the wool to show the tight coils at the base of the pelt, a sign of extreme quality. "A fleece of gold, the purest kind. One of few in the world, along with a prized possession of mine."

P03 let out a drawn out beeep… Of what The Trader hopes is interest. She assumes he does not understand the quality of the fleece… But its value was nothing to have to be said twice.

"Why would I need a gold bundle of fur?" An expected response, The Trader couldn't help but chuckle a little. "Why are you laughing?"

"It is wool… Wool and fur are very different. Wool is in tight coils, such as this. Fur is typically straight, or curly. Of course it can be coiled but… The properties are different." The Trader explained. "The quality is high, I assure you. Is gold not a wonderful conductor of electricity? Perhaps the yarn made from this wool can be used for exquisite wiring…"

Personally, she'd much prefer to take it home and make it into a wonderfully soft bedding for herself. These golden fleeces are few and far between, including this one she has merely four… Enough to make a perfectly sized blanket. If this deal is stricken… She can easily afford more. 

"... I know you aren't giving this up for free." P03's gaze narrowed suspiciously. "What are you trying to get out of me?"

"You know my namesake well, I see." The Trader laughed dryly. "For this fleece… All I wish is for that sideroom. To trade my wares in your factory."

P03 beeped again. As if offended at the idea.

"I don't want you stinking up the temple."

"But you do want this fleece." she pressed on, waving her mittened hand over the pelt to emphasize the point. She could see it on the machine's expression. It did want this gold. "This fleece isn't all you will get… I will be trading your cards for my prices. You will receive your cards spread distribution in this location. Those who wish to use your cards will have… Easy access to good deckbuilding. Is that not what you want?"

P03's eye twitched again, a bit more aggressively than usual. It was frustrated, she could tell.

"Just don't make a mess of the place." P03 said with a hiss in its tone. The Trader had won this bargain at last. She couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride swell in her chest. 

"Allow me to wrap up the payment once more…" The Trader rolled up the fleece, wrapped it in paper and tied it back up, sliding it over to the Scrybe. P03 picked it up in its claw and dropped it under the table. The Trader wanted to tear its head off for that.

"Now just… Go. Go figure out your little… Shop thing. Don't make a mess and don't be noisy." P03 demanded, she couldn't help but feel he was being unwelcoming. She began to step away, starting to enter the side room with heavy footsteps.

"It's a pleasure. I am pleased."

[obligatoryidolblog]

Bitter Hands (Kim Hongjoong - Ateez) Part 1

Genre: Series that includes darker themes, will include romance, future smut, paranormal themes, and angst

Pairing: Hongjoong/reader

Warnings: references to mental instability, arson, and abuse

Summary: Hongjoong, freshly on hiatus and off a personal breakup, decides to take a sabbatical in an out of the way place where no one knows him. He goes in hopes of finding himself again, but ends up instead finding a strange artist who calls herself Mama, and her assistant, a young woman with a deadly past and an aching desire to escape it.

A/N: This is a complete rewrite and rework of a series I started before.

Masterlist

Hongjoong walked up the treacherous hill, chewing his lip. He was enjoying his sabbatical in this small American town, but he was still antsy. Shaking his head, he looked at the shops he walked by. This was a tiny town, but full of artists and oddities in human form. There was just a touch of European flavor, with the added benefit that practically no one would know him. He just had to make sure no one found him here. He needed a break.

Pausing, he looked in a window, his attention caught by an easel with a canvas on it, angry slashes of black and red painted on it, softened by gentle sweeps of yellow. Stopping, he stood on the sidewalk, studying the painting for several minutes until he saw the little sign next to it. In elegant calligraphy, the sign stated that the shop offered classes in abstract painting twice a week. Pursing his lips and absently feeling for the phone in his pants pocket, he mused.

This could be a good distraction, a way to decompress. Wandering the shops and parks was nice, but he needed something to focus on. He’d already nearly cleaned out the local library. Taking a breath and nodding to himself, he opened the door, walking in. A tiny, older woman swathed in layers of material and smelling strongly of patchouli and weed looked up from her sketch pad with a smile.

“Hi there,” she said in a surprisingly youthful voice, setting aside her pad and charcoal, wiping her hand on one of her many folds of material. “What can I do for you?”

Dredging up his ‘I’m so charming’ smile, he forced himself to speak, “I was wondering about the classes. The painting ones?”

Her smile widened and she stood, walking over, reaching out to pet a cat on the counter beside Hongjoong that he hadn’t noticed.

“Have you ever painted before?” she asked, leaning in to kiss the top of the cat’s head.

Shrugging, Hongjoong wished she would just give him a flier or something. He hadn’t come to this town to talk, nor to get to know people. He came to get away.

“I have, but I’m no pro. I’m just looking to fill some time,” he said with an uncomfortable glance at the cat which suddenly sat up and stared straight at him.

The woman’s eyes turned to him, a spark lighting them, and she looked him over, then said, “I see. Yes, I think I see.”

Straightening, she walked around the counter, gathering her faded brown hair at the nape of her neck and twisting it into a knot. Her voluminous sleeves fell back, and Hongjoong’s eyes caught on several small star shaped tattoos scattered on the inside of the woman’s wrists. For some reason, it held him fascinated, until she dropped her arms to lean on the counter.

“My name is Aster,” she said, looking directly into his eyes for the first time. “But pretty much everyone calls me Mama.”

Reaching over, Aster plucked a piece of paper from a toppling pile shoved between a stack of books and a giant ceramic frog. She slid it across the counter in front of him, motioning for him to move closer.

“I think the beginner class would be perfect for you. We have one tonight, in fact,” she said, glancing up from the paper to see the discomfort on his face.

Hongjoong was suddenly unsure about this idea. A class would be filled with people. He’d be expected to interact. And this Aster seemed far too personable. She would never allow him to quietly slip in and out of class without speaking to anyone. He could feel the 'I’ll fix you’ vibe rolling off of her stronger than the pungent scent of weed.

After a moment of silence, Aster said, “How about this… you come in and check the class out tonight for free. Just come and see if it’s for you.”

With a girlish giggle, she added, “I promise, I won’t make you introduce yourself to the class or force you to stay.”

A grudging smile spread across Hongjoong’s face. Maybe he was being ridiculous. He hadn’t been hassled since he had come to this quiet little town, so why was he still determined to remain reclusive? Shaking his head at himself, he reached out to take the paper from Aster that gave all the details of the class.

“Alright,” he said, his bright smile shining once more before he turned to the door, “I’ll be here tonight.”

“I’m counting on it,” he heard her call as he exited the shop, reaching once more reflexively for his phone.

He folded the paper, slipping it into his pocket and refusing to try to decipher what her parting words meant.

Stop overthinking everything, Hongjoong.

Drawing in a deep breath, he looked around and decided that he was done with his wandering for the day. Pointing himself towards his hotel, he mused silently on his mental state, and his increasing wish to be simply left alone. As he walked and thought, his fingers traced the edge of the folded paper in his pocket, the other hand gripping his phone tightly.

***

Sighing and falling to the bed he had officially marked as off limits to the cleaning crew of the hotel, Hongjoong shoved a stack of books off the end with his foot, taking a certain joy in the series of thunks as the books hit the plush carpet. The painting class started in a half hour, and he was still arguing with himself about going. Rolling over, he scrubbed at his eyes and huffed. He wanted to go. So why wasn’t he already dressed and heading out?

Because he was scared. He knew it. He knew that he knew it. But fuck if he wanted to admit it. His head turned to the clothes he had set out carefully when he had arrived back to the hotel. They were passably clean, and didn’t have too many wrinkles. Eyes narrowing and lips pressing together, Hongjoong stood and grabbed the clothes, tossing them to the floor with the rest of his belongings. Turning briskly, he snatched up a rumpled t-shirt and tossed it to the bed. If he was going to go, he wasn’t going to go to the trouble of trying to look presentable.

He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. And he wouldn’t have anyone think he was trying.

***

Aster looked up as the door opened, and smiled. Of course he would be late. And dressed as messily as he could be. Shaking her head and motioning for him to take the empty stool in the back of the room, she turned back to the student she had been talking to.

“_____, it’s like I keep trying to tell you. You have to let go and let the emotions flow,” she said, patting you on the shoulder.

“Ugh, I am hopeless at this! Why do I keep coming here?” you replied, reaching up to shove your hair back and smearing paint on your face with the paintbrush in your hand in the process.

Chuckling, Aster said in a pointed tone, “Because you need to be here. You’ve got to open up some way, darlin’.”

Groaning, you turned a pleading look up at Aster and asked, “Isn’t there some other way, Mama? I suck at painting. Majorly.”

“Dearest, you do not suck. You just have to give in to the inner vision. Let it out,” Aster shot back, shaking her head.

Curling your lip in frustration, you muttered, “My inner vision is showing me getting up and tossing this canvas in the damn trash where it belongs.”

Throwing her hands up, Aster said, “Okay, so paint that.”

Turning from you, Aster headed for the young man in the back of the room, ignoring the grumbled curses behind her. The man was looking around, his booted foot tapping silently on the floor. So he was nervous. Why was he so withdrawn? Coming to sink to the stool beside him, she turned a friendly smile to him, not surprised to see him return it with a tight lipped grimace she was sure he meant to be a grin.

“I’m glad you came,” she whispered, turning to look out at the class, sensing that he didn’t like to be looked at too closely.

Shifting uncomfortably, he murmured, “I said I would.”

Nodding and looking down at the floor with an understanding smile, she said softly, “I know. But I can tell you have misgivings. I am glad you overcame them. You’d be a great addition to the class, I’m sure of it.”

She felt him stiffen next to her, and looked over at him. His mouth was set in a straight line as he continued to look across the students, all painting, some silent, some humming along to music only they could hear. She watched as his eyes pause on a few canvases, interest lighting them past the studied distance he was trying to keep.

Taking a shot, she asked in her quietest voice, “What’s holding you back?”

He straightened, finally turning to look at her, then slid his eyes away, saying in a tone of obviously forced indifference, “I just don’t want to socialize too much. I came to this town for a rest from people.”

Watching the emotions play across his profile, she nodded, saying, “Okay. But you don’t have to socialize to paint. Painting is personal. It comes from the soul. As you can see, no one here really talks much.”

Sighing, he looked down at the phone he had pulled from his pocket, then replied, “I know. I’m being foolish. But I just don’t want to be in the same room as other people, even.”

Aster’s brow wrinkled as she watched him clench his teeth. She was going to have him in this class if it killed her.

***

Hongjoong tried not to look over at the older woman watching him so closely. He wasn’t sure why he was telling her these things. He was doing exactly what he had been telling himself not to do. He was talking to her, telling her about himself. His eyes drifted back up, and he saw the reason for his disconcertion. He wouldn’t look at you again. Aster had been talking to you when he’d walked in, and his eyes had immediately been locked on you.

Dragging his gaze away, he forced himself to look at the canvas of one particularly accomplished man in the back row. The very last thing he needed was to be attracted to some woman. Distance. He needed distance from women. Inhaling deeply, he turned to look at Aster. The older woman was still studying him, and he shifted his gaze away again, uncomfortable. Hongjoong knew he was being irrational, but he simply felt that he needed… really needed time to just be alone and center himself, get to know himself again after going on hiatus.

So many expectations were mounting around him, plans and visions of a future that he was starting to question whether he really wanted. It was far past time for Hongjoong to withdraw, look inward, and reevaluate his life. Sighing, he picked at a loose thread on his crappy shorts, and made up his mind. He hated being indecisive.

“Alright, I’ll take the class,” he said, ignoring the delighted exclamation from Aster.

He was doing this for himself, to fill his mind with that white noise that took over when he was creating something, that sense of thinking of nothing and everything at once, without meaning to. He wasn’t doing this to please some aging hippie. Glancing up, he told himself firmly that he most certainly wasn’t doing it to see the young woman tapping the end of a paintbrush to her lower lip, if only once more.

***

Slowly striding back to the hotel, Hongjoong mentally cataloged the supplies he would be buying the next day for the painting class. It was a basic list, but he had to keep his mind occupied. He refused to dwell on the surge of all-too-familiar attraction he had felt upon seeing you in Aster’s classroom. Now was not the time for yet another broken heart. And isn’t that how it always ended? Hongjoong may be lucky in some areas, but love was certainly not one of them.

Love? Where had that word come from?

He had no right to even be thinking that word. You were some random woman he had seen once. Fuck. Glutton for punishment, that was him. Hongjoong seemed to love nothing more than to wallow in the pain of fucked up romantic idealization. With a sigh he shook his head at himself. He wasn’t going to do this. You would remain a stranger, and he would keep his mind on the artwork. No mooning over you from afar, no building up some dreamy version of you to place on a pedestal in his mind that would only topple the moment he actually got to know you.

And getting to know you was totally out of the question. He had gone far enough out on the getting-to-know limb with Aster. He really wanted to feel more uncomfortable about that than he did. This Aster, the self-styled Mama, was a danger to his solitude, and that solitude was key to his current tether to sanity. Focusing on the hotel rising before him, he shoved away memories. He wanted nothing to do with his past right now. That was behind him, and he was done with thinking about it.

The future was all that needed to concern him now. And to decide what path to take for that future, he needed to stop everything he was used to doing, change all his habits, immerse himself in a new situation. He needed to figure out just who the fuck he was and what the fuck he wanted. Snorting, he smiled down at his feet. All these years of hard work, years of thinking he knew it all, only to discover that he didn’t even know who he really was. It would be funny if it weren’t so fucking sad.

Drawing himself up, he reasserted to himself that he wasn’t going to go down the same path. He’d only just signed up for a class. That was it. He would make damn sure that he didn’t get caught up in you.

Blinders, Hongjoong. Put on the blinders and ignore her. She isn’t even there.

With a groan, Hongjoong pulled open the door to the lobby of the hotel. He already knew better. He couldn’t lie to himself. Already he had thought of you the entire walk back to the hotel. Heading to the elevator, he chastised himself. As the doors slid open, disgorging several occupants, he waged a silent war with himself. How does one stop thinking of something when one has to think of it to tell themselves not to think of it? With a deeply felt sigh, he stepped into the small box of an elevator and pushed a button.

_____. Aster had called her _____. 

And damn it all, he was doing it again. A ding sounded and he stepped into the hallway and headed for his door, weighing the effects of ripping out his hair with a chuckle. One of his hands automatically raised, touching the ends of his ragged locks, and his smile faded as memories of the day he’d chopped it all off rose. No, nope, no way, he was not going to think of that day, or any of the ones before it. That was the past.

Forget it, Hongjoong. It’s over. New place, new adventures.

He opened the door to his room with a sigh, knowing that no matter what he told himself, his past wasn’t going away.

***

Holding a paintbrush up, Hongjoong squinted, studying the tip. Huffing out a sigh, he rolled his eyes, dropping the paintbrush back to the bin with a grimace. He couldn’t concentrate on this with that jackass over there going on and on. Who knew that the art supply store was the local hangout for pretentious assholes who wished to loudly regale each other with tales of their own genius?

Just get your shit and go.

Hongjoong pressed his lips together and looked down, trying his best to tune out the nearest pretentious jerkoff, who was loudly lamenting to his equally asinine friend of the large canvas his cat had used as a scratching post. Shaking his head slightly, he ran a finger over the tip of a velvety camel hair paintbrush.

Just as he was lifting it, he heard an inquiry in a voice that made him freeze. It was you. Turning slowly, Hongjoong gripped the paintbrush tightly. Yes, you were standing at the counter, asking the old man behind it about a special canvas you’d ordered.

“Sorry, _____,” the old man said, “I ordered it, but the guy who stretches the custom canvases hurt his arm. It’ll be at least a month, darlin’.”

Heaving a sigh, you looked down, and Hongjoong’s eyes traveled over your form as you slumped, saying softly, “Don’t worry about it, Teddy. I’m just going to ruin it anyways.”

Not realizing he was slowly inching closer, Hongjoong tried to pry his eyes from you, but was unable to as the old man squinted at you, asking in a gentle voice, “Honey, if you hate painting so much, why do you keep spending money on these canvases? You ain’t letting that Aster bully you into this, are you?”

“No, I just… have an idea that I can’t make work,” you answered, a haunted look entering your eyes that tugged at Hongjoong’s heart. “If I could just paint like I want… And Teddy, you know Mama is trying to help me.”

Hongjoong finally realized he was openly staring and sidling closer, and ducked behind a shelf, listening and watching through the hanging tubes of paint.

“I know, honey, but you have to want her brand of help,” Teddy said, raising an eyebrow. “Now, normally I would be all for letting your bottled-up mess out on a canvas, but you got a lot more to spill out than most of us do.”

Snorting and shaking your head, turning to the door, you said, “Which is why I need a big canvas. Gimmie a call when it gets in, Teddy. And give Jim a kiss for me.”

Hongjoong found that he could breathe normally again when the door closed behind you, the wind chimes hanging from it tinkling merrily. Jerking his eyes back to Teddy, he watched the old man shake his head and sigh deeply. Mind racing with the need to know more, all thoughts of distancing himself lost in the rush of seeing you again, hearing you speak, he quickly gathered up his supplies, no longer being as picky about brushes. Stumbling forward, he dumped the jumble in his arms onto the counter and looked up at Teddy.

The old man smiled at him, reaching for the first tube of paint and bringing it to the scanner, saying, “Well, you must have quite a project planned.”

Licking his dry lips, Hongjoong said in rather a rush, “No, actually I am taking a class from a local lady. Aster. I think I just saw a lady who is in the class in here…”

He trailed off as the man scanned in more items, holding his breath to see if he would offer any information.

“Oh, yeah, _____ is one of Aster’s students. Aster is a hell of a teacher, son. Just be sure that she is only out to teach you painting, and not some life lesson,” Teddy said with a wry chuckle. “That woman thinks it’s her life mission to fix everyone she meets, whether they want her to or not.”

Grinning, Hongjoong replied, “Yeah, I kind of got that vibe. Is she trying to fix _____, too?”

Looking up from the mixing tray he was trying to find the barcode on, Teddy studied Hongjoong’s face for a minute, then shook his head, saying with a gentle smile, “Yeah she is. _____’s a pretty girl, son, but she’s got a lot to straighten out.”

Lifting a corner of his mouth apologetically, Hongjoong replied, “Don’t we all?”

Pressing a button and dropping the last paintbrush in the bag, Teddy raised an eyebrow, saying, “Son, take my advice and forget _____.”

Freezing for a moment, Hongjoong looked at the old man, then sighed, slumping and reaching for his wallet, muttering, “I’ve been trying to tell myself to do that since yesterday.”

***

Walking from student to student, Aster gave them each as much attention as she could, but she was acutely aware of the huffs and mumbled curses from the back of the room. Glancing up, she watched you lift a paintbrush, load it with color, make a sweep, grimace, curse, drop the paintbrush then lift another and start all over again. A tiny smile broke as she turned her eyes to the man beside you, who was watching you just as secretly and attentively. It was probably a bad idea to sit Hongjoong next to you, but Aster just had a feeling…

The entire class jumped and turned as you slashed too hard at the canvas, knocking over the container of paint thinner beside you, yelping, “Son of a bitch!”

Aster straightened and headed for you, smiling and shaking her head. You would never get past all of this if you kept holding back.

“Sweetie, just calm down,” Aster said, laying a hand on your shoulder, stilling you and shooting a look at the rest of the class that told them all to turn around and get back to their canvases.

Luckily, most of the class knew you. Hell, most of the town did, and most of them understood all too well your moods.

“Dammit, Mama, this is just not working,” you said, raising a paint covered hand to run through your hair. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be getting out of this besides a whole hell of a lot of frustration.”

Handing you napkins to wipe up the spill, Aster gave you a pointed look, saying softly, “Yes, you do know. One of these days you are going to crack wide open, and you’ll thank me for having an outlet for it.”

***

Hongjoong argued with himself mentally, but in the end he knew what part would win out. Dropping his paintbrush, he slid off his stool and knelt beside your muttering form, reaching out for more of the napkins.

Looking up in surprise, you paused, then said uncomfortably, “Thanks.”

He simply smiled tightly and nodded, helping you clean up the mess. What was he doing? Why was he getting close to you? Your scent was going to drive him mad. This was the stupidest thing he’d done… well, today, at least. Silently, you both wiped up the last bits of paint thinner, and then walked to the trash can in the corner, throwing the wet napkins in it.

You turned to the large container of thinner in the back of the room, but Hongjoong lifted it for you, saying in a tiny voice, “Allow me.”

Cutting an awkward look up at him, you looked back down at the cup in your hand, then held it out silently for him. He began to pour, then sat the large container down, moving back to his stool, followed by you to yours. He could feel you glancing at him, and forced himself to focus on the canvas before him that he was slowly and methodically filling with slashes of green.

Don’t look, Hongjoong. She’s trouble. You are here to let your own shit out, not get caught up in hers, too. Just paint.

But of course, he didn’t listen to himself. He couldn’t take it anymore, turning his head to find you scowling pensively at him, as he had observed you doing to your canvas throughout most of the class. At least you weren’t cursing at him, he supposed.

“What sort of accent is that supposed to be?” you finally asked.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise, confusion washing over him. You had just spoken to him… to ask about his accent?

“Well, you obviously aren’t from around here,” you huffed, gesturing with the paintbrush in your hand. “So where is your accent from?”

Giving you another tight, fast smile, he replied, “Not around here.”

With that he turned back to his canvas, his heart racing as he heard you pause then huff. Well, you were cursing him now. His eyes were glued to his work, but his mind was now a million miles away. Why would you be asking him questions? Was it polite conversation because he’d helped you? Swallowing thickly, he told himself that whatever it was, it was dangerous. He wasn’t proud that he had offended you with his short reply, but he was proud that he’d managed to control himself.

You get to know her any more and you’ll regret it, Hongjoong. It’s time to put an end to this crush. Right now. She can do you no good. None of them ever do.

Chewing his lower lip, he loaded another brush with a deep eggplant color and set back to work, softening the green slashes with gentle sweeps and caresses of the purple. This is what he was here for. Not to lose his head over another woman who would only cause him more grief.

***

“She’s killed people.”

Hongjoong froze, his hand wrapped around the cell phone in his pocket, his foot halfway out the door. Blinking, he turned to find Aster cleaning up after the class, all of whom had already left. You had stormed out, and Hongjoong had busied himself with carefully putting away his canvas in order to avoid you. But now, as he was the last one to leave, Aster bursts out with this… random declaration?

“What?” he asked, his face wrinkling in confusion.

Sighing and setting down a palette, her back to him, Aster looked to the floor and repeated, “She’s killed people.”

“Um… who has?” he said slowly, wondering vaguely if this was some joke.

Aster shook her head, then turned, motioning for him to come sit. For a moment he merely looked at her, debating. Hongjoong knew that this discussion was only going to pull him further from his promise to himself to remain reclusive, but damn the woman, she certainly knew how to get someone’s attention. Why even bother fighting with himself? Of course he was going over there and talking to the self-titled ‘Mama.’ Wasn’t it so much easier to distract himself from himself that way? Who needed this self-exploration?

Oh yeah, you do, Hongjoong.

With a grimace Hongjoong went with the foregone conclusion and made his way over to the stool Aster had motioned for him to take. She looked at him with a serious expression, one that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. This change in her usual warm nature was creeping him out in a big way. Which gave him pause. How had he come to know enough about this woman to know when she was acting funny?

Good job, Hongjoong, you really kept your distance, didn’t you?

As if she could read his thoughts, and hell, he would almost believe this old hippie could read minds, she smiled softly and sat next to him, saying, “You’ll hear the story sooner or later, whether you want to or not. It’s practically legend in this town. But legends get twisted and embellished, so I figure you should hear it from a reliable source.”

Well, he couldn’t argue with that logic. As good as he was getting at talking to people, he’d probably hear every story the town had. Pushing away the mental chastising, he nodded, wanting her to go on.

Turning her eyes to the floor once more, Aster folded her hands over the small convex of her stomach and said, “This may be a quaint tourist town, but it’s still the south. There are certain things that happen in these woods… well, let’s just say that people here aren’t always quite… right.”

Raising an eyebrow, Hongjoong mentally snorted. That was putting it mildly. He’d seen entire families without a mouthful of teeth between them all. He’d seen a young boy with blank eyes pick up roadkill from the winding two-lane road on the outskirts of town and hug it. The town itself was charming, but the surrounding areas? Frightening.

“Well,” Aster went on, her brows wrinkling as she studied a paint drop on the floor, “_____ was raised in a hell of a home. Her family did the best they could, but money is scarce around here, and it was even scarcer in her home.”

So, she was talking about you. Hongjoong’s heart sped, and he leaned forward slightly. He’d been waiting for someone, anyone to just fucking tell him why everyone seemed to treat you with kid gloves.

“They didn’t have a heater, so they used the fireplace all the time,” Aster said, glancing over at him, then focusing on the paint drop once more. “I guess that’s where she got it. _____ was always a firebug. Damn near set her house on fire more times than I can count.”

Eyebrows shooting up, Hongjoong realized that he wasn’t breathing. He was intent upon the story, all thoughts of keeping to himself washed away in the soft ebb and flow of Aster’s words.

“Well, soon she was on to other people’s houses. They always caught her pretty fast, but no one ever tried to help her,” Aster said, a touch of anger lighting her voice. “If someone had taken a damn interest in the poor kid…”

Silently, Hongjoong urged Aster to go on. But she seemed to have forgotten that Hongjoong was there. For a long moment she glared at the paint drop on the floor, then shook herself.

“Either way, it only progressed, and when she was sixteen, she set fire to a house,” Aster said, the anger draining from her, leaving her voice quiet and hollow. “Ola May Hawkins. She was eighty-four when _____ set her house on fire. She couldn’t move very fast and… well, the firefighters got there too late. Freddy Tomlinson, one of the volunteer firefighters was in the house trying to get Ola May out… it collapsed.”

Hongjoong winced, seeing it all as she spoke in that soft, steady voice. His past, his poor, lamentable past that he was running so far and so fast from… it seemed paltry now. How selfish and narrow minded of him to think that he’d had it so tough. And how stupid of him that it would take the image of a frail, white haired woman and a young man going up in flames to make him see that he was being so self centered.

Turning to pin Hongjoong with her sharp eyes, Aster said, “_____ was in jail until she was twenty one. They didn’t want to let her out, but they had to. She went to a lot of therapy, though she swears none of it helped. She has been bottling up the pain at what she did for three years now. She’s in denial so deep that she simply refuses to acknowledge that period of her life existed. She needs help, Hongjoong. And I think you could help her.”

Her last words broke the spell her voice had held him under. She wanted him to help you? Hell, he could hardly help himself.

Feeling the shock spread across his face, he slowly stood up, saying, “Look, it’s a sad story. And I admit I was interested in _____. But I can’t help anyone. I am just here to get away from everything. I am only in this class to paint.”

Hongjoong felt his hackles raise as Aster stood too, slowly facing him, once more studying him in that severe way. He was not going to play along with her schemes. He had warned himself about getting to know more about you just for this reason. If he knew anything, he knew that when he was mysteriously attracted to a woman, she had to have some major fuck up, some screw loose. It was just his bad damn luck. The worst possible prospect in miles would be the woman he automatically wanted.

Turning his attention back to Aster, he felt his skin prickle as she narrowed her eyes at him, then said, “Hongjoong, you can’t run from yourself, and you can’t run from where the gods want you to go.”

There was a pause, and Hongjoong’s heart thudded in his chest. What the fuck did that mean? Backing up a step, he quieted his mind, shouting a million different meanings for her words. Damn his verbose brain. Not every fucking thing in the world was deep and layered. Sometimes calling a duck a duck simply meant it was a duck. Now, if he could only convince himself of that.

Raising her finger to wave it in front of his nose, Aster said in a final tone, “Son, one of these days you are going to have to face things dead on, instead of hiding in that head of yours. You can’t think and dream your life away.”

And that was the most terrifying thing he’d heard yet.

***

Stepping outside, taking a deep breath of the clean air, Hongjoong tried to calm himself. Aster’s words still rang in his ears, even after she had shaken her head in disgust at him and told him to go on and go. The last thing he wanted was her voice of reason. Fumbling his phone from his pocket, he leaned against the building, unlocking the phone, the light of his screen bursting through the dark night. Hongjoong looked at the text message he kept open, allowing the pain to dig deeper into his heart, then jerked, quickly extinguishing the light of the screen.

You stepped out of the shadows, your eyes glued to the phone in his hand. Hongjoong quickly stuffed it back in his pocket, and you finally looked up at him. Your eyes turned cold once more, and he stared unknowingly, subconsciously trying to find what it was that drew him to you so.

“What are you doing still here?” you asked, crossing your arms and striding closer.

Exhaling a hard breath, Hongjoong replied, “I could ask you the same thing.”

Your eyes narrowed, and you retorted, “That’s none of your business.”

Trying to regain his tenuous mental stability, Hongjoong straightened, cocking an eyebrow and shrugging, saying, “Same to you then.”

Turning his back, he headed for his hotel, feeling your eyes boring into him. This made no difference. Your story was sad, yeah. And you were pretty enough. But he had his own life to attend to, no matter how much smaller his troubles seemed by comparison. You weren’t worth the heartbreak that always came of his crushes.

But just as he was leaving your earshot, you said softly, “She told you, didn’t she?”

Hongjoong’s feet stopped, and he cursed silently to himself. These blasted women knew exactly what to say to stop him in his tracks.

Without allowing you the victory of having him turn to look at you, he said casually, “Yeah.”

But he had to turn as he heard your voice, smaller and devoid of the rancor he’d thus far heard it filled with, “Dammit. She tells everyone. Just for once I’d like to get to know a person without having them know my life story first.”

Laughter rang out, and Hongjoong realized vaguely that it was coming from him. Your words… they were words he himself had said, and not long before his escape from Korea to this American town. It was too much, too coincidental. Damn Aster and damn her words. You jerked your head up to look at him, your scowl returning once more.

“You think it’s funny?” you hissed.

It was all Hongjoong could do to reply. The universe just loved to throw him curve balls, didn’t it? Every time he thought he was in control…

“No. It’s not funny at all,” he choked out, calming his laughter. “Not in the least. I’m laughing because it’s all I can do now. Come, have a coffee with me.”

***

Hongjoong studied you as you sat across from him, dissecting your features, trying to determine what it was that drew him so inexorably to you. You were attractive, certainly. But no more or less so than many women he knew. Your strides were long and your hands twisted together nervously as you had cut your eyes at him while you both had walked along the dark sidewalk to the one diner he had found in this damn town with decent coffee. When you had slid into the booth in the back of the diner and ordered your coffee, he had begun his study of your face, and you had in turn taken up a great interest in your own chewed fingernails as they drummed on the table.

Finally you muttered, “You don’t have to stare.”

Great, Hongjoong, you’re freaking her out. Smooth.

Chuckling bitterly to himself, he nodded to the waitress who set down your coffee and then replied, “Sorry. Guess I’m not the best at conversation.”

Cocking an eyebrow up at him, you gave him a crooked smile and shot back, “I’ve noticed. You gonna tell me where that accent is from now? Or you gonna make me guess?”

Damn it, you were cute, and he simply couldn’t figure out why. What was it about this shadow of a woman that woke the part of him he was here specifically to kill?

Sighing, he figured he may as well get the part he was dreading out of the way. “I’m from Korea. I am a musician there. Well, kind of.”

He knew he was rambling but he just wanted the part where you realize that he’s famous out of the way.

Famous. Fucking hell, Hongjoong, get the fuck over yourself. Famous. Dear god, how disgusting.

Your eyebrows drew together and you cocked your head to the side as you studied him, and he waited for you to recognize him, his eyes meeting yours in defeat. If there was one thing he hated most about being an idol, it was these moments, the sudden shift in energy as people realized who he was. He wasn’t sure he could ever get used to it. He was simple Hongjoong, the kid who was a hyper nerd, who wrote too much music in the middle of the night and cared too deeply too quickly. He wasn’t a fucking idol. He was a lost kid.

“Korea, huh?” you asked and his breath stilled as he waited for your next words. “Guess I don’t know much about music outside of the old stuff I’ve always listened to. What’s your band’s name?”

Breath releasing in a puff, he chuckled for a moment. Thank god for the Middle of Nowhere. “It’s called Ateez. We aren’t too well known, I guess.”

You shrugged and gave him a wry smile, sipping your coffee and muttering, “Well, just because I don’t know you doesn’t mean much. As you can guess, I’m fairly well sheltered here.”

Your expression turned bitter and he leaned forward, watching your gaze become distant. Quickly, he spoke, “Well, honestly, I kind of came here because I thought no one would know me. I needed a break from the world.”

Snickering, you met his eyes once more and shot back, “Well then you came to the right place. This town is basically an alternate dimension, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

You began to drum your fingers once more, watching them closely as you went on, your brows drawing together again, “Everyone here knows everyone else, and everyone knows everyone else’s business.” You glanced up and your voice had a soft hint of desperate wistfulness as you murmured, “Do you know what I’d give to be able to walk around this town and not have everyone know exactly who I am?”

For a moment, he sat in silence, then shook his head, laughing wryly again, then saying to your look of consternation, “I do. I came here exactly for that feeling. I came to escape. I told myself I wouldn’t talk to a single person and I’d enjoy the fuck out of it.”

You blinked for a moment at his candid reply, then shyly looked down into your cup of coffee and muttered, “Well, looks like that didn’t happen.”

Snorting, he took another sip of his coffee and raised a brow at you, nodding his assent. It hadn’t gone according to plan in any way at all. Hongjoong was supposed to be mending himself and his broken heart and instead he was sitting across from you, dreaming of reaching out and tucking the lock of hair that was hanging in your face behind your ear.

You’re a damn fool, Hongjoong. A complete idiot. This is not going to get you anywhere but in the same position the last one left you in.

Sighing and shaking your head, you set your cup down, met his eyes, and asked, “So how did Mama rope you into her class? If you were here to be a hermit, you sure chose the wrong woman to take a class from.”

“That’s an understatement,” he muttered, setting his empty cup to the table and motioning to the waitress for a refill before turning back to meet your eyes. “I just noticed her sign in the window and decided it looked like fun. Guess she should add to her advertisements that she also teaches life lessons.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed your hair back, looking to the heavens and moaning, “Tries to, at least. I still don’t know how the hell painting is supposed to help me not be crazy.”

Eyes trailing the curve of your exposed neck, Hongjoong replied absently, “You don’t seem crazy to me. Just frustrated.”

Sighing, you met his eyes again and he was startled to find yours sad and unguarded as you said, “Nice of you to say so.”

You shook your head, then hitched up a smile that had Hongjoong’s heart thudding in his chest as you added, “But then, you can’t be entirely sane yourself. You leave a big city to come hide out here in this hellhole. What’s your story, mister musician? What’s Mama trying to fix on you?”

Hongjoong huffed out a dark laugh and shook his head. Was he really going to do this? Was he going to sit here with this damn woman who set fires and destroyed canvases and tell you about how he felt like a stranger in his own skin? How the woman he thought was the love of his life had left him? How he felt like an impostor, a fake? How every time he stepped on a stage and bared his soul he also shook with the fear that the world would truly see him?

Yep. I’m doing this. Because I’m a weak fool and she’s so damn pretty in this cheap fluorescent light.

Leaning back, he ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I am a fuck up. I love singing and dancing but I am terrified of failing everyone. Meeting fans scares the shit out of me because I feel like at any minute they’ll realize that I’m just some loser who lucked into an amazing career. My ex decided that loving me when I wasn’t active in a popular group was too hard for her, so she just wasn’t going to do it at all anymore. I’m 24 and I still feel like a dumbass kid fumbling through life.”

Hongjoong closed his mouth on the flow of words that tumbled from him, and slid his eyes to the table as he finished lamely, “Guess I’m not entirely qualified to talk on sanity, huh?”

A smaller hand entered his line of sight and gripped his own fisted hand. He looked up quickly, to find you smiling gently at him, turning his insides to mush before you intoned, “No. You’re batshit crazy, too.”

There was a moment’s pause, then Hongjoong broke into laughter, joined by you as you patted his hand and pulled away, leaving a tingling warmth. He watched you laugh, and the inner voice of warning was muffled fully. Damn it all, you were cute and he was unable to stop himself. He liked you.

Of course. You knew this was coming. It’s your MO, right? Distract yourself in any way you can, right ?

Hongjoong’s internal chastisement was forcibly quieted, and he leaned forward, smiling at you fondly, and said, “Yep. Batshit crazy.”

***

You hunched your back against the wind, pulling your jacket tighter around you. As you looked back, you swallowed hard as the light of Hongjoong’s cell phone lit his face once more as he walked away from the diner. Taking a deep breath, you slowed your heart rate and took in the lean square of his shoulders as he headed off in the opposite direction.

Oh girl, you got it bad. Just remember he’s not sticking around for long, and anyways he’s some sort of musical big shot. Calm your panties, honey.

But you knew that there would be no calming. You had already agreed to meet him the following day at the little classroom behind Mama’s shop. This was a bad decision and you knew it, but as you watched the beautiful man stride away, his blue hair disappearing into the night… well, you knew it was already too late to look back. Wetting your lips with your tongue, you turned, shaking your head and heading towards home.

Hongjoong. Fucking pretty boy Hongjoong. Just my dumb ass luck. And just like me to instantly want to jump his bones. _____, you’re a complete jackass.

As you walked, your surroundings fled before the memories rushing over you, and your feet went on autopilot as you gave in.

***

You had never been the type to notice men or their attempts to garner your affection. You existed in a constant state of distraction, your mind always filled with the crackle and pop of fiery, tormented memory. But the fire was doused the moment Ed Lawrence had pulled into town in a beat up pickup truck and had given you a crooked smile.

Ed was everything you hadn’t needed. Fast with his words and even faster with his hands, he’d taken your virginity within a week and even faster had drowned out the memories of what you had done and the place they’d locked you up afterwards. The world was rosy and it was shaped like a slick man with passionate kisses and a penchant for illegal money making. You had known that Ed sold drugs, but what did that matter in the face of his ability to make you completely forget all the horrible things in your past?

You never partook in the shit Ed sold. Why would you need to? You were high on love and in a haze of lust. Nothing mattered but your next hit of Ed. Until the “hit” became literal. The first time Ed had hit you, he was drunk and you had just asked him to come to bed. His fist had struck your jaw before you even caught the movement. Full force, he knocked you back, the flames leaping to life again, cracking, popping, hissing angrily as you tried to see the seething man above you.

“I’ll come to bed when I’m fucking ready, you clingy bitch,” the words had been muted and filtered by the roaring inferno inside of you, and you knew then that this wouldn’t be the last time he’d hurt you, but you also knew that you would allow him to hurt you over and over if only he would silence the flames in your mind once more. A meek apology had found its way beyond your lips and you had spent your first night alone in bed crying since you’d met Ed.

It took a year for you to finally break your addiction, and it was all thanks to Mama. The old hippie was a nosy, prying gossip, but you could only love her for it. Mama’s nosiness had saved your life, after all. You had found legitimate work to support Ed’s ever-growing alcohol habit, and it just happened to be in Mama’s shop, cleaning and helping the old woman with her paperwork. You knew Mama had an inkling about what was going on; it seemed the woman always knew. Be it intuition or the “knowing” certain women in the damp wilds of the south seemed to have bred into them, Mama picked up pretty fast. The day that you came to work with a poorly concealed black eye was the final straw.

Setting aside her joint, Mama pointed to the stool across from her and said, “Young lady, sit your ass down.”

You blinked at the aggressive words from the inveterate pacifist, then slowly sank to the stool.

“Look, _____, I know that you have been trying to skirt around this for a while, but I can’t sit back and watch this anymore. Do you need help leaving him? Are you scared?”

Your breath had caught in your throat, your boundaries trampled by the old woman swathed in scarves and smoke across from you.

Finally, you opened your mouth, “I … I guess I love him. He helps me.”

Raising an eyebrow, Mama gestured to your eye and drawled, “Darlin’, that brand of help ain’t no good for anyone. Now why don’t you tell me the real situation. You know I care for you, honey, I just can’t stand to see you done like this.”

Before you could stop yourself, the words forced their way through the lump in your throat, as if Mama was pulling them from you like a fisherman reeling in a large catch. You told Mama all of it, how he quieted the raging fire within you, how you were the one using him, how you would take any abuse to shut away the burning memories that only he could turn the lock on.

The words died, and you opened your eyes, only then realizing that you had screwed them shut as the words poured forth. Your gaze met Mama’s, and you took a shaky breath at the intense look on the normally gentle face of the woman before you. Silence stretched, and you felt your blood pressure steadily rise until finally Mama spoke.

Narrowing her eyes, she inhaled sharply, then her eyes bored into yours, feeling as if she were speaking the words straight to your very soul, commanding it. “Okay, _____. This is what we’re gonna do. First, you’re leaving that piece of shit. You are gonna move in here. You can stay in the loft above the studio. Secondly, you’re gonna find another way of coping, darlin’. No more hiding. No more trying to beat this pain out of your head, literally or figuratively.”

You blinked, trying to take in Mama’s rapid-fire words, then asked softly, “How? What can I do? Mama, I can’t…,” your voice trembled and you wet your lips, steeling yourself and clamping down on the flames springing to life in your mind, “I can’t let this out. I only know one way and I can’t… I can’t.”

Mama’s face lit, almost suffused with a preternatural light, as she leaned in to say in a confident whisper, “Honey, you’re gonna paint it out.”

***

You huffed out a chiding laugh as you walked down the street, shoving away the memories.

Paint it out. Well that was a damn bust.

You would be forever grateful to Mama for getting you away from Ed. But her plan of having you paint out all the pain and anger and pure fucking regret that you felt was simply not going to happen. Teeth gritting, you once more turned to the vision in your mind that you couldn’t for the life of you put on canvas. Brows furrowing, you crammed your hands in your pockets and shoved that thought away, hearing the lick of flames at the corner of your mind.

Forget that. Let’s think about Hongjoong, instead, right? That’s how you deal with things, isn’t it, _____? You focus on someone else. Someone like this beautiful man with a mane of blue hair that perfectly captured the light in just the way to distract you from your canvas all evening. He was beautiful. Radiant. And he knew about you and he still sat in that booth across from you and laughed at your shitty jokes. Damn girl. You’re one hundred percent a fool.

Sighing heavily, you turned to the stairway that led up the back of Mama’s studio and headed in to destroy another canvas, this time with piercing spots of deep honeyed brown surrounded by flashing strikes of blue.

***

Hongjoong took a heavy breath as his shoes crunched through the grass in front of his hotel. This evening had certainly not gone as planned and he ran his parting words over and over in his head.

“See you tomorrow, at the studio?”

Fucking hell, Hongjoong, you come here to find yourself and you pounce on the first pretty distraction that crosses your path. And she just happens to be some sort of pyro. You really know how to pick ‘em, don’t you? First Eunmi and her aspirations, and now this. Jesus, you’re even comparing Eunmi and _____ now. Cool it, dumbass.

Groaning, Hongjoong rolled his eyes, ignoring his internal monologue and putting his phone away as he reached the doors to the hotel. This wasn’t what he had planned but fuck it. You had caught his attention and he had already slid down the path towards getting to know you close enough to truly like you. Pyro or not, you were funny, and you were pretty and you didn’t give a shit whether his latest album flopped or whether his own insecurities ruined his career or whether he made a fortune off his group.

You just gave him that quixotic smile and made fun of the way he drank his coffee. You studied him like you were memorizing his face, and not to capitalize off it, but because you wanted to see beyond it. You’d asked so many questions, dodging all the ones he’d volleyed back at you. Hongjoong had been as elusive as he could, not because he wanted his privacy as he would in an interview, but because he didn’t want you to see what a broken, sad fool he was inside.

Well, she’s gonna find out soon enough, as much time as you seem to be wanting to spend with her, genius. You can’t hide the fact that you’re a fucked up sack of crap for long, Hongjoong.

“Oh shut up,” he mumbled to himself, opening the door to his room and flinging himself to the bed.

Wherever this led, whatever messed up crap it ended up bringing him, Hongjoong was just going to go with this. He could do nothing else. You were too enticing, you called to a part of him that he thought Eunmi had taken with her. Rolling over to unlace his shoes, he felt a smile curl the edges of his lips. He’d see you tomorrow.

Oh lord, you’re a goner, Hongjoong.

He was, and he couldn’t make himself care anymore.

[aries-rp-corner]

News of Cipher’s plan to invade spread like wildfire, the Lord himself was beginning to stress from Cipher’s on and off going attacks on Team Neo Plasma. Honestly, he wanted to rip Cipher apart with his own hand, Pokémon Team, and Kyurem… If only he finds N once again out in the wide world. Returning to his office with a heavy exhaust sigh…upon looking at his chair, the Lord tense up with shock to find an odd man sitting on his chair and feet on his desk.

“I demand to know who you are! And how dare you?! To not only foolishly breach in the Plasma Frigate, but to be here in MY OFFICE?!” Ghetsis snarled out, making the man chuckle as he got up and walked over. The Lord’s Hydreigon burst out from his Poké Ball to defend his trainer…but it shuddered at the same time… The feeling of dread and cold fierce darkness radiating off from the stranger.

“Ah, Lord Ghetsis! A pleasure to finally meet you in person!~ I do apologize for my sudden intrusion to your humble domain. I only wish for the two of us to talk. You know, Lord to Lord talk.~” The man spoke with a cold, raspy, but calming tone. He didn’t look like a threat nor did Ghetsis see any Poké Balls equipped on this stranger…other than the sharp claws he was wearing which made the man speak again. “Ah come now, I’m not here to fight you. If I did I would already have done so by now. I guess I’ll tell you my name to make you a bit relaxed.” The man cleared his throat a bit as he finally spoke.. “I am Durai Schrade Tova, I am the head Leader of Cipher. I have come here to-” The very moment that Durai spoke that he is the leader of Cipher, Ghetsis’s rage grew. This was the very man who allowed his Commanders to kill and harmed his Men. Raising his can as he pointed at Durai.

“Hydreigon!! Rip this excuse of life APART!!!” As he roared out his command the dark dragon flew straight after the Lord of Cipher. Durai surprisingly sighs as he lifts his left hand, showing a gem stone as it glows with red strings forming. Now wrapping around the dragon tightly as it fell to the ground, struggling to break free. “W-What did you-“

“Rude my Lord, I expect you to know when to keep your cool. Unfortunately even with Kyurem’s power it’s sadly not possible. Now, before you interrupted me; I’ve come here to make a deal.~” Durai spoke, walking over to Ghetsis in a non threatening manner. Ghetsis however held the cards that the witch gave him in case of an emergency. At the same time however; he wanted to hear the Lord of Cipher talk.

“Fine…make it quick, after you are done free my Hydreigon and leave this place, or you’ll find yourself as one of my frozen collections…” The Lord of Plasma spoke with bitterness, making Durai smile with gleeful pride. Not caring about the threat that was said to him as he began to walk around Ghetsis.

“Very good! Now, it’s about what my men and Commanders have been doing.~ Yes, I know two of my Commanders took out three of your men, but they can be replaced, no?” Durai spoke, the last part of what he said did infuriate Ghetsis. This man has no remorse for any life, or the well-being of anyone other than his own! “I believe there is a VERY easy way to end all of this and you can focus on your little land conquering.~ What I want are two things, of course it does involve Kyurem…but the last one I want, either dead or alive, is the Wiccan of Nasrin.”

“Wiccan of Nasrin? You mean Grunt 121? Despite my agreement with her in helping us to stop you, I will not allow her nor Kyurem to surrender to the likes of you! You slain my grunts as if they are nothing but weeds stripped out from the ground!” Ghetsis responded back with fury, he wasn’t going to give up Kyurem that easily nor getting rid of someone who sacrificed her freedom to help him and the rest of Plasma. Durai however went quiet, his calm demeanor changed to match the freezing coldness around the two men.

“You surprised me, since when did you give a damn to your own men? Aren’t they just your personal stepping stones to get what YOU want?” Durai spoke with a dark chuckle as he swiftly placed a hand on Ghetsis’s shoulder and gave a wickedly wild smile with razor sharp fangs showing along with his eyes flashing to match his wicked grin. “Of course, I don’t blame you. However, are your sure you want to make this very choice?~”

Ghetsis instantly felt the uneasiness oozing out from Durai. This “man” is not here to play games as he originally thought… “I can give you one more chance Lord Ghetsis, I can also throw in some…extra information about that Grunt you recruited. She knows where the abomination that is your “son” is hiding.~ My Commanders do tracking well, unfortunately she is that much of a fox as she keeps giving them the slip.” Durai noticed a baffled expression formed on the Lord of Neo Plasma. However, it quickly turned to anger as he was able to push the Lord of Cipher off from him.

“Get out. I will not play this game with you…whatever you are! Leave or I will summon more of my Pokémon and my Grunts!” Ghetsis howled out, seeing Durai’s face turn to disappointment as well he rolled his eyes.

“Then don’t be surprised tonight, you are a foolish human Ghetsis. Just like your son and perhaps future daughter-in-law, you are a Foolish Freak without a Soul. I shall return, until then, I hope you are prepared.” Durai turned into smoke as he vanished in front of Ghetsis’s eyes, thanks to that his Hydreigon was finally freed as it floated over to its trainer…Ghetsis was bewildered and very furious…

“They will pay…they’ll all pay!…We are strong! I AM STRONG ENOUGH TO SHRED THEM ALL APART!!!” He hollered out, looking at one of the screens to see the Witch and the other…the creature that attacked the Frigate the second time…he didn’t know what to believe or what’s going to happen. All he does know, a fight is coming tonight…and he has a lot of questions that need to be answered… Mostly from the Witch herself..

[let-me-simp-in-peace]

Immortal Heart (Atsumu x Reader) Part 2

Throughout your extended life, you had only seen a handful of identical twins. This was the case for the Miya brothers. The only difference between their appearances was their hair which were each dyed different colors. 

Yukitara had led you back outside where the two men were currently being examined by the EMTs. Judging by the explanation of their situations that your friend had given you, it wasn’t hard to tell which was which. 

Osamu was the one with smoky gray hair. He was wrapped in the arms of another man who was rubbing his back soothingly. 

Atsumu was the blonde currently leaning awkwardly against the side of the ambulance and trying not to intrude on their moment, even though he, himself, was still shaking. 

“I’ll go talk to him first, and when he’s ready, I’ll send him over.” 

You nodded silently and sat down on a nearby bench. You unwound your headphones from around your phone and stuck one in your ear. The music that flowed out was soft, an almost mystical vibe about it. You couldn’t help thinking it suited this night strangely well. 

You closed your eyes, intent on just existing for a moment. The faint shuffling of feet on the pavement, the breeze, not too hot nor too cold, caressing your skin as it passed, the hauntingly sweet piano notes that filled your ears. You liked these moments. Moments where everything melted away, and your mind could finally rest.

~Meanwhile With Atsumu~

“Atsumu.”

Atsumu’s head snapped in the direction of the voice, and he found the woman from earlier standing in front of him. He gave her a weak smile. “Yeah?”

“Remember the friend I told you about, the one that can help you?”

Atsumu nodded quietly. Yukitara pointed. “That’s L/n Y/n. They’ve already agreed to take you in, but I’m sure you would like to meet them before you make your decision.”

Atsumu nodded again. “Thank you...” He murmured, fidgeting with his fingers.

Yukitara smiled understandingly. “If it helps, there’s no one that knows how you feel better than Y/n.”

Atsumu met her eyes before his gaze drifted to you. Yukitara patted him on the back before leaving to tell the other officers about the ritual you had found. 

Atsumu nervously started making his way towards you. The closer he got, the more clear your figure became. You were dressed surprisingly normal. He was expecting something more...black? Gothic? He wasn’t sure.

You were sitting on a bench, your eyes closed and head tilted back. A serene yet haunting melody seemed to surround you. Atsumu assumed it was coming from your headphones. 

Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his gaze calmly. Atsumu stiffened under your stare.

“H-Hi, um, I’m Mi-Miya Atsumu.”

“L/n Y/n.”

You had a nice voice. It was soft and androgynous. There was something almost soothing about the way you spoke, the tiniest hint of a lisp at the edge of certain words.

But, what really drew him in was your (e/c) eyes. They were calm like still waters and as deep as the sea. They held warmth, sympathy, and a sad understanding.

“You understand.”

The smile he got in response was sad and tinged with bitterness. “I understand.” You affirmed his suspicions.

Yes, you understood far too well.

Osamu and his boyfriend, Suna, were kind enough to help Atsumu move his things to your home. After that was done, you showed Atsumu around.

Your house wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t quite small either. It was two floors with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a small room that you had never found a use for. Surprisingly, the biggest room in the house was actually the kitchen.

“I thought vampires can’t eat human food?”

You hummed softly. “It’s true there are some things vampires shouldn’t eat, but it’s not quite as extensive as most people think.”

“What can you, ah, we, not eat?”

“Well, there’s not anything we can’t eat, just things we can’t digest very well. At most, it’ll give you a stomachache, but that’s about it.”

“What about garlic?”

You scoffed at that one. “One vampire that was allergic to garlic, and suddenly, humans believed it was a viable way to ward them off.”

“Is everything a myth?”

“Mm no. It’s true that vampires prefer to roam at night. We don’t need sleep, but I still like to. Our eyes do change color when we’re in our vampire form, and our fangs really are retractable.” You explained. “However, there are still a lot of myths. We won’t turn to ash in sunlight. At worst, you’ll end up with a sunburn, but we heal extraordinarily fast, so it’ll disappear within an hour once you go inside. The older you get, the more immune to it you become.”

“What about reflections?”

“Another myth. We can see ourselves in mirrors, screens, windows, etc.”

“Do you…”

You could see Atsumu fidgeting in the corner of your eye. “Hm?”

“Do all vampires…feed on humans?”

Ah. You had been wondering when he would ask.

“That’s a longer story. You see, every vampire is registered with both the government and the Vampire Council. Yukitara is probably in the process of registering you and your brother with the government, and I’ve already sent a message to the Council about the two of you.”

You’re part of the Council?”

You nodded. “The Vampire Council is made up of the ten oldest vampires in the world. They’re called the Primus Vampires. I’m the 4th member.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m 326 years old.”

“What?!” Atsumu gaped at you.

“The oldest of us is over a thousand years old. It was only a few centuries ago that she learned she could turn people. It was an accident, and the man she turned went and turned almost 2,000 people before being captured and killed.” You glanced back at him. “And that was the start of the vampire race.”

“So there’s ten of you guys, and you make up the Vampire Council?”

You nodded. “The Council was formed to prevent any other mass turnings. With the help of the Council, the government established organizations around the world that provide animal blood to registered vampires. Some vampires prefer to hunt the animals for themselves, and there’s nothing wrong with that, but the Council and I don’t tolerate vampires that harm people. That’s why every police force has a Supernatural Crimes Division.”

“The woman that found us, is that where she works?”

You nodded. “Yes. Yukitara has been working with the Supernatural Crimes division for as long as I’ve known her. We met during her very first case while trying to track down a rogue fledgling that had killed 4 people.”

Atsumu frowned, eyebrows drawing together. “Fledgling?”

“Freshly turned vampires.”

“So Samu and I are fledglings?”

“Yep. Fledglings are incredibly dangerous since they haven’t learned how to control their urges or their powers.”

“Powers?”

“Advanced hearing, stronger sense of smell, enhanced speed, super strength, higher jumping, stuff like that.”

You glanced at the clock on the wall. “The sun will be coming up soon. Why don’t you get some rest for now?”

Atsumu nodded silently and followed you up the stairs.

“This is the guest room, but it’s yours now. The bathroom is next door, and my room is right across the hall. There’s an empty room at the end of the hall that you’re welcome to use for whatever you like.” You started to leave to let him unpack before you paused. “Oh right. All the rooms are soundproof. I play my music pretty loud, so I had that done for whenever I had people over.”

Atsumu nodded, offering you a genuine smile. “Thank you.”

He swore he saw a ghost of a smile on your lips before you turned around.

“No problem, kid.”

[sezja]

Falling Slowly, part 2

Previously

Fool, what were you thinking? Sanson scolds himself, trying to tear his gaze away from Guydelot's retreating back. Mortified shame burns in his veins, mingling there with horror and disbelief at his own stupidity - propositioning the man, when only seconds earlier they had been squabbling over Sanson's trial! When not half a bell before that, they'd been engaged in battle with marauding beasts! Matron save him, what had he been thinking?

He remains kneeling in the damp earth by the river, trying not to notice if Guydelot does stop to invite one of the hunters back to "rest" with him. 'Tis no business of his, surely.

So why, then, is his heart in his throat? Why can't he stop looking, stop watching...

But Guydelot makes it back to the barracks without so much as a glance at anyone around him - nor back at Sanson, for which he finds he must be grateful. He doesn't dare speculate what his own face must look like. With any luck, the bard will dismiss the whole humiliating incident as a lark, and they'll say nothing more of it... just as they've not spoken about Sanson's furious, ill-considered kiss on the road, when he'd meant only to-

“How about I let you in on a secret, eh?" Guydelot had said that night, beneath the stars. They'd fallen to arguing again, and Sanson couldn't recall who started it, nor why - he'd meant to make his peace with Guydelot, as Celaine advised, and yet... and yet... "It’s none of your damn business what I do, or who I do it with. Just because you’ve got ice in your veins and can’t be arsed to stir for anyone who might take an interest-”

And then Sanson had-

He growls in frustration, balling his hands into fists, clenching his teeth so tightly his jaw aches. Idiot! That stupid, reckless kiss! And now this!

Well, you'll stop making a fool of yourself now, won't you? He rubs his eyes, sick at heart. That's twice you've been rejected by the same man; are you quite satisfied with yourself now? He'd retreated to his own tent that night, half-expecting Guydelot to follow, but he'd lain awake for an eternity only to find himself still alone in the morning, with Guydelot sitting by the fire where he'd left him.

The bard had been merciful enough - surprisingly - to not mention the kiss at all, and onward they'd trudged, pressing forward until they reached Tailfeather. Perhaps, Sanson reflects, it wasn't mercy at all. Perhaps Guydelot simply feared if he brought the subject up once more, Sanson might take it as encouragement.

For surely if the man had any... any interest in Sanson at all, he would have seized the opportunity to say something, anything?

But then, why should he have any interest to speak of?

'Sanson the Stiff has no soul,' he reminds himself, bitter, as he finally drags himself back to his feet. His coat can remain here to dry; no one here will steal it... and he needs to walk a while, to clear his head. To sort out the tangles in his heart.

He stays well clear of the bloody business surrounding the fallen bandersnatches, making his way out of Tailfeather's walls with only an incurious glance from one of the huntsmen on guard duty. Sanson keeps his lance ready, just in case, but the forest is oddly quiet today - not yet recovered from the noise and confusion of the attack on the camp, no doubt. Still, he keeps to the paths well-trodden by the hunters, the better not to lose his way as his mind wanders.

Why had he offered to... to join Guydelot? Yes, very well, so he can admit to himself that he finds the man ludicrously attractive - those eyes, those shoulders, those hands, that infuriating little smirk, that voice... but they are on a mission, after all, and Sanson knows better than to indulge in these base urges while he should be otherwise engaged - had he not vented his frustrations about Guydelot doing that very thing to Eve? And here he is, lusting after the man himself, and mewling to himself when his adolescent fumbling goes unrewarded!

He doesn't want you, he tells himself, firmly. Why should he want you?

Why indeed. For all their animosity at the journey's outset, Sanson could swear they've grown closer here in Tailfeather, waiting for Master Sylviel to return. They've spoken more, argued less - and when they do argue, it feels less barbed. Almost... nearly friendly, nearly banter. It has given Sanson time to pause and reflect - on their journey thus far, on Celaine's words...

Gods, but he's made a fool of himself on this mission! Taking a stranger's words for truth in Ishgard, when he'd believed wholeheartedly that Guydelot had set out to fight a knight out of blind jealousy... failing to question Celaine as to the nature of her song... Matron, even as far back as the start of the journey, when he'd lashed out at Guydelot in his disappointment, taking out his fury at their superiors on his would-be partner, who didn't even desire to undertake the mission in the first place!

If we had started off better, then perhaps...

Perhaps what? Perhaps he might even now be in bed with the bard, coaxing him to moan with that beautiful voice of his? Perhaps his kiss on the road might have been reciprocated; perhaps they would have spent that night together, after all.

Stop! Just stop thinking about it! He stops walking, drawing in deep breaths, as though thinking of what might have been has left him winded. It makes no difference whatsoever what mad daydreams he might entertain - what of the Ballad of Oblivion? What of his mission? Here he is, mooning over a bard who has made plain his lack of interest, when his mission remains unfulfilled! Surely there must be something productive he can do with this time; after all, there is no promise that this Sylviel will know anything useful. He must make a plan for what they will do if it turns out that this whole venture was a dead end.

That's the trouble, he decides, beginning to walk again, nodding decisively to himself. That's the entire problem - he is stuck here, with no progress to be made but to wait, and so his mind is straying down all the wrong paths. Never has he done well with idleness. Perhaps, he thinks, perhaps a bit cruelly, he ought to ask Guydelot how slacking is done.

And now he is thinking of Guydelot again.

When had he even begun falling for Guydelot the Spent, anyway? It feels as though he woke up one day and realized he'd wanted the man all along, but that cannot be true. He recalls no stir of desire when first they met, nor on the road to Ishgard; in Ishgard itself, he remembers only frustration and indignation. In Falcon's Nest they chafed at one another, constantly snapping and snarling like caged dogs.

And yet.

And yet he remembers recognizing, here and there, that perhaps the bard was handsome enough in the right lighting - or that he looked beautiful when he smiled, when he laughed. Sanson recalls admiring him from a distance one evening, watching while Guydelot put on the charm to coax a lovely young Falcon's Nest mason back to somewhere quiet and private. The way he'd gazed at her from beneath his eyelashes, pitching his voice low and private... Sanson recalls thinking the woman never stood a chance. He'd thought it a cynical musing at the time, but perhaps...

Perhaps he'd envied her. Her and the others Guydelot passed his nights with; perhaps he envied them for sharing in his company, and for their satisfied glow in the mornings.

Envy all you like. He's not for you. Take his refusal for an answer, and do not pursue him again.

It hurts, he realizes. Hurts a good deal more than it ought to.

Matron save him. Has he fallen for Guydelot?

No. That is absurd. Absurd and impossible - they don't even like one another, let alone love, and they have known one another for scarcely more than two moons - two bitter, antagonistic moons, at that.

But he feels himself drawn to the bard, more and more. The feeling that rises in him when Guydelot comes sauntering up to him these days is no longer simply resigned frustration tempered by simmering fury - it's become something altogether more complex; a strange, fluttering sensation, somewhere between anxiety and... and...

Joy. He shudders a laugh, mirthless. Joy. Just as Celaine advised.

Gods help him.

One more deep breath, and he stands still once more, gazing skyward. Let it go, he advises himself, willing whatever it is he feels to wither and die, before it grows to poison whatever small friendship he and Guydelot may stand to salvage. Let it go, and let something easier grow in its place. Friends, yes; he can manage to be a friend to Guydelot, he believes - a friend and, perhaps, one day, a worthy commander. Yes, it's for the best after all that nothing comes of his foolish infatuation, he realizes, for one day he does hope to have Guydelot join his unit - provided they successfully complete this mission. Which will, of course, be a good deal easier once Sanson gets his mind back on track.

Guydelot's lack of interest in him can only be a good thing, he assures himself, turning to return to Tailfeather, resolved.

He grimaces as he walks, recalling abruptly the peculiar little smile on the bard's face when he'd said, "Some other time." Perhaps he won't simply pretend it never happened, after all, Sanson realizes - no, this will be the perfect opportunity to relentlessly tease Sanson the Stiff for his foolishness. Ah, well. He cannot claim he hasn't earned it, and in being prepared for the ridicule, he supposes, he may be better prepared to shrug it off.

He hopes.

[resurrection-of-soul]

Flashback | PSYCHOBREAK 9

Writer: Akira (日日日)

Characters: Rei, Koga

Koga: (That ain't it. You were aimlessly driftin' around at the time, so that shitty four-eyes was probably just tryin' to create a place for ya, right?) (He drove the stake called "UNDEAD" into ya to ensure ya wouldn't just up n' disappear.)

[ For the best viewing experience, please read directly on my blog! ♪ ]

Koga: (All that stuff's still s'posed to be a long ways off though, ain't it?) (I mean, I do remember havin' a conversation like the one we just saw. But by the time it happened, I was pretty worn out…) (Pretty sure I wasn't as innocent — or more like, spirited? — as this Koga is.)

Rei: (Aye. In those days, thine eyes were akin to those of an abandoned dog; even now, the memory pains my heart.) (Moved by thy plight, I felt compelled to extend a helping hand.)

Koga: (Hmph, ya sure are kind, ain'tcha?)

Rei: (I merely felt guilty.) (While I sulked and averted mine eyes, there was a child who had been hurt because of me…) (Seeing thy gaze, I finally understood.)

Rei: (I made an innocent child taste the same bitter loneliness as mine.) (I recognized it, felt it deeply, and regretted it.) (And so, to atone for that sin — even if just a little — I donned the same outfit as thee and sang the song thou wished for me to sing.) (—Thus did UNDEAD come to be.)

Koga: (Yeah, that's pretty much how it went, huh? That battle to subjugate the delinquents was our debut battle as UNDEAD.) (The shitty four-eyes was the one who took care of all the paperwork n' stuff, n' he suggested I change the unit's name, since the members were changin' too.) (I moaned n' groaned a bunch while thinkin' it over, listened to a buncha people's opinions, n' ultimately decided to give it a name emblematic of my wishes:) (UNDEAD.) (Then, since Adonis seemed like he had nowhere to go, I invited him to join, n' the two of us started takin' lessons together.) (Thankfully, you became our leader after you finally came back from your long journey overseas.) (And for whatever reason, ya brought Hakaze-senpai with ya, n' that's how the four of us became the best version of UNDEAD.)

Rei: (In all honesty, I intended only to render temporary assistance.) (However, I entrusted the paperwork to Hasumi-kun, who unilaterally appointed me as leader without consultation, thus preventing me from leaving. 'Twas quite vexing…) (What was his motive, I wonder? Was it some form of harassment? 'Tis quite rare for him to behave so maliciously.)

Koga: (That ain't it. You were aimlessly driftin' around at the time, so that shitty four-eyes was probably just tryin' to create a place for ya, right?) (He drove the stake called "UNDEAD" into ya to ensure ya wouldn't just up n' disappear.) (He was prayin' for ya to settle down after findin' a place to belong, wasn't he?)

Rei: (Kukuku. As expected, even if Hasumi-kun's rotten, he's still a monk¹ — praying is his specialty.) (When I was in DEADMANZ, he was weak and his prayers could not reach me. He lacked the strength to subdue a demon.) (However, once he revitalized the student council and grew in power…his prayers surprisingly took hold, firmly binding me.)

Rei: (I was thoroughly defeated.) (Sealed in such a comfortable place, I find no urge to break free.) (But I digress. Within this dream, events are progressing much more quickly than they did in reality. After all, when one is made to rewatch a film one has already seen…one yearns to hit fast forward ♪) (Hence why I interfered with my past self, hastening his return.)

Koga: (But is it reaaally okay to mess with things like that? Ain't it gonna fuck things up?) (What if somethin' that wasn't s'posed to happen ends up happenin'?)

Rei: (In truth, such hath already occurred — from the very outset, even ere my intervention.) (What we see before us is a distorted rendition of history. In the true course of events, the delinquents were not so difficult to vanquish, nor were they ever known as "vampires.") (Some entity hath purposefully wrought these distortions.) (That entity is, in all likelihood, the mastermind behind this series of incidents. And, whoever they may be, it is probable they harbor some manner of intent towards me, whether for good or ill.) (We must read² the mastermind's machinations, and should it pose a threat to us, we must shatter it.) (In so doing, we shall seize the rightful future.) (Wouldst thou assist me in this endeavor, Koga?)

Koga: (You don't even have to ask. As we just saw, ya listened t' my request back then, Sakuma-senpai.) (Even though nobody woulda blamed ya if ya just snorted n' ignored the whinin' of a mutt like me.) (There wasn't anythin' in it for you, after all.)

Koga: (But even so, ya nodded. Ya didn't brush off the spoiled brat beggin' ya for a favor, graciously takin' it on instead.) (It was probably cause of that shitty nature of yours which stops ya from refusin' anyone's requests, and not cause ya especially liked me or anythin' like that.) (Still, it made me happy. It felt like I was on cloud nine. And y'know, even though there've been all kindsa setbacks n' unpleasant experiences up 'til now…) (Bein' part of UNDEAD has made me happy.) (So this time it's my turn, Sakuma-senpai.)

[ ☆ ]

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A modification of the Japanese proverb "even if it's rotten, it's still sea bream," which means that something inherently valuable will still retain some measure of worth no matter what.

The phrase Rei uses here, 読み取り, is specifically used to mean reading in relation to technology. For example: you'd use it to say your phone "reads" a QR code, or in the phrases "e-reader," or "read-only memory."

[bigbadwolfy]

So I thought of a thing

Me and my friend ( @ichigoofficial ) started working on this way back in August 2023 ish and I decided to go back to it and refine the idea. It’s this really cool FNaF AU with angsts and stuff and OCs and self inserts :3 me and my friend are still getting the characters we want in there, but I have a basic summary! (under the cut)

—————

Fazbear Entertainment’s Mega Pizzaplex only hires human workers for security, technicians, and general jobs. Mostly. There are two other, special jobs. The Handlers and Stage Hands. They were part of something called “The Handler Initiative.” The handlers were originally there from the beginning. The Stage Hands were later added to boost ratings on their T.V shows and ad campaigns.

Handlers had to be Adults 18 and up that could lead the animatronics to their gigs and birthday parties, and be there in case something goes wrong. Stage Hands However, were children and Teens between 8-16 who could show up with the animatronics as assistants and performers in commercials and T.V segments. They were mostly accessories to the animatronics, there to boost ratings and animatronic morale.

Wherever an animatronic was, their Stage Hand would be right behind them along with their Handler. Everything was perfect for them. The kids and adults got paid the same, very surprisingly large wage, and the animatronics got a few new friends they could enjoy hanging around.

But of course, when everything is going right, something has to go wrong.

Just as the Handlers were taking their Stage Hands to clock out, the stations stopped working. First, the Roxy Raceway. Then Monty Golf. Fazerblast, Mazersize, Astro’s Acrobatics, Bonnie Bowl, Pirate’s Cove, and Lastly, the Superstar Daycare and Theater. Figuring they could just open the doors and leave, explaining the glitch to management later, the groups made their way to the main entrance.

The nearby station, however, turned off just as Freddy’s Handler moved her hand even slightly close.

Confused and afraid, the group came up with ideas to maybe call the police, or straight up call management and complain. Just then, the speaker came on with the same, annoying voice that rang out all announcements across the day.

“All Handlers and Stage hands, please report to the main security office for special instructions!”

Assuming management had found out about the glitches, they made their way to the main office. The animatronics followed them, knowing the big surprise and wanting to congratulate their best friends on this new… forceful opportunity once they got out of the meeting.

After they all got comfortable, the computer screens started to play that same old commercial that played for everyone who walked through the building’s doors. The stage hands and their respectful animatronics showed off their special areas and a small clip of the animatronic’s main show played at the end.

They had seen it all before, not really caring about it anymore. They had to re-record it every 6 months or every new event to keep up with times. They knew every moment by heart. Soon enough, the Fazbear C.E.O’s voice rang out over the spinning logo. They explained the reason the stations were unavailable. The shocking truth.

Fazbear has started a new stage of the Handler Initiative. They would now be living on site, in the new employee housing connected to rockstar row. Their possessions and pets had now been moved to their new housings and they were expected to move in immediately. Immediate family members that weren’t already there with them would be transported there as well.

This wouldn’t have been so bad if they were warned, but the staff eventually came to a bitter understanding.

There was a catch.

There was always a catch.

Employees would have no more contact with the outside world that they couldn’t get from the news or guests, nor were they allowed contact with any extended family.

They were outraged. This just had to be illegal! It was illegal! Unfortunately, in the fine print of their contracts, they had agreed to participate in upcoming Fazbear Projects and Programs relating to the Handler Initiative, even if they didn’t want to.

They still argued.

The C.E.O informed them that they have told extended family and friends they will only be seeing them on holidays because they will be too busy with the initiative. The staff is never allowed to speak of this to anyone.

This is all to increase worker productivity, after all.

Fazbear’s cruelty seeks no end.

They will do what they must to reach their goal, even if that means breaking a few minds along the way.

—————

YOUVE PROLLY HEARD OF HANDLER AUS, BUT HAVE YOU HEARD OF ONE LIKE THIS?! (No seriously pls tell me if you have, I would hate to accidentally copy someone ): )

And pls remember this AU isn’t fully fleshed out, and I’m also having brainrot of the main AU and another AU so pls just bear with me 😭

[mrlnsfrt]

Unstoppable

What the dreams did not make known was that grace, love, and forgiveness—not submission enforced by power—achieved the benevolent outcome of the ruler over his subjects. - K. A. Mathews, Genesis 11:27–50:26, vol. 1B, The New American Commentary (Nashville: Broadman & Holman Publishers, 2005), 807.

The Big Reveal

Then Joseph could not restrain himself before all those who stood by him, and he cried out, “Make everyone go out from me!” So no one stood with him while Joseph made himself known to his brothers. 2 And he wept aloud, and the Egyptians and the house of Pharaoh heard it.

3 Then Joseph said to his brothers, “I am Joseph; does my father still live?” But his brothers could not answer him, for they were dismayed in his presence. - Genesis 45:1-3 NKJV

Judah’s speech had accomplished its goal. Joseph was convinced that his brothers indeed had changed and he no longer could control himself. Joseph reveals his true identity to his brother and they are terrified. I imagine Joseph’s brothers were already afraid of Zaphenath-Paneah ( the Egyptian name Pharaoh gave Jospeh Genesis 41:45), but surprisingly they are terrified to find out that this powerful “Egyptian” is their long lost, and thought to be dead, brother Joseph.

They were likely terrified because they realized how much power Joseph had. Joseph can have them all killed, thrown in prison, or turned into slaves. Joseph could have all of his brothers serve him as slaves for the rest of their lives, or even for generations to come. What will he do to them? They are completely at his mercy. I wonder how often they thought about what had become of Joseph. Did they ever desire to meet him again? Did they sometimes wish that Joseph would make his way back home? Ultimately, we don’t know. But it seems clear that they never expected him to have become one of the most powerful men in the region.

His brothers stood motionless, dumb with fear and amazement. The ruler of Egypt their brother Joseph, whom they had envied and would have murdered, and finally sold as a slave! All their ill treatment of him passed before them. They remembered how they had despised his dreams and had labored to prevent their fulfillment. Yet they had acted their part in fulfilling these dreams; and now that they were completely in his power he would, no doubt, avenge the wrong that he had suffered. - Patriarchs and Prophets vol. 1, Conflict of the Ages Series (Pacific Press Publishing Association, 1890), 230.

God Sent Me

4 And Joseph said to his brothers, “Please come near to me.” So they came near. Then he said: “I am Joseph your brother, whom you sold into Egypt. 5 But now, do not therefore be grieved or angry with yourselves because you sold me here; for God sent me before you to preserve life. 6 For these two years the famine has been in the land, and there are still five years in which there will be neither plowing nor harvesting. 7 And God sent me before you to preserve a posterity for you in the earth, and to save your lives by a great deliverance. 8 So now it was not you who sent me here, but God; and He has made me a father to Pharaoh, and lord of all his house, and a ruler throughout all the land of Egypt. - Genesis 45:4-8 NKJV (Bold mine)

Joseph got the sense that his brothers had already suffered enough for their cruelty towards him. Perhaps God impressed this truth upon Joseph’s heart? Now Joseph wanted to dismiss the fears and bitterness of self-reproach his brothers were experiencing. He calls his brothers close to him and repeats that he is their brother, the one they sold into Egypt. I do not believe he mentioned the fact he was sold as a slave to make his brothers feel worse, but maybe was proof that he was who he claimed to be.

Joseph proceeds to tell his brothers to be neither grieved nor angry for their previous evil actions. Joseph interpreted his life events as guided by God to bring about the preservation of life. Joseph understood that God has the power to transform human misery into wonder and salvation.

 The challenge for the believer is to accept the efficacy of God’s thoughts (Isa 55:8–9), waiting by faith for the dawning of the new day. We can be assured that in whatever path the Lord directs us, it will lead us to the same place, his heavenly household. - K. A. Mathews, Genesis 11:27–50:26, vol. 1B, The New American Commentary (Nashville: Broadman & Holman Publishers, 2005), 808.

Joseph fills his brothers in on the details, the famine will continue for five more years. This means that they cannot simply go back home and hope to be able to grow anything any time soon. Joseph is their only hope, yet not only theirs but the hope for salvation for the entire region. This is why Joseph believes so strongly that God sent him there and made him a leader over Pharaoh and the entire land of Egypt. Joseph correctly sees the hand of God guiding in all of this and he recognizes the good that will come of it.

Joseph explains that the purpose of God, “to save lives” (lĕmiḥyâ), surpassed the malicious intent of the brothers. - K. A. Mathews, 813.

Who is in Control?

How do you feel about Joseph’s statement? On the one hand, recognizing God’s sovereignty makes it easier for Joseph to forgive his brothers.

The certainty that God’s will, not man’s, is the controlling reality in every event shined through as the basis for reconciliation. No doubt Joseph had consoled himself many times with this principle of faith. He who is spiritual can perceive the hand of God in every event, and therefore is able to forgive those who wrong him. - Allen P. Ross, “Genesis,” in The Bible Knowledge Commentary: An Exposition of the Scriptures, ed. J. F. Walvoord and R. B. Zuck, vol. 1 (Wheaton, IL: Victor Books, 1985), 94.

But does this theology make Joseph’s brothers blameless? After all, it was not them, it was God who sent Joseph to Egypt. I believe the brothers are very much responsible for their behavior and I see Joseph’s tests of his brothers as evidence that he also understood them to be in control of their behavior. If their brothers had no autonomy there would have been no need to test them.

I appreciate David Brown’s take on Joseph’s words.

This statement must not be interpreted more strictly than the general tenor of the history warrants—certainly not as implying that the commission of the outrageous abduction of Joseph by his brethren was necessitated by anything like a direct, compulsory influence upon their minds. The strong phraseology in which the declaration was made is to be ascribed to the peculiar circumstances of the speaker; and the meaning which underlies the expression is evidently this—That as nothing, whether great or small, important or trivial, can happen without God’s will, His wisdom and providence had ordered a train of circumstances, so that bad and malignant individuals, subjected to their influence, were induced to commit the crime of selling Joseph.  - David Brown, A. R. Fausset, and Robert Jamieson, A Commentary, Critical, Experimental, and Practical, on the Old and New Testaments: Genesis–Deuteronomy, vol. I (London; Glasgow: William Collins, Sons, & Company, Limited, n.d.), 254.

This is tricky for me. I believe that God is in control of history, otherwise, how would He have revealed to Joseph in a dream (Genesis 37:5-8) that one day his brothers would bow down to him? (For more on this see Dysfunctional Family) Though Joseph would have supremacy over his brothers, I believe his brothers freely chose how they reacted to Joseph’s dream. Though his brothers could not keep the dream from being fulfilled, nobody forced them to be mean to Joseph, to plot to kill him and to sell him as a slave. We don’t know how the story would have turned out if the brothers had loved and supported Joseph, but that doesn’t mean that they had to sell Joseph as a slave.

I don’t want to chase this rabbit in this post but there is a book that does a great job in explaining freedom of choice and how to reconcile that with God’s sovereignty. The book is called Theodicy of Love by John C. Peckham.

But here is what I take from this story.

Becoming Unstoppable

Joseph did not deserve the way he was treated by his brothers (Betrayed by Family), and later by Potiphar’s wife (Wrongfully Accused). Joseph was betrayed by members of his family those who would have been the first to love and protect him. If that was not bad enough he was later wrongfully accused by someone who had power and authority over him. Though he was betrayed by his brothers and thrown in prison for something he didn’t do, Joseph still became the ruler of Egypt and the hope of salvation for those living in that portion of the world. How could Joseph succeed under those circumstances?

I believe that if we follow a few key principles we can, like Joseph, succeed despite all odds.

I am not saying you will become wealthy and powerful. I am saying you will succeed in accordance with God’s plans for your life. And God’s plans are great!

For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope. - Jeremiah 29:11 NKJV

And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose. - Romans 8:28 NKJV

But as it is written:

“Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, Nor have entered into the heart of man The things which God has prepared for those who love Him.” - 1 Corinthians 2:9 NKJV

For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them. - Ephesians 2:10 NKJV

God has a plan for us and based on what happened with Joseph I believe that no one can frustrate God’s plans for our lives. So if someone betrays you, falsely accuses you, and intends to do you harm, they can never frustrate God’s will for your life. By this, I mean that God can use whatever is meant for evil and still bring some good out of it.

Please understand that I am not saying that God wills for bad things to happen. I am saying He does not allow them to frustrate His plans. He can bring good out of the evil that others wish upon you. Joseph’s brothers were jealous of Joseph. They could have focused on their lives and God’s plans for them, but instead, they focused on their hatred for their youngest brother. Their hatred in turn caused them to desire to kill their brother, and eventually, they sold him as a slave. As a result of their behavior there was great suffering. Jacob suffered, Joseph suffered, and even the brothers later were full of remorse and guilt. From their interaction with Joseph, we notice that they were filled with remorse and guilt for their actions. Yes, God indeed used their actions to bring about good and to deliver many from starvation. But this does not mean that Joseph’s brothers had to be mean and sell him as a slave.

We only know what God did, we do not know what would have happened if Joseph’s brothers had been loving and supportive. Joseph realized how God blessed him and noticing how repentant his brothers were he tried to ease their guilt. Joseph understood his life as guided by God to bring a greater good. This view allowed him to remain positive and to forgive his brothers.

Joseph’s understanding that God was ultimately in control allowed him to live generously. He understood that God was his provider, and he remained faithful to God and allowed God to provide at the right time. As a servant in Potiphar’s house, Joseph was the best servant and God blessed him and he prospered (But God was with him). When tempted to sin, Joseph resisted, and his right behavior did not keep him from being thrown in jail (Wrongfully Accused). While in jail, Joseph continued to be generous and kind and hard-working and God was with him and he prospered again. Whether at home with his father, as a servant/slave in Potiphar’s house, or in prison, Joseph always rose to the top. The Bible is clear that God was with Joseph, but I also believe that Joseph chose to behave in accordance with the will and character of God. I believe that God is with us in the same manner, and if we are, like Joseph, willing to be kind and generous and work hard we too will prosper in accordance with God’s will.

Hurry and go tell Dad!

9 “Hurry and go up to my father, and say to him, ‘Thus says your son Joseph: “God has made me lord of all Egypt; come down to me, do not tarry. 10 You shall dwell in the land of Goshen, and you shall be near to me, you and your children, your children’s children, your flocks and your herds, and all that you have. 11 There I will provide for you, lest you and your household, and all that you have, come to poverty; for there are still five years of famine.” ’

12 “And behold, your eyes and the eyes of my brother Benjamin see that it is my mouth that speaks to you. 13 So you shall tell my father of all my glory in Egypt, and of all that you have seen; and you shall hurry and bring my father down here.”

14 Then he fell on his brother Benjamin’s neck and wept, and Benjamin wept on his neck. 15 Moreover he kissed all his brothers and wept over them, and after that his brothers talked with him. - Genesis 45:9-14 NKJV

Joseph’s brothers are not sure what to do with all the information they just received, so Joseph helps them by telling them what to do next. “God tell Dad, and bring everyone back to Egypt.” Joseph hugs them and kisses them, starting with Benjamin. After this, his brothers finally find the words to talk to Joseph. I would have loved to know what they talked about and how well that conversation went.

Pharaoh’s Reaction

16 Now the report of it was heard in Pharaoh’s house, saying, “Joseph’s brothers have come.” So it pleased Pharaoh and his servants well. 17 And Pharaoh said to Joseph, “Say to your brothers, ‘Do this: Load your animals and depart; go to the land of Canaan. 18 Bring your father and your households and come to me; I will give you the best of the land of Egypt, and you will eat the fat of the land. 19 Now you are commanded—do this: Take carts out of the land of Egypt for your little ones and your wives; bring your father and come. 20 Also do not be concerned about your goods, for the best of all the land of Egypt is yours.’ ”

21 Then the sons of Israel did so; and Joseph gave them carts, according to the command of Pharaoh, and he gave them provisions for the journey. 22 He gave to all of them, to each man, changes of garments; but to Benjamin he gave three hundred pieces of silver and five changes of garments. 23 And he sent to his father these things: ten donkeys loaded with the good things of Egypt, and ten female donkeys loaded with grain, bread, and food for his father for the journey. 24 So he sent his brothers away, and they departed; and he said to them, “See that you do not become troubled along the way.” - Genesis 45:16-24 NKJV

I was surprised by Pharaoh’s generosity. I had underestimated Pharaoh’s appreciation for Joseph. Maybe it’s my familiarity with the Pharaoh that Moses interacts with in the book of Exodus that caused me to view all Pharaohs in the same light. But here we have a Pharaoh who is kind to Joseph and in favor of having his entire family move to Egypt. Joseph was such an amazing person to work with that Pharaoh and his servants were happy to have Joseph’s family join them. Here we also witness Pharaoh commanding Joseph to do something, to take carts from the land of Egypt for the women and children. Pharaoh also commands Joseph’s family not to be concerned with their good since the best of the land of Egypt is theirs. So Joseph and his brothers obeyed the Pharaoh.

I am blown away by Pharaoh’s generosity. How wonderful it is for someone who works hard to be appreciated for the work she or he does. Pharaoh values Joseph and his leadership and so he is very generous with Joseph and his family. One powerful and positive witness opened the doors for many blessings. Sadly, a powerful negative witness is also able to close doors for many. Your interactions with others are never just about you. You are opening or closing doors for those who will come after you.

Heart Problems?

25 Then they went up out of Egypt, and came to the land of Canaan to Jacob their father. 26 And they told him, saying, “Joseph is still alive, and he is governor over all the land of Egypt.” And Jacob’s heart stood still, because he did not believe them. 27 But when they told him all the words which Joseph had said to them, and when he saw the carts which Joseph had sent to carry him, the spirit of Jacob their father revived. 28 Then Israel said, “It is enough. Joseph my son is still alive. I will go and see him before I die.” - Genesis 45:25-28 NKJV

I was worried for a moment about Jacob because his heart stood still while he struggled to believe the news his sons brought him. But as they talked and he saw the carts from Egypt, he finally believed and his spirit revived. Jacob had gained new vigor and a new life goal, he was going to see his son Joseph before he died.

Practical Application

Joseph found himself on the receiving end of a series of unfortunate events. That puts it too mildly. Joseph suffered at the hands of those who were more powerful than him. But instead of becoming bitter, vengeful, and rebellious, Joseph prospered and became more powerful than anyone who had ever hurt him. Joseph’s rise to power was not motivated by a desire for revenge, nor was it by hatred. Sure, hatred and revenge may make for blockbuster movies and best-seller novels, but the story of Joseph’s life is not about hatred and revenge, but rather about salvation and forgiveness. Joseph used his power and influence to bless others and not to repay evil for evil.

Joseph could have made his brothers, Potiphar and his wife, and even all of Egypt feel his wrath. Joseph could have been a cruel ruler and even attempted to overthrow the Pharaoh. Joseph’s story had all the characteristics for the making of a supervillain, yet he became the hero. Through Joseph nation and peoples were able to survive a seven-year famine!

Similar to Joseph, many of you who are reading this have likely been betrayed and wrongfully accused by those who have more power than you. Chances are that you have been mistreated even though you did nothing to deserve such treatment. You are unable to control those around you, so what do you do? Joseph’s brothers were stronger than him and outnumbered him. He pleaded with them but they did not listen to him. There was nothing Joseph could do and he was sold as a servant. Similarly, Potiphar’s wife had more power and authority than Joseph, despite his pleas he was sent to jail. Yet as a servant and as a prisoner Joseph rose to the top and was placed in charge of everything. I believe the only way this could happen was if God was with him. Yet, I believe that Joseph had to choose to be kind, dependable, generous, and work hard every day. Joseph had to choose to not be bitter, to not be vengeful, to not be angry, and to not drown in sorrows in some substance that would numb the pain.

Joseph remained engaged and continued to do good and to learn from each situation he found himself in. Joseph trusted in God to provide and judge, and focused on doing his part.

What do I take away from Genesis 45?

I may not be able to control those around me, especially those who have more power than me. Instead of spending my time wishing I could control them or that they would behave differently, I can focus on what I can do. Instead of wishing others would behave differently I can choose to behave in the best way possible. Luck is oftentimes on the other side of hard work.

Life is not fair. People will not always appreciate your worth. Many times it may feel like no one notices that you’re working hard and going the extra mile, but God is watching. It could be that the situation you are in is preparing you for what God has in store for you next.

How do you become unstoppable?

Believe in God’s promises and claim them in prayer. And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose. - Romans 8:28 NKJV

Work for God and not for people. 23 And whatever you do, do it heartily, as to the Lord and not to men, 24 knowing that from the Lord you will receive the reward of the inheritance; for you serve the Lord Christ. - Colossians 3:23-24 NKJV

Leave vengeance to God. 17 Repay no one evil for evil. Have regard for good things in the sight of all men. 18 If it is possible, as much as depends on you, live peaceably with all men. 19 Beloved, do not avenge yourselves, but rather give place to wrath; for it is written, “Vengeance is Mine, I will repay,” says the Lord. 20 Therefore

“If your enemy is hungry, feed him; If he is thirsty, give him a drink; For in so doing you will heap coals of fire on his head.”

21 Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good. - Romans 12:17-21 NKJV

[mosesdumpin]

It's kinda disheartening at times, although it definitely feels like... a stupid gripe to have. As much as I try, its not always easy to take situations (scenarios? cultural pivot points? whatever) without directly comparing it to situations that are not as personally relevant but obviously facing a more severe version or more pressing negatives.

Without sitting down to think about it too much (again, not the point of this musing) an easy comparison would be how dark your skin is allowed to be while also being a western sex symbol (this even... horrifyingly... translates to the global south and east asia) along with the elevation of "white" features vs the more representative features in a cultural/ethnic group.

The above is obviously a more damaging and wide reaching problem than the one I am presenting here, but since I am quite white and skirting on mostly scots-irish features in a german/ashkenazim body type, the above issue only indirectly chafes my experiences.

I know that overall personal hygiene is almost universally (source: I am so horny for a counter example tbh) considered a desirable physical trait, with exceptions tending to be for CONTEXT around why someone isn't appearing hygienic. That isn't really what the gripe is about (I am not going to say "white men should be allowed to be sloppy and also expect immediate physical validation" lol)

Its just... tbh most white men I have consistently hung around were not someone who could be posted on twitter to hunt for a mob of sweaty gifs. I nearly called them "ugly," quotations and all, there but fucking hell, they arent. And I don't mean their personality made them more attractive, or even the nebulous "how they carry" themselves. I mean like... physically they were interesting, distinct, and attractive.

For example, the first guy that comes to mind was the incredibly skinny and average heighted kid I was close with in the later years of high school. When I say skinny, I don't mean slim. I mean skeletal, even though he wasn't unhealthy or anything. His skin was worn tight around his features, his muscles more function over flash, his movements highlighted by features that seemed longer by the visible joints and bone.

He had large eyes, but they weren't bulging. A crooked hairline, and even in those young years his crown was thinning. The classic thin white boy lips, and angular features. We were all awkward, but his stumbling coming-of-age screamed eternal. He didn't have the height that other boys with similar body types could lean on, and wasn't inclined to strenuous physical activity like sports or weight lifting (not lazy, mind you)

I remember him, along with a surprisingly diverse group of friends he and I belonged to, because he felt the anger and despair that comes with thinking you just simply weren't born the right way to get the kind of love you deserve. It manifested exactly how a funny jokester on twitter might lay out - a bitterness towards women and more physically acceptable men that stretched far outside what was reasonable without tracing the problem any further than that.

Now me. I am strikingly average. Not in the "all white men look the same" kind of way, but in a bell curve kind of way. I was average weight, average height, average face shape, etc. Looking at my individual features might paint a more novel picture but somehow putting them all together gives me god damn chameleon powers. I will note that these judgements come from YEARS of self-assessment both internally and with external validation, and is not meant to be self-deprecation NOR am I implying that this is the conclusion people will always make when they look at me.

My point is actually that people have yet to be compelled to look at me without some non-physical stimulus. With adjustments and realizations, this suits me quite well tbh. I will never be eye-grabbing, but I can play any social role a white man can play with just a little prep time, and I've had to work on who I am internally in order to be remembered.

I bring up my friend and myself because I considered us both in the same boat, when I know he did not. I was just close enough to the general acceptance of physical attractiveness to not be a problem, but far enough away to make him feel isolated. That he was the only "ugly" one in the room.

I will skip some of the obvious problematic lessons this boy had to learn. You can probably guess some of them. These days, however, he wears his hair wavy-messy in a way that doesn't cover up his bald spot since it seems to just affect his crown, but changes it from a problem to a quirk. He is still skinny, and pale (did I mention that?) and frankly doesn't really look much different to me after all these years besides the hair. HOWEVER, the awkwardness that prophesized to be eternal did leave him at some point, and now when he moves all the tight skin and telltale bones and joints seem intentional. He moves his arms, hands and fingers deliberately and slowly but most of all, he moves them at the same time. It generates a grace that doesn't come from your typical sources of agility like sports, yoga, dancing, etc. He simply accepted his body in a very subtle and (to me) impressive way.

this isn't going to be a "he loved himself for who he was" story.

He aged a bit, got some laugh lines and forehead creases. His pronounced skull is now defined as sharp and handsome. Of course, he didn't physically change. He adapted and adjusted. How he got there from the MRA-incel adjacent angsty 19 year old I left him to be is a mystery, but he isn't far off from my own personal ideological vagary of egalitarian compassion. Its not something it happens often and knowing him and feeling the same bitterness its hard... sometimes... to remember that what awful man he COULD have been is the unexpected abberant... and not a reasonable response from a kid that was stoked through progressive lefts calling every bad person ugly or creepy on twitter as a clapback or being told he has to earn love, somehow, through means that are a mystery to him from some chode who clearly landed upper management at their father's lawfirm with the Chris Hemsworth face.

Obviously the less-than-ideal white men aren't destined for the worst outcome, and its not what I'd call an excuse since clearly there is a path out. I will eat my PC if that path was exclusively internal and without some kind of validation though, and with how we treat people... why be surprised? You helped make this hell casserole. Stop putting shit in the casserole.

[iamt80]

Try Again - d.ear & Jaehyun

TRY AGAIN slipped my mind at the first try, but then surprisingly came back and placed a position in my favorite playlist. Beyond visual appeals, the melodies and lyrics are open to opposite and sentimental interpretation, especially when listeners are covered in loneliness and frustration. It is like a beautiful and interesting double face coat that everyone should have in their wardrobe, which might not be usually used but definitely is a must for a rainy and doom day.

The dark side  

Due to the long time we shared  

Perhaps it's just natural our expectations increased  

Even with our countless shouts  

We couldn't reach each other's hearts  

Started with a blue tone and slow piano back sounds, the first verse tells a not so pleasure story of shouts and disappointment. I wondered the causes of “countless shouts” are countless problems or countless repetition of the same old mistakes. Being well-matched has never been an easy thing nor of destiny, but is a progress requiring bilateral efforts for continuous adjustments and personal development. Conflict is sometimes a greater good because once the problems are handled, we will get a better understanding on ourselves and our partner. However, an increasing number of unsolved conflicts over the time just more or less implies the fact that we are not meant to be. Whatever the case is, it is incomparable with the exhaustion caused by a non-stop bleeding wound when one keeps on digging their fingers in the sore. If a problem revisits us that frequent, it is us ourselves being the problem.  

So whenever you ask me again how I feel    

Please remember my answer is you    

Even if we have to go back a long way    

I will still feel the same way about you    

We'll be alright, I want to try again  

Confusion and negative flows from the previous part and the chorus provoke pains, especially the conversation “how do you feel?” - “my answer is you”. The one asking the question might not aim to seek for confirmation if the other stands by her side, but for her partner's true feeling and opinion. The pain point is rooted from lack of understanding and empathy, which can only be built up if we are honest with ourselves, and sincere with the other. Having your true heart exposed actually is a risky bet, but let’s nip the problem in the bud rather than sugarcoating them all. A bitter ending is better than an endless bitterness.  

“I will still feel the same way about you” - The more I dig into the lyrics, the less patient I turn. I should have felt more secured and confident, but why is only insecurity left in the given context. The boundary between “I love everyone” and “I love no one in particular” is indeed subtle, and “I feel the same” is neither different to “I don’t feel anything”. Being so generalized is way too confusing and boring. Long time spent together surely comes up with memories, thoughts and feelings. Then, “the same way” means the same with what feeling, what emotion, what thought? This creates a vague premonition whether the perception about a person is stuck somewhere in the other's mind, or does one just love the ideal of love instead of actually falling in love?  

The bright side  

No matter how many times we fall apart    

Due to our frequent arguments    

Like I said, we're the ones that matter the most    

We're not meaningless  

I'm taking a step forward and    

I'm telling you what the past has shown us  

Escaping the ocean of confusion, the second verse comes out with like a warmer and brighter flow. This part, the narrator clearly states his opinion, what he values most, so I know what he is standing for. Saying We're not meaningless eases me somehow. I am actually afraid of being nothing when one says everything before, and also of being a delusion. What the past has shown us more or less confirms that this relationship is real through the acknowledgement of bricks we have built together. I am not sure if this verse is a higher level of manipulation of the previous one, or actually is the light of hope. And I opt the latter.  

A bit sentimental, but I hope that this verse would come to people whenever they are covered in sadness. Things do not always follow the way we expected. We then feel down, seeing ourselves a total useless, being annoyed with no fruitfulness but failure, or overwhelmed in negative energies. Having someone there to encourage and share us the pressure is greater than great. However, regardless of being surrounded by people, there is certain time in life we feel disconnected with the outer world, being lost and completely lonely. And in such time, there is only you stay with yourself.  

The strength from inside is something undeniable but often neglected. There is no guaranteed remedy for all dilemmas. New solution/new people are things people normally think of, while in some cases, taking a break to look back the road we have gone through is worth considering either. I do not encourage falling into the past or being too relied on the same old route. But sometimes, things have changed in a very fast pace that we forget who we are. Us at the present are built from all the experiences we have ever gained, what we love/hate, and what make us happy/sad. One day, every little thing we've done will become the motivation for us to continue. It can’t be helped if we’ve tried our best but things are still struggled. At least, we do not regret :)  

So whenever you ask me again how I feel    

Please remember my answer is you    

Even if we have to go back a long way    

I will still feel the same way about you    

We'll be alright, I want to try again  

The same chorus, but this time, thanks to the connection with its previous part, produces optimistic vibe and feelings. It is a gentle whisper that I’d love to tell myself and my precious ones. My late 2022 was in a state of utter chaos. Everybody does their job well while me terribly. When I was about to give up, the chorus came and said things I needed the most that I nearly burst into tears. I just felt like I've got someone back me up to continue. Reorganizing the messy thoughts and experiences when the hard time got over, I think of this song as a gift for me. This entry is quite like a wall of text, but I just simply want to express my gratitude for the attempt of people who made this song exists.  

We'll be alright, please try again  

We can never know for sure whether what we are trying to do will come up with a good or bad outcome. However, keeping on moving at least makes us alive. I don’t like John Lennon, but I like a saying (widely assumed to be his): everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it is not the end. Yes, nothing is perfect, so if you know what is important to you, please TRY AGAIN.

And last but not least, happy your 1402 day, Jaehyun 😊  

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