#philosophy of kingdom hearts

[hollowwhisperings]

KH4 Spec: Disney Worlds & Emotional Vulnerability (for boys)

A key part of any Kingdom Hearts game is the use of Disney (& Pixar!) films as Microcosms to the greater Macrocosm of said game (& often the Series as a whole). The Disney Worlds act as easily recognisable Settings, toyboxes if you will, to convey concepts otherwise difficult to "fit" within the limitations of the JRPG genre.

(even then, KH does tend to rely on Monologue Heavy Cutscenes & Collectible Texts to direct players toward All Those Emotions & Reactions That Are Happening)

Societal Preconceptions of what stories can be told with a Young Male Protagonist actively sabotage the KH series in its efforts to show the emotional experiences of its young male characters: Sora needs the Framework of a Disney Princess in order to express and recognise concepts traditionally Denied to his gender. Players need Very Explicit Parallels and Dialogue, often repeated & rephrased across several Worlds, just to prevent their Dismissing Emotional Text (let alone Subtext) out of hand because "JRPGs/Action Heroes/Boys don't feel Scared/Sad/Insecure".

Emotional Depth is not "masculine", especially for Male Protagonists and Male Antagonists because "Feelings" are "feminine".

KH actively subverts this false perception of [How Brains Work] by very pointedly removing its "Token Girl" from the most Emotional & Introspective moments in the series.

Kairi's whole PURPOSE, in the greater scope of the KH series narrative, is to "Not Be There" when she "should" be: when Sora feels overwhelmed by the enormity of his quests or feels scared of Failure, it is never Kairi who magically pops by to do the Emotional Heavylifting in Sora's Stead. Sometimes Sora is able to articulate his feelings by recognising them in the Stories of the Disney characters (most of them Female) but as "Story" characters, the emotions and memories that are being Expressed are, by default, those of our Male Protagonists (Sora & Riku). The Disney Worlds act as framing devices for a Young person struggling to articulate whst they Feel & for a Male Protagonist to Recognise his own emotions even as his "own" World (the society he grew up in, the societies of We Players) has preconditioned Sora to "grow out" of Feeling emotions, let alone Expressing them.

Kairi the UnCharacter

Kairi's function within the greater narrative of KH ("the Coming of Age of a young boy named Sora") is to Be Female and to Not Be Where She Is "Supposed" To Be.

In most works with Male Protagonists, especially those of the Shōnen or action genres and ESPECIALLY in the videogame medium, a "Token Girl" functions as an Emotional Outlet for the Male Characters.

Has the (male) Protagonist just experienced something Frightening, suffered Loss or become Lost after the Peacefup Setting of the game's Tutorial?

The Token Girl will be there to Recognise and Express feelings of "something sad and scary" having happened to the Protagonist, of how "shaken and out of sorts" the Protagonist must be. The Token Girl will then act as an Outlet for these emotions, a Comfortable Vehicle to Focus on (to "redirect" the negative emotions to masculine "action") via becoming Someone To Protect or Someone To Impress. Or, if the Token Female is Dead By Tutorial, grief for "Her" is an Acceptable Emotion... to then be directed to the "more acceptable" method for dealing with Males Having Emotions via Monologues To The Setting ("talking at the scenery") or Promises To The Dead.

These emotions are, subsequently, Never Brought Up Again except as Character Motives or within the "acceptable" outlet of a Romantic Sideplot or an Epilogue Montage/Cutscenes. Sometimes games will use character commentaries in item descriptions or story logs to Remember The Plot Device but since these Expressions of Emotion are hidden within optional reading, players & the game's cast can Dodge any further acknowledgement of Having Feelings or anything resembling [Emotional Labour].

Kairi, the "Token Girl" of KH1, exists to "not exist": as the Designated Female in the lives of Sora and Riku, Kairi's absence is Glaring and, for some, Uncomfortable.

When Sora is at his lowest, when he feels scared and overwhelmed... Kairi is Not There to do his [Emotional Labour] for him. When Sora feels insecure or has a sudden understanding about himself or his relatio ships with others... Kairi is Not There to be Sora's ("Acceptably Female") Emotional Outlet. When Sora feels inspired or moved by his experiences... Kairi is Not There to say Sora's emotions for him, she is Not There for him to confide in, Not There to serve as a "purpose" for Sora "Having An Emotion".

Sora is a Very Emotional character: he is in a Coming of Age Journey, he is constantly put into the emotional stories of Disney films, and emotional introspection is a fundamental component of his setting's [combat mechanics]. Sora spends most of his games with Disney characters as his companions, his mentors, his confidants: when each KH game has its Emotional Climax, removed from the Disney settings & characters who had subconsciously prepared Sora (& players)... Kairi is Not There.

The emotions in Sora's Story are HIS emotions: his to experience, his to recognise in Others, his to express and articulate.

And, when removed from the comforting framework of Disney, who does Sora share his emotions be they positive or negative?

Riku, the OTHER Male Protagonist.

Kairi is Not There for Riku's emotional experiences either. Kairi, whose "purpose" in most works is to be Designated & Acceptably Female Emotional Outlet, is Not There. When Kairi is conveniently nearby either boy when they have an Emotional Revelation... Kairi is left in the background. The KH games COULD include Kairi, the Designated Female most "convenient" for its Male Protagonists to Emote At... yet, at every opportunity, Kairi is Not There. Kairi Not Being There is Deliberate, it is Pointed: it is the KH series saying "here is where you expect Emotions to come from & go to" and "we will not be doing that".

Kairi is Conveniently Female so that the KH series can Actively NOT USE THAT CONVENIENCE: Sora's Coming of Age Journey is emotional, as all such stories are, and it is SORA'S. Sora's to feel, Sora's to act upon, Sora's to recognise through Disney Parallels, Sora's to come to terms with, Sora's to express to whomever Sora most wants to express them to.

Now that the KH series has "retired" Kairi from her Role as "Convenient Female We Actively Never Use For Convenience", she might be allowed to have an opinion and perhaps even Have A Personality! I fear, however, that Players will need even more very pointed instances of Kairi Being There & Female and how Pointedly Unused she is when Sora needs to do something "feminine"!

Because KH is about deconstructing the "gender" of emotions: it is about exploring how feelings affect and influence our memories, our behaviour. How our identities, our relationships, require us to engage with our emotions. How refusing or ignoring what we feel leads to pain, isolation and sometimes tragedy. How each generation's relationships with emotional expression affects the generations that follow them, shaped by beliefs of predetermined suffering: how younger generations, if given the tools and context for such trauma-shaped beliefs, can show us all that these cycles of suffering are not inevitable or destined. That it takes all of us engaging with our emotions honestly, respecting each other's emotions as being as important to them as yours are to yourself... and, together, we can share our emotions (our Hearts) and find grounds for reconciliation (Connection). How we can only become stronger by embracing our ability to "feel" and by respecting how important and natural emotions are to us all. Emotions ("hearts") and the tools we use to understand them (stories, friendship, introspection) are not solely "allowed" to "children", to females or within the bounds of romance. Emotions are human and limiting who is "allowed" to express them or how they "should" be expressed? That harms us all. So open your hearts, connect with the hearts of others, and heal the hurts we have done unto ourselves & each other.

[dreamsy990]

i got very annoyed by the actual kh2 height chart so i decided to draw my own. also hey i finally got to figure out how to draw some of the guys i dont draw all that much

some additional notes:

selphies in the original chart but i cut her since i was only doing original characters. but shes exactly sora height. like on the dot.

roxas, xion, and ventus are all sora height. vanitas is sora height too, but you cant tell because he wears very thick boots that make him like an inch taller

namine is kairi height. xion isnt kairi height because i think her looking like roxas is more narratively significant than looking like kairi

all the norts are xemnas height for obvious reasons, except for old man nort who is a bit shorter (though you cant tell because hes always slouching) and young nort who is about demyx height

ansem the wise is taller than marluxia but shorter than xemnas

it might be hard to tell but lexaeus and xaldin are exactly the same height

these guys are also not included since its just kh2, but aqua is somewhere around marluxia height and terra is xemnas height for obvious reasons

[srisrisriddd]

Movement Exercises Are For The Body Health

Mindfulness Stillness Is For The Mental Health

- Dr Devang H Dattani

Good Morning

Quote / Poem / Poetry / Quotes Of 

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Doctor Devang H Dattani

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Posted By TheBlissCity DDD Team

See The Media Photo Video For

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God Morning

#health , #bliss , #TheBlissCity , #philosophy , #mindfulness , #DrDevangHDattani , #nature , #awareness , #InfiniteSriSriSriDDD , #quotes , #life , #art , #zen , #awakening , #quote , #spiritual , #photography , #Video , #meditation , #psychology , #poem , #poetry , #motivation , #inspiration , #quoteoftheday , #love , #words , #thoughts , #joy , #pun , #enlightenment , #waterfall , #mountain , #consciousness , #movement , #stillness , #exercise , #body , #mental health , #funny , #video

[scouting4love]

Please talk about it so bad this tangent sounds so interesting

Omg... I will go on my bipolar, brain rot rant for you 🫵

I do think that Roxas & Riku are really good narrative foils for each other, especially at the end of Days, tragically so! I think it's also looked over and brushed off quite a bit, my reason being that, in the game, Roxas and Riku only interact once on a meaningful level and that's the fight at the end.

Days, as a game, is about the emotions that make us human. Throughout the game, Xion and Roxas see things like love (Beast's Castle), friendship (Aladdin), and experience those things along with sorrow, desperation, etc. On the flip side, Riku is "real", he was never split in half. He doesn't have to learn all of those things and he knows what he's feeling; e.g. when Xion tries to cut him deep and asks if Riku hates her and Riku answers with "No, I'm just sad." (He's so fucking emo during this game.)

Riku also has a purpose during this game and that is to wake Sora up. He's working with Naminé and DiZ to do so. Roxas is collecting hearts for "kingdom hearts" so everyone in the organization can be "complete again." Throughout the whole game, we read in his diary, hear him talk to his friends, and hear in his inner thoughts that he doesn't know what the fuck that means. He doesn't know what a heart is, he doesn't know what having a heart means, and he doesn't know why he's doing what he's doing. He just knows he was given an 8-8 blue collared job, a roof over his head, and he's part of a cult now.

Personality wise, during the game, Roxas is very curious and sweet. He wants to know more about having a heart, he's always concerned when his friends are hurt, and he's always trying to cheer them up. His temper does flare (especially concerning Saïx) and he's a shit talker. At the end of the game, he is fucking PISSED, as is his right! One of his friends has been lying through his teeth to him, the other is dead due to work place negligence, no one is telling him the truth, and he wants answers! Riku is in what I like to call his "Zoloft Era" because he needs it. Since he's gotten, basically groomed in the first game, dealt with all the shit in Castle Oblivion during CoM (watching his clone die and killing people), and now he has to put up with DiZ's grown ass throwing a hissy fit, he has mellowed out considerably. He makes level headed decisions, like giving Xion time to decide on what she wants to do and has confidence that she will do what's right and doesn't pressure her. He also doesn't shit talk like he does in the first game, he has learned his lesson.

So, at the end of the game, when it all comes to a head, it does so in the saddest fucking way. Roxas understandably upset because his best friend just fucking died and he's the only one who even remembers her (sound familiar?) is going to destroy "kingdom hearts". If he does that, he's gonna get his ass kicked! He's acting on sheer impulse and anger but can you blame him? He's 15. DiZ tells Riku that the only way to get Sora to wake up is to bring Roxas over so Riku leaves to do that and he stops Roxas before he gets to the castle where they fight. When Riku asks what Roxas is doing and he tells him, Riku can remember Xion but just barely like how he can remember Sora just barely but she's slipping away. Riku understands what Roxas is trying to do but he can't let him go through with it.

The end of the fight is the most important part, in my opinion. Roxas beats Riku's ass twice, breaks his fucking wrist, and is sick of his shit. He also shit talks Riku which Riku does not participate in. Riku knows what he has to do at this point and takes off his blindfold, accepting the darkness in his heart, and taking on the appearance of the man who possessed him in the first game. Doing this, allows Riku to win and they put Roxas in the VR Twilight Town. The whole reason Riku won is from taking off the blindfold, by resigning himself to looking like Ansem, Seeker of Darkness. He is willing to give up his sense of self, his identity, his existence, just to get his best friend to wake up. Roxas isn't willing to, isn't able to do that and that's why he lost.

Roxas' character is about identity, personhood, what makes a person a person. "I feel this, so surely I exist, so surely I am meant to be here." The things he is being told, i.e. you're not supposed to have a heart, you're not supposed to feel, don't line up with what he is experiencing and he has to find out what it means to "be" by himself. That's what being a person is, figuring things out, finding out things for yourself, finding out who you are, what you are supposed to be. It is inherently selfish and there is nothing wrong with that, I think it's good for his character. The problem is that it's a double edge sword, it is his ultimate downfall. "My heart belongs to me."

Riku's character is about sacrifice. We have seen it plenty of times throughout the whole game series. He puts himself in the realm of darkness, he spends a whole year trying to wake Sora up, he becomes Sora's dreameater, he sacrifices himself for Sora in KH3 (gay ass). The point is, he is a protector. He puts himself in harms way without a second thought for the sake of his friends. He doesn't want to look like his fucking groomer from the first game but if it'll help his friend, he's gonna fucking do it! "To protect the things that matter."

I think the line, "Forgive me, Roxas," is probably one of the most heartbreaking in Days and it's so so so so depressing that it's not in the game (it's in the manga). If they had put it in the game it would be more clear that they are narrative foils and give the audience more sympathy to Riku's character. In the end, both of them just want to save their best friends but Riku knows he has to take away what Roxas is fighting for not only himself but for Xion as well. He doesn't want to, he's fucking 16 but in the end, he is willing and able to give up is personhood to save the thing he cares about most. Even though Roxas wants to save Xion, he is unwilling to give up his agency and as an audience, technically as Roxas' friends (cause we have been playing the game and reading his diary, etc.), we understand that he had every reason to fight. We also understand that Sora needs to wake up and we understand why Riku needs to do what he needs to do. It's kind of a lose lose because both of them don't end up on top at the end of the game either. Riku may have won, yet he gave up the thing that Roxas was fighting for, his agency, his personhood, his sense of self and identity but he got his best friend back in the end. Roxas lost and had to go back to Sora but ended up keeping himself separated (as we see in kh2 and DDD) but he lost his best friend in the process. They are really good narrative foils and I don't think it is talked about enough..!!

[lenorelovesmax]

It be like that sometimes

[girafferoyalty]

Taking a break from fairies just to provide this valentine

[transpanda-1]

📐Kingdom Hearts has very terminal "No multiple instances of diversity" in it's character design. So you'll often get groups, no matter how large, with basically a single pale woman in it, and maybe a dark skinned man if you're lucky.

[iamthespineofmybook]

Some musings on philosophical (rather than physical) Light and Dark.

It's a thing seen in several properties, but most notably Star Wars and Kingsom Hearts, that Light is an element of peace and tranquility while Dark is violent and always in motion. Light holds happiness and hope and love while Dark has anger and hate and fear.

But this isn't true everywhere.

For example, the philosophical sides of Yin and Yang have Yin as Darkness, but it's also the side of peace and calm and stillness, while Yang as Light is force and passion and motive.

And this interesting inverted dichotomy is also present in Final Fantasy XIV. On The Source, Astral, Light, is the motive force, where great change happens, because most people are diurnal and therefore the most change happens in the light, and Umbral, Dark, is the calming for because of the same, where night is peaceful and calm.

But then we learn in Shadowbringers that, historically and Elementally, Light is the force of peace and calm and Dark is motion and passion, because the First was nearly seallowed by the Light, resulting in a land of utter stillness.

Endwalker shows that Darkness was invoked via Zodiark to change the world away from the phenomenon of The Final Days, and that Hydaelyn, the Light, divided Zodiark and the world to maintain peace against the deaths Zodiark's followers would have caused to return to the time before The Final Days.

It is further expanded upon in the Post-Endwalker content, when we visit the Darkness-consumed Thirteenth, AKA The Void, and learn that nothing there can die permanently because everything is always in motion, there's legit no resting for the Dark.

I fall into an interesting viewpoint in that, while I am most active at night, and generally prefer darkness to light (physical this time, hence the capitalization difference), I lean more towards Yin than Darkness. I prefer to think of it as something calming, a place of centring one's Self.

Which is, I suppose, why the Taijitu puts a little bit of Light in Dark for Yin, and Dark in Light for Yang.

[troph4eum]

ik its been a while since I've posted anything. that's my fault I get distracted easily and forget things. recently I've been feeling insanely misunderstood. it's become a craving to have someone understand me. to hear what I say and know what it means without me having to explain it 12 different ways. I'm not good with words. I have a good vocabulary I'm just not good at picking them. maybe the words for what I feel don't exist yet. I wish we lived in a world where neurodivergency wasnt looked at as a disability but just a difference.

idk. everything in life seems cater to people who arent like me. idk if there is rlly anyone like me. I don't relate to anyone that much. no one's into the same things as I am. and if they are its never as much as I am. no one goes through the kind of problems I go through. not because I'm going through something unimaginably bad. it's just so unique and I've never even heard of anyone dealing with these issues the same way I am. maybe I'm just treating my limited knowledge of things people feel as absolute fact. there's probably someone on here rn feeling the same way I do and talking about it. we both just don't know it. and we'll probably never meet.

idk I just hate being the way I am. if I could be like everyone else I would do it. even though I love being different a lot of the time I realize the more unique you are the less people understand you. I relate to gojo bc of this. not bc I'm so far above ppl that I can't relate to them and they can't relate to me. it's not like that at all. it's just that need to be understood for who I am not for what people think about me.

it makes me reconsider the idea of trophaeum. if I reach this pinnacle that won't make other people understand me. my inner balance won't change that no one gets what I'm saying and I can't express my thoughts in words because the words I need don't exist. all I can do is get progressively more frustrated with the people around me until I do something destructive. I think my dog understands me. he empathizes with me more than people do. I love him he's my best friend. it just sucks because I know he's not going to be around forever. it's like being a parent who outlives their kid. its a sad thought. that the life you raised from such a small age doesn't get to succeed you and carry on into it's own.

I've been thinking about death a lot recently. the idea becomes more appealing over time. maybe I've already lost my mind. I thought I was losing it earlier but maybe I'm already gone. sometimes I feel like a husk. like a nobody. I always really enjoyed roxas' character even though I've never played 358/2 days of kh2. I watch plot synopsis' and playthroughs though. he's such a complex character in comparison to others like sora. his fight for individuality is really moving.

back to being understood and understanding others I think about the human instrumentality project a lot. I realized that I couldn't understand shinjis actions for a lot of evangelion because not only am I not in that situation but I'm also not him. my brain isn't the same. the way we process different events is completely different. and that's why it's basically impossible for people to understand eachother. unless you find someone who's just like you. which is highly unlikely. but that's what the project is for. the third impact. the merger of all humans into one collective consciousness seems like the only way for people to understand eachother. but at the same time I think things like bigotry and the lack of value placed in empathy is what's really causing this. maybe we can't understand eachother because we don't live in a world that promotes understanding. if you're not like everyone else you're seen as a failure. a waste. someone who's not even worth the air they breathe everyday much less all the resources they take up by existing. I guess all problems do source back to supremacy and capitalism. but what can I do about it. propaganda has shut down most talk of anti capitalism and whenever the idea gains popularity the people speaking about it get assassinated so there's no chance for any sort of success. maybe this world just wasn't meant for people like me. and that just makes the idea of death that much more enticing. but ig I can ride this life out for at least a little bit longer. just to see what happens.

[endless-ineffabilities]

blue eyes so green (18+)

Ewan Mitchell x reader / Aemond Targaryen x reader

A oneshot where Ewan becomes cross with you for having a sensuous dream... about his character, Aemond.

a/n : yet another Ewan fic to ring in the season premiere! Expect a whole lot of Aemond fics while we're in the thick of the new season. Happy premiere day, my loves!

word count : 1k ▪︎ masterlist

The silver-haired Targaryen emerges from underneath your skirts, his deft fingers buried in the layers of cloth to keep them away from your prized cunny.

His curved lips are left puckered, parted and glistening from the sheen of your juices. He had practically lost his mind when you finally returned from your duties with the Septa, the hours far too long for him to be away from his lady-wife.

So, with only a few raspy words of desire -

You have kept me waiting

All day long I have longed for a taste of you, my wife.

I will make certain that you never wish to be parted from me again.

- he had lifted you atop the desk in his study, haphazardly shoving his heavy leather-bound volumes of histories and philosophies.

And in a haste, he delighted in a sweetness that can only ever be known to him. Just him, because you will only ever be his.

Your cunny is his. Your kisses all his own. Your heart, his possession.

And he is yours. All yours. He will never tire of making this known. "My love," his tone is desperate as he kisses you hungrily, the exquisite rarity of a prince begging, "I am yours to take for tonight, and every night, for as long as I am breathing."

"Oh, Aemond," you croon, tracing his features with your fingertips, "my sweet husband. Is that your fancy way of telling me that you wish to fuck me for eternity?"

He smiles against your skin. He has always loved the pert particularity of his wife's humour.

"Oh, my sweet sweet wife," his hands seek and they find the fastenings of your dress, the keys to his kingdom, "you know me so well."

And long into the night, you ride a dragon.

All throughout the morning, you can count on one hand the times your boyfriend actually spoke to you.

A few rushed, almost incoherent responses are all he seems capable of sharing.

And it is starting to bug you.

"Baby," you reach for Ewan's hand as the two of you peacefully have your Sunday breakfast.

He squeezes your hand in return, at least, but he doesn't fully meet your gaze.

You retract your hand, and for a split second, his hand scrambles to keep a hold of yours on instinct, but he lets it go with a sigh.

You try again, your tone now more demanding, "Alright, Ewan. Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wro - "

"Look at me."

He takes his sweet time in doing so, his blue eyes raking from his plate to the expanse of the dining table, to your arms and finally your face. He takes another deep breath, unfazed by the attitude you're showing him.

"Some dream you had last night, huh, babe?"

"Excuse me?"

"Oh yeah," he tilts his head, with the solemn confidence of someone who thinks he has the upper hand, "you just about woke me up with all your squirming and moaning."

"Oh." It dawns on you just what he is hinting at. Normally you would only recall some odd bits from your dreams, and sometimes they would even be gone from your mind as soon as you wake. But not the one you just had - no.

That one was just too good to forget.

"Baby, come on," a giggle escapes your lips, feeling less heavy now that you know what he is so worked up about.

"It's not funny," he pouts, fighting back a laugh as he can't help but mirror his beloved's glee. He dramatically pushes his plate away, but the annoyance isn't there. "You basically cheated on me," he pretends to complain.

"Do you even know who I dreamt about?" You amble over to where he sits, and his eager arms take you onto his lap. So much for being infuriated at you.

He doesn't answer, shaking his head as he absently caresses your hips.

"You," you clarify, and his eyes shoot up to meet yours, "well... you meaning Aemond. I had a dream about the one-eyed prince."

He shrugs, "I know."

"You... you know?" You try to stand up but his sturdy arms keep you firmly in place. "You know who I was dreaming about, and yet you sulk all morning?"

"So what? I can't deny that I'm still jealous. Aemond would be a pretty fierce competitor for your heart, darling."

"But he's you!" you squeal, lightly punching his chest. He takes your forearm and pulls you closer to press a soft kiss against your cheek.

"I know," he smiles. "I suppose I was just getting way into my thoughts."

"You think?"

"Hmm," he narrows his eyes, his features taking on that cheeky guise he expertly sports so often, "if you were to choose, between myself and Aemond - "

"Oh no," you laugh dryly, prying yourself from his arms and returning to your seat, "I am not playing this game."

"Who do you think would be a superior lover in bed?"

"Ewan - "

"Come on, darling," he prods lightheartedly. "Humour me."

"Well," you say, "why don't you hurry up and finish your breakfast so you can convince me to your side?"

His cheeky sneer disappears at your insinuation, in its place an indicative clenching of his jaw.

A moment passes. You take a delightful sip of your orange juice, satisfied.

Sure enough, you hear his chair scrape loudly as he stands and makes his way to you.

"Fuck breakfast," he rasps. "Time to make your dreams come true, darling."

[sunboki]

— KEEP IT BUSINESS. a Lee Minho fiction

Lee Minho x f. reader

TROPE. best friends to lovers, coworkers! au, first kiss? au (hehe), domestic/soft minho, fluff

WARNINGS. cursing, making-out, inexperienced kissing, annoying coworkers

WORD COUNT. 6.9k words

AUG'S NOTES. so glad to have finally completed this!! it’s been rotting in my drafts for weeks and i just had to write a happy ending for these two grandparents 🫶🏼

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. Life can be a mess, and with you and Minho as the only two singles in your office building, an impertinent Valentine’s day leaves no choice but to make a pact.

or alternatively :

If we’re still single by twenty-five, we date each other.

Four years.

It’s been four years since you first met Lee Minho, working with him at the same company, becoming the best of friends. And yet, the same dread lay specially reserved for the same season.

The season of love, or, to most people, Valentine’s day.

.

.

.

Alarm set for 6:30AM. Work from 8:30AM to 4PM. Every day of the week, every year.

Initially, the experience was relatively enjoyable. It paid well, wasn’t too harsh on hours, and other coworkers minded their own business (at least in your case) without being a pain.

Then the loneliness set in.

It was subtle at first, a tiny pang in your heart when you returned home to a dark, cold apartment while others would be greeted by a pet, a loved one.

So when Lee Minho, a new member of the company assigned as your apprentice came along, you tend to think meeting him was, in a weird, spontaneous manner, meant to be.

And four years later, when he had grown from that apprentice-ship and became established as an employee, you still hold onto that “meant to be” philosophy.

Busied chatter fills the downstairs cafe, familiar faces alike brimming with conversation, breath coffee-stained.

Peering across the various assortment of tables, you spot him, two identical cups in each hand, wearing that bemused expression as usual.

At this point, Minho has memorized your order by heart, arriving early after his daily stop by the nearby animal shelter (whose manager knew by heart). Most morning’s you’d await a picture of the newest addition to the feline section, a photo he proudly shows off like his own trophy.

You’re genuinely surprised his residence isn’t a constantly growing cat-kingdom.

“Looking forward to it?”

Brows furrowing, you sidle to his right and dish the warm beverage into your grasp.

“Looking forward to wha— wait wait don’t say it. I want to pretend it doesn’t exist.” Hurriedly waving your hands, Minho cracks a grin.

The cursed word in question being: Valentine’s day.

You can’t say you hate it. It never did anything to you, nor did it leave you heartbroken. To put it simply, the office over the first few weeks of February was a close-resembling spinoff to Singles Inferno except, much spicier and way too inappropriate in broad daylight.

Meaning, for the past five years (four joined by Minho), merely mentioning said season of love urges impending dread and deep frowns.

“All I’m gonna say is I would not want to be a doctor over Valentines,” You wince, sipping the warm drink with a squeamish face.

Minho sighs vehemently, propping an elbow against the computer cart behind him.

“I bet you could witness more vibrators in that hospital than in an Adam and Eve,” He grumbles, watchful eyes surveying the daily crowd occupying tables and chairs in the building’s downstairs café.

Slamming a fist to your chest to correct your breathing, your eyes practically bulge from your skull, evidently caught of guard.

Leave it to Minho to make you suffocate before your shift even begins.

8am is prime time for socialization—otherwise before Mrs. Song decides to unleash her wrath on newbies. She has good intentions, sure, but let’s just say most anyone was petrified upon first meeting her.

Luckily, your department with Hyeongmi, Minho, and Felix was secluded on the far side of the building, leaving you out of the woman’s hair, free to work as you please.

Yet, Mrs. Song wasn’t the problem, not when it came down to the month of February.

Your phone’s alarm signaling to start moving momentarily wards off the thought, and either of you begin toward the elevator, flat expressions describing the sinking feeling better than words.

Back at it, again.

Because by your lunch break, you can’t fathom entering the cafeteria, not if it costs you your life.

Everywhere you look someone is making out, confessing their love, or, worst you’ve seen it all day, genuinely fucking in the bathrooms.

Perhaps you’d send Minho a text you’re making an escape by eating in the office, invite him up for some solace.

Except, it seems he had the same idea.

Scrambling through the door, you enter at the same time, heaving sighs of exasperation upon securing much needed privacy.

Making prolonged eye contact, your thoughts come spilling out.

“If I witness another make-out in the stairwell I’m ending it all.”

“Boxes of chocolates are officially ruined for me now.”

Four years and it never gets old. Same old painful memories, same old excitement for the day to come and go. And it’s not like you hate the holiday itself, you two just.. heavily dislike the immense bucketloads of PDA and office hookups that come along with it.

Not-so-gracefully flopping down onto your chairs, you practically shovel food down, gladly accepting the few rolls of gimbap Minho places onto your plate.

Customary sharing. You give him some of your food, he gives you some of his.

In those brief minutes of silence do you get the opportunity to fully comprehend your own thoughts, prior to Minho clearing his throat.

“Drinks at my place?”

Your grown loudly in agreement.

Minho : Okay, I’m leaving, follow me in thirty minutes

Glancing up, you watch your counterpart lift his brows your way and call out his departure, sifting through the doorway, cross body bag thumping against jeans.

Hyeongmi was downstairs, which, as awful as it sounded, was great not having to endure her nosiness.

This was how you stayed unbothered. He’d leave, and thirty minutes later you would too in order to (for now) avoid Mrs. Song (and Hyeongmi’s) pestering.

It couldn’t have taken the clock longer to reach 4:30PM. So by the time the beloved minute hand struck 4:29 you practically lurched from your seat, almost tasting sweet freedom before a face showed up right before you slipped through the exit.

Hyeongmi’s face.

What she’s talking about you can’t seem to understand, mind trained on escaping and escaping alone.

“C’mon now, you two are the only two in this building without a date. It’s been four years, Y/n! You need to let loose!” Hyeongmi emphasizes, dizzying your head the longer she shakes your shoulders.

“You do realize everyone has the hots for him but that he only hangs out with you, right? I’m telling you, it’s a sign—“

“Sorry Hyeongmi, I really have to go-“

Fastening your bag tigher across your body, you make a mad-dash as far away as possible, pretending to ignore the “use protection!” she shouted before the crisp evening breeze nipped your nose.

Use protection my butt, you grovel, ushering the scarf further above your chin as if to secure as much warmth possible.

She doesn’t know anything, not about how you took him under your wing as your apprentice the first year he joined, not about how much Minho loves cats, or how the keychain on that crossbody bag of his is a keychain you bought for him.

Simply placing it, she’s a person lead by the assumptions of others and adopting them as her own.

It irritates you.

Veering to your right, you thank his decision to house nearby, arriving at the foot of his porch after a mere ten-minute walk.

Delivering a few knocks on the townhome’s doorway, you note the paint chipping, colorful exterior worn from the sun’s rays.

Everything from the few cracks in the sidewalk to the relatively invisible stain of coffee on his doorknob lay memorized by frequency—his property second nature to you.

“Never have I hated being single this much,” You whine, slumping onto his couch after hurling your bag atop a hook in the foyer.

And despite the lack of response, you can tell Minho heard you. The faint, breathy chuckle enough evidence of his presence.

Perched on a chair he’d likely dragged from the kitchen, a feline companion occupies his lap, both comfortably relaxing on the patio, wine glass in hand.

Accordingly arranged on the countertop is another glass (you presume as yours), that you pour the vinegar-tinged substance into.

“I mean.” Slightly struggling to haul a neighboring chair to his side and simultaneously avoid splashing wine everywhere, you eventually find an equilibrium.

“It’s not like I asked to be single, I’m just too busy to consider a relationship, y’know?”

Minho absentmindedly hums, urging you to take a much-needed sip of the orchid-colored liquid.

Finally, you sigh out the last of your evening’s thoughts.

“..Hyeongmi caught me on the way out.”

Nor does this occasion need a reply either, the man’s suppressed giggle suitable enough.

“Mm.. I’ve got an idea.”

Carefully allowing the elongated glass to clink atop a translucent table, you cross and uncross your legs, welcoming the rustle of life around you into your eardrums, easing the cluttered space of your brain.

“Shoot.”

He clicks his tongue, gaze flitting to the emerging moon overhead.

“If we’re still single by twenty-five, we date each other.“

Making a surprised sound to yourself, you break into unadulterated laughter, about to call him hilarious before taking into account this is Minho you’re referring to, and the likelihood he’s joking on any matter is unlikely.

Sure it sounds cliché, but it’s Minho, why not?

…And perhaps that decision was made with a few glasses of wine in play.

“I’m in.” You grin, returning his outstretched hand by bumping your glasses before downing the remaining gulp, cheeks aglow, alcohol ridding your breath a distasteful stench.

Tipsy. Minho is charming normally, but especially when he’s tipsy.

He’s got this way of speaking that could get any unsuspecting girl reaching to unzip his pants in a second, sultry, half-lidded eyes drinking the person in front of him, talking like he has sugar lining his lips.

When Minho is tipsy, he’s tempting. You didn’t need four years to teach you that.

That, and the spare pajama set folded in his top drawer reserved solely for you on nights like this—too gone to go home.

Although, as you rise to your feet and head to the bathroom, pulling said silk pajama shirt over your head, Hyeongmi’s words reverberate again.

You do realize everyone has the hots for him but that he only hangs out with you, right?

Hm. Minho was always a recluse though. And with your history, obviously he’d have some liking for you.

It’s been four years, Y/n! You need to let loose!

Turning to stare at yourself in the mirror, you sulk, head hanging low.

What if you did something tonight? Something risky, something testing the limits this friendship borderlines. You’re both drunk, likely willing.

Then again, does Minho want this too? Did he ever intend to “let loose”?

Anxiety plagues you, hurriedly scurrying your pants over your legs and exiting to find Minho still seated in the same spot, appearing all the more tempting without having to do a thing.

You blame the alcohol.

Stamping forward as if you prepared a speech, you stop just behind his chair, mustering any ounce of liquid courage manageable.

“Minho.”

He grunts.

“You’re really pretty.”

Let loose. This is letting loose when it comes to Minho.

What, you thought you were gonna fuck? Yeah, that’s a funny one.

Winding himself around to see you, his lips wind into a sweet smile, urging you closer with a mere look before he reaches forward and taps your nose, dark eyes roaming your face.

“I’ve always thought you were pretty too.”

And perhaps, caught in a trance from his glittering stare, something did happen those four years you’ve been together after all.

You blame the alcohol.

The impulsive part about this “date at twenty-five” pact you had forgotten to consider was the fact both of you were twenty-four, meaning in less than a year whatever plan Lee Minho had stirred up after plenty glasses of wine would oil it’s gears into motion.

Thankfully Valentines comes and goes, and Summer creeps dangerously close, the longer hours of daylight and lingering sunshine enough to make every work-day feel extra laborious.

First day of summer, Minho texts you, asking if you want to join him on a walk.

Mind you, it’s 10AM in the morning, an hour you couldn’t fathom waking up at on the first day of summer.

You groan and flop back down, shutting off your phone and slamming the pillow over your head in a pitiful attempt at falling back asleep.

Only for your doorbell to ring twenty minutes later.

Over.

And over.

And over.

The urge to screech compels your barely-awake form, legs wobbling out of bed to feebly reach the doorway in a sleep-ridden haze.

Of course, lo and behold, Minho lies responsible, clad in running shoes, a pair of shorts, and a black nike zip-up.

He’s evidently pleased—whether from how disheveled you appear—or that he actually got you out of bed in the first place by the lingering smile tugging at his lips.

You hate to say it, but he’s annoyingly attractive, there’s no denying.

“Caught you at a bad time, hm?” He tips his head down to make eye-contact, peering through wild hair and lidded eyes at your half-alive self.

All you can manage out is a minuscule grunt, about to close the door before Minho jars his hand in, inviting himself inside much to your dismay.

Like instinct, he heads straight to your closet, surveying the chaos his insistent door-bell ringing caused before fetching a sweatshirt to pull over your head and a pair of socks from your drawer.

Though, as you wake up a tad bit more, you hurriedly keep him from putting your socks on for you as he bends down, shying away with an irritated whine.

“If this is what dating you is like I’m calling off the pact,” You mumble, stomping toward the door with Minho pushing you forwards without chance of escape.

He giggles, seeming to contain utmost glee witnessing your temper tantrum.

“Oh trust me sweetheart, the fun never ends.”

He’s hopeless too, apparently.

Lucky for you, your friend’s visits occurred sporadically, meaning the 10AM wake up calls weren’t a daily routine of headaches.

In contrast, summer passed by in a flash, and you were shoved head-first into a packed schedule for a second time as the autumn leaves shriveled into crisp browns and oranges.

Autumn was always welcomed. It meant the chilling cold was approaching, yes, but it also signified apple cider being added to the downstairs café menu and—on those especially chilly mornings—bundling your neck in the scarf Minho bought you last christmas.

As for him, he frequents pointed shoes and straight-legged pants, his fudge-colored hair perfectly complimented by pumpkin scented fragrances and dusky red backdrops.

Brisk mornings call for thinking. And as you walk, you come to the indefinite conclusion apple cider fits Minho. Sweet, but not saccharine. Warm to the touch, reminiscent with a charming aftertaste. A silhouette that comes and goes as it pleases, leaving soon enough for you to crave it back again.

Regarding summer, he was sort of like a beach day. A vacation in the midst of roaring deadlines, the comfortable lull of waves buzzing your mind into a hazy, salty escapade.

Although as December plucks each oak of its splendor, a call on Sunday morning truly marks the season of winter.

“..Y/n?” Minho murmurs, his voice groggy, hoarse. You make a sound of acknowledgment in response.

“I think I’m sick, can you drop off some meds at the door?”

Pressing your phone close to your ear, you debate on your desire to scold him, remind him each time he gets a winter cold he should dress warmer.

Of course, your lips stay shut (just like they always have for the past few years), and you reply with a “Be there soon, hang tight” before ending the call and gathering your belongings.

At the supermarket you check out seaweed soup, multivitamins, and allergy relief—things of which you hope will alleviate some of his symptoms.

Eternally grateful for the spare key you’d been given a while back, you enter the home, calling his name until an exasperated sign of life was heard (more like coughed) from the bedroom.

Inside lay Minho, a distressing array of tissues scattered in all directions, clustered beyond belief. His nose is soured pink from incessant stuffiness, lips cracked and dry. Dark circles sag beneath tired eyes, worn disposition evidence of his condition.

Quick on your feet, you scour the bathroom for a thermometer, the device’s loud beep signifying a blaring fever as you hover by his bedside.

Watching the bowl of instant soup spin aimless circles in the microwave, Minho’s call knocks you out of your daydream, worriedly padding to where he lays.

“Come here.”

You oblige, arriving to his right, about to ask the matter until his fingers link with your own, bringing the back of your hand to his jaw, resting there.

If you had been warm before, an entirely new definition to sweating has been reached at this point.

“You’re warm,” He whispers, rubbing his face against your hand like a needy cat wanting attention.

How unfair a human can be this round.

Practically bounding from the inside, you use the excuse of the microwave beeping to race off, hurriedly disappearing into the kitchen while remaining ignorant to the way Minho’s gaze follows you.

Returning with a soup platter meticulously carried between your tight grip, you sigh with relief upon sitting the steaming concoction down. Oh so slowly, a frown grows at your face upon noticing the expectant stare boring into your head.

“Yes?”

He juts out his bottom lip like a kicked puppy from your nonplussed tone, nudging the covers over himself till only those calculating eyes peek out.

“I’m not feeding you.”

Minho all but whimpers, and you suppress the urge to smother him with a pillow right then and there, hating how easily he sends goosebumps prickling the back of your neck, heat scalding your ears.

“No.”

“Y/n.”

You quite literally feel like the cruelest person in existence because why is he looking at you with that face, saying your name like that.

Grumbling beneath your breath, you begrudgingly collect a spoonful, bringing the utensil to his already pursed lips.

Spoonful by spoonful do you feed him as if he’s a dependent toddler, his satisfied hums earning a stern glare in return.

Only when he finishes eating do you get up, reprimanding him on taking his meds without much bite to your words.

“And don’t take too many of these, alright? If it gets really bad, call me again. Otherwise, try getting sleep.”

“Yes ma’am.”

And of course he has to be endearing.

Such a pain.

You’ll stop by tomorrow.

If Minho was the apple cider in autumn and beach days in the summer, he’s the prettiest of snowflakes in the midst of winter.

Memorable, fleeting. Melting in your touch.

The annual Christmas party the company hosts steadily approaches, your coworkers ringing your phone insistently with noticeable anticipation.

Though just like autumns chill, December soars past idly, reigning in a new year and a new digit added to twenty when asked your age.

Your winter premise only heightened the anxiety compiling in your gut, a feeling you hadn’t recognized until the following day—the first day back to work in January—dawned.

January 1st’s introduction means you’re both officially twenty-five, and you’re not sure if it’s the fact Minho hasn’t texted you yet or the valentines pact in itself setting you on edge.

What would it be like to date Minho? Would he kiss you, the same way male leads in K-dramas did? Hold you as you sleep, wish you goodbye with a kiss to your cheek?

The mere thought sends rivets of electricity blazing your fingertips, feeling like an utter fool for imagining such scenarios.

Now you’ve haunted yourself for worse, leaving only dread in tow.

Arriving at the office the first day back, you attempt at making yourself look as collected as possible, definitely not bothered.

Worse, the root of your troubles walks in unbothered as you’ve been trying to do for the past few hours, the room working in deplorable silence before a note wedges itself behind your keyboard, Minho slipping past in its wake.

It takes all your will-power to ignore the crumpled piece of paper as best as possible, your index itching to unravel whatever lay inside.

Noon is when you finally give in, lungs failing to produce air upon reading the contents, practically choking on nothing.

Come over to my place after work.

What is this, his way of declaring your pact officially in action? What if he calls it off, saying it was only a joke glasses of wine granted?

As Hyeongmi said before, everyone has the hots for him, so why don’t you? Why does the thought of him calling it off put you on edge?

Or maybe you do. Maybe you do have feelings for—

Woah. Stop there.

Luckily, your internal chess match went unnoticed, leaving only the buzzing of your ears and the ticking of the clock loud.

A certain fondness sat between either of you from the start, since becoming acquainted you’ve instantly clicked—sly remarks and playful teasing merely one more thing keeping you alive (minus coffee).

So when something crossing the border between friends and lovers arose, a sort of nervousness bubbled in your gut.

Minho was a shoulder to cry on for you, but was it like that?

You could rely and depend on each other whenever, but could those feelings ever turn into love?

Of course they could, and they likely would’ve if it weren’t for either of you being so work-oriented—making you even more worried.

Although, you can’t simply flee. You’re an adult.

..And Minho will find you in a heartbeat if you decide to run.

Never had you been hesitant to leave office until now, and trodding one foot in front of the other causes your legs to turn into jelly.

Minho probably isn’t this nervous. He’s probably in a great mood, treating the occasion like it’s just another casual day.

Never before was it difficult, whether difficult is referred to as placing a key in a doorway or walking inside, everything seems so.. eminent.

Like when you walk through this door, an entirely new side of Minho will show face. A romantic side of Minho.

Yet, there’s no rose petals lining the hallway, nor scented candles scattered here and there.

What is there to expect with dating in your twenties anyway?

Plus, Minho’s well, Minho. If he wanted to, he likely would’ve flat-out asked already.

Something you’re surprised about, however, is the triangular string decor swooping from the ceiling, the party hats by the sink, a single birthday candle placed in the center of a cupcake. Simple, perfect.

Although, the perfect factor came with the man responsible, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, bracing himself on the countertop with a particular glow in his irises—whether it be from the lit candle you aren’t sure—that sets your stomach into a garden of butterflies.

A surprise party. He threw you a surprise birthday party.

And it’s then as enter the kitchen, brain barely recognizing each advance forward, you realize it.

You really, really want to date him.

And you really, really don’t want to screw this up.

Staring at each other, you rise up on your toes to place a careful, feather-light peck on the smooth, flushed skin of his cheek.

Slowly, he turns his head, a conniving smirk revealing the outline of his teeth whilst investigating your breathlessness.

“Someone’s daring,” He mumured, cocking a brow amusedly.

You poke his side, groaning that he shouldn’t look too far into it before he nudges you, your frown returned with a subtle nod—directed at the forgotten cupcake.

“Well you already gave me a kiss, so wish for something else.”

“Choke,” You respond, but there’s still no bite to it. Some things never change.

Minho gently holds your hair back for you, allowing you to lean over and blow out the candle. No bite.

Your wish?

Let Minho and I go well. I like us.

Every bit of it was the truth.

Hopefully this wish of yours can come true.

Maybe.

Seated on the living room floor do you finally relax, your shoulders slumping down after hours of monstrous tension. Seems you’d forgotten he was your best friend before anything else.

“So.. how does this work?”

‘Work’ as in, the dating deadline’s here, what’s next?

He purses his lips—a habit of his—blinking rapidly.

“Like friends? Except we get the kissing and sex pass in between, right?”

You smack his shoulder. He smiles, childishly extending his pinky out to you.

Linking yours, you press the pad of your thumb against his. An unspoken gesture.

“Together?”

Through thick and thin. Your way, as it always was, always had been.

He has stars in his tawny-globes for eyes.

“Together.”

Minho’s hands are warm in the midst of frigid temperatures.

Spring isn’t too far off, but the bitter winds remain ceaseless and unrelenting, whipping your hair every which way, scattering a plethora of goosebumps along your skin.

Never had you held hands like this with someone before, nonetheless Minho, and yet, a connection lies inside the initial awkwardness. The silent assurance, whether it’s his thumb smoothing your palm or occasional squeezes, telling you he understands, that you’re not alone, or how he patiently waited by the door the entire time you were getting ready, claiming he didn’t want to dirty your place with his shoes.

It’s sort of revitalizing. Curious and inquisitive in his lingering touches, additional notes—reminders on your coffee cup, questions asking whether you want to stay over afterward, if he can give you a kiss on the cheek.

One in particular you recall:

I miss you. Scribbled in bleeding ink.

Your introduction as lovers had been a field day of trials and questions for the two of you, though when it came down to the public’s knowledge, you began debating on the “curiosity killed the cat” theory.

This morning, catching a glimpse of the company’s logo in the distance, you assign yourself as the cat. Too interested, now suffering the consequences.

Granted, you wouldn’t take back moving to relationship status, but it was a lot easier to brush off comments if you were Minho.

Hyeongmi being the main one responsible for said comments.

Morning passed by seamlessly, prioritizing work above all else, too busy typing away to for any interruptions.

..Until a midday conference.

Seated right next to each other, his fingers slowly thread with yours beneath the table, sending the man a perplexed (and slightly nervous) expression in response.

More so, the comforting casualness caused you to barely recognize Mrs. Song reaching below to fetch her fallen pen, a gasp of surprise stilling the conversation at her realization.

“Are you- Are you two holding—?”

Panicked, you smack his hand away, stomach plummeting.

Not expecting him to stubbornly grab your hand again, a miniature frown draws across his perfectly rose lips.

Pouting.

Lee Minho is pouting because you’re not letting him hold your hand.

Unbelievable.

If the situation could escalate further, the she-devil herself (Hyeongmi) throws her head down to spare a glimpse, allowing you to fully accept your demise. A demise that, one way or another, needed to happen.

This was simply an early death.

“You’re kidding! No way you guys are a thing?” The eccentric girl mouths the last words, eyebrows drawn to her hairline.

And just like that, your relationship with Minho ventured out of your pocket and into a brand new wilderness.

“So…what’s it like living everybody’s dream?”

Headed to the bathroom, Hyeongmi stops you, leaned over the mirror, carefully inspecting her plum-colored lipstick.

“What?” You pique, confusedly glancing between her and the empty stall you’re trying to nonchalantly slip into.

“I mean, the entire company’s talking about it. Tell me, are you guys actually official? Or is this all just for the attention? No offense, but-“

“I...”

Want to punch you in the face.

You keep it to yourself.

“I’m gonna go.”

Synonymously, both your bladder and your appetite completely disappeared.

Although, she doesn’t leave you alone.

You’re frantically searching for excuse after excuse, speed-walking and taking the stairs any chance available.

Unfortunately for you, she’s everywhere. At some point you’re certain a tracking device is hidden somewhere on your clothes.

Almost there. From silently pleading help with your eyes to legitimately hiding in your workplace, today couldn’t have been more of a joke.

Or so you thought.

“Y/n?”

“Yes, Hyeongmi?”

“With Minho,” She nervously fiddles with her earrings. “You don’t have to tell me but.. how’s the bedroom?”

Apparently, it can go lower.

Before you can respond to her shamelessness, a grip fastens on your shoulders, cologne distinct enough you can tell exactly who it is.

Your beach day.

“Hyeongmi, you do realize that’s rude, yeah? Let’s not cross boundaries we shouldn’t cross, got it?”

All the while Minho smiles, this cloying, “I dare you” sort of attitude no one can argue with.

Averting her attention, she speedily raises up, humorlessly laughing off the tension while excusing herself from the room.

“You okay?” He whispers, breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, pressing a chaste kiss there.

Yeah, there’s no getting used to this.

“Yep,” You say, though there isn’t much sincerity it.

He knows.

“Wait for me here, let’s walk home together.”

Ah. You want to kiss him.

“Minho.”

He turns on his heel.

Kiss me.

You’re holding his collar now, the option on the tip of your tongue, his lips a hairbreadth from yours.

Close, closer.

No. Not yet.

Either way, what do you know about kissing? What if you screw up?

Not yet.

“..Okay.”

Your gaze flits down to his lips if only for a second. A small, cheeky grin adorning his face as he follows your movements.

It’s hard to focus when he leaves, because all you can think about is the possibilities. What if you had kissed him? Would he have kissed you back?

By the way looked at you, the logical response would be: yes. Most people don’t stare at someone like that without the intent to kiss them, right?

Though somehow, you can’t help but feel unprepared, a complete novice in this battlefield of love.

Where Minho took you afterward was a mystery, merely happy to be away from the confines of your desk—letting his eager hand guide you wherever he pleased.

Shielded beneath the shade of two trees, your destination, Yeouido Park, is a spectacle during the transition period of winter to spring. You’d oftentimes spend hours here, basking in the relief a break grants. A spectacle where you two first truly met.

“Alright, be honest with me.”

He spins you around till you’re face to face, carefully analyzing your facial expression.

“Are you really okay? After Hyeongmi said that, I couldn’t stop thinking..”

Oh. That careful crease in his eyebrows, sympathetic.

He’s breaking your heart.

You realize now why everyone falls in love with him.

“Of me?”

The words come out involuntarily, a step forward in the newness, paving light through the darkened abyss.

“Yeah..” He says, a little winded while doing so.

Minho cares, he always had, yet, it’s your first time hearing it aloud.

“Y/n.”

Blinking yourself back into reality, your face grows warm, not intending to deliberately space out right in front of him.

He leans forward, causing you to shrink back into your skin as a kiss is planted right atop your nose, the man wearing a satisfied grin.

“Hey- You can’t- It’s not Valentines yet—“

“And why would I wait until Valentine’s day?”

Another deeper red burns your cheeks, and you scorn the way he gets under your skin—a way that makes every insult dissolve like powder on your tongue.

He notices, but decides not to prod further, lightly bumping your hip with his own as a signal to follow.

“Tomorrow is the day, y’know,” You mumble, kicking rocks with the tip of your shoe.

“Are we gonna turn into those couples?” He asks, pretentiously puckering his lips, eyes squinted shut.

You burst out laughing.

“I would break up with you first, sorry Minho.” Said puckered lips transform into a playful scowl.

“What? No treat for valentines?”

Blinking babydoll eyes up at you, you wrinkle your nose, coming to recognize what “treat” he was implying.

Earlier you would’ve kissed instantly, but an inkling of stubbornness kept you from giving into him this time.

Sneaking behind you, he ducks down, voice low enough for only your ears to hear.

“Didn’t seem you were too against it earlier.”

And with that, he races off, entirely too happy with himself and not likely to live down your reaction. Because you can’t disagree.

Since when were Lee Minho’s lips so kissable?

Knock.

Knock.

Your attention strays from the mirror at the sound, wondering if it was simply a figment of your imagination only for the sound to ensue.

Knock. Knock.

Who would be at your door at this hour in the middle of the week?

There’s a name on your tongue, but you don’t contemplate any longer, tiptoeing to the doorway to peer through the peephole.

And the sight before you makes every ounce of suspicion worthwhile.

Minho, holding a bouquet of roses and things unknown behind his back, is reciting.

He’s staring at his shoes, bouncing back and forth on his heels nervously.

Lee Minho is nervous.

Wanting just to stand there and watch him rehearse, you finally give in after a third knock scares you out of your wits—hesitantly opening the door and trying to placate the most surprised expression possible.

His eyes round as saucers, you literally watch the gears in his head turn in real time, extending the flowers out to you.

“Happy valentines. These are uh, for you.”

And his ears are red.

You’re going to implode from how cute this is.

Attempting to stave down the alarming amount of happiness you’re experiencing, you hold the flowers in one hand, awaiting whatever lie behind his back.

Although, as the outline of a box of chocolates appears, so does… a shampoo bottle.

What.

Bathing in a long silence, you can’t help but wonder you’re genuinely hallucinating. Glancing from his face to the literal shampoo in hand, he mirrors you, confused for a reason you’re trying to figure out as well.

“Is that… a shampoo bottle?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you were running low the last time I came here.”

…

You’ve never received a valentine before, but this automatically took the cake.

Is it possible to fall in love after you’re given a shampoo bottle as a gift on valentines? Apparently so.

Nonetheless, work flashed past, barely able to register a thing between the many congratulations you received and the absence of Hyeongmi (assumed to be due to the brown-haired charmer beside you).

For now, you savor the freedom of the day, finally able to escape the pains of before and wallow in a new kind of excitement. Love.

Love delivered by Minho himself in the form of mini scraps he’s folded into hearts, slipping heart after heart onto your desk at any opportunity to the point you bump his leg beneath the table in warning.

He cheekily smirks in return, stupidly innocent face scheming with malice.

He’s getting an absolute kick out of this, and you hate to admit you enjoy it just as much.

As usual, you wait behind for him to catch up on your daily commute home—an activity you did long before any romantic feelings became involved.

That’s it. Minho’s pinpoint of romance.

Shampoo bottle, walks home, extra coffee, notes.

Minho doesn’t openly express his love, not unless he feels either adventurous or obligated. Instead, he studies. Your habits, the things you enjoy, your actions, preferences. That particular coffee order you liked, how you had ran out of shampoo.

Oh how you love him.

Though, rounding the sidewalk to your place, Minho grabs ahold of your wrist. In response, as soon as you turn your head, you’re mere centimeters from his face, simply standing there, proximity willing either of you not to move.

Initial words dying out, he slightly edges to the side, cocked in a way that has your mind racing.

Nose, cheek, but never lips.

No.

Your hands act before any other part of you, blocking his lips from yours.

“We-“

The look he’s giving you, shock.

You feel a hundred degrees hotter.

“We need to go inside,” You excuse yourself fast, the man tailing behind, grip still loosely attached to your wrist.

Quickly shutting the door behind you, it’s an immediate embarrassment flooding your frame that allows you to speak, words bursting outward in an uncontrollable cacophony.

“Minho I’m so sorry I have no idea what I was doing, I shouldn’t have done that, it was a stupid idea. I didn’t mean to offend you or anything-“

“Hey, slow down. I’m not going anywhere.”

His tone serves as the much needed breeze fanning your face, cooling you down enough to articulate sentences properly.

“I’m sorry, we’ve just never kissed on the lips and I feel like I’m gonna be horrible and kill the mood. This is stupid, I know, just.. bear with me please?”

His eyebrows furrow, forming together the equation piece by piece.

“You’ve.. You’ve never had your first kis—?”

You hush him furiously, slumping onto the couch dejectedly.

Yet, Minho doesn’t laugh nor pick fun regardless of how hilariously idiotic the occasion is. He’s quiet, concerned almost.

You add that to your long list of things you love about him.

Inhaling gradually, your focus flits to the window, collecting yourself, easing the frantic rush-hour traffic rampaging in your skull.

If you were one of those paper hearts he made, he’s pulling apart each careful fold in this very moment. Unraveling the layers till your bare self is exposed in all its anxiousness.

“I hate it. It feels like a part of that teenage youth everyone talks about is something I’ll never get to experience. I was too busy caring about school, and now I feel like I’ve missed out.”

Soaking in a quietness, you jump when he places a hand over yours, softly tracing the skin of your knuckles, glossy as he watches, carving each perfect aspect of you into memory.

“Well you may not be seventeen, but you’re never too old to learn to kiss.”

One hand cupping your jaw to garner your attention, you’re met with a glass-like visage.

Gentle.

“And I can teach you how.”

It’s always been business, you’ve always been business. Which is why, now confronting what feels to be the highest peak in your love life, you’re left a completely blank canvas. No rules, no instructions.

It’s terrifying.

“Min- Minho, I really haven’t done this before.”

You hastily pique, scooting backward in the cushions.

Curse the shakiness of your voice.

“If you don’t want to do this, tell me. We won’t.”

You quickly shake your head.

No, you want this, you’ve wanted this too badly to back out now.

“Then let’s take it slow, okay?”

It’s horrifically awkward at first, a tiny peck, then a bit longer till your arms creep over his shoulders, his fingers once holding your jaw steady now resting on your neck.

Best word to describe it? Messy.

“Breathe through your nose.”

“Minho— I’m suffocating here—“

You sputter back, quite literally heaving for breath.

Yes, it was otherworldly kissing him, and he was an insanely good kisser, but did this really require your lungs to practically burst?

“Are you teaching me how to give a blowjob or kiss?”

His smile transforms mischievously, a sneering laugh slipping past. You already know he’ll make a sly comment.

Minho winks. “We’ll get to that later.”

“I lost my urge to date you. Bye.”

“Noooo Y/n~” He whines profusely, warm hold on your waist beckoning another kiss filled with hushed giggles and incessant jeers from either party—ensuing a halfway unbuttoned shirt and quite possibly the most greedy ten minutes known to man.

Out of breath, he pulls back from your stomach, the ticklish feather-light kisses planted there earning a stifled giggle from you while he blinks upward, seeming to be focused on something.

“Minho?” You question, ignorant to how unbelievably obsessed with you he is, more than ever in this moment.

From your damp, sweaty skin to the few hairs stuck to your forehead. Your swollen lips, the way you laugh, your stomach dipping with the action. He doubts he’ll ever get tired of this.

Reaching forward as if caught in a trance, he tenderly tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, voice barely audible upon pressing his forehead against yours.

And in the seclusion of your living room, tangled up together on the sofa, it’s just the two of you existing in this world.

“I hope you know I really meant it when I said I thought you were pretty too.”

Ah. He remembers. All that time ago.

Of course he does.

Kissing you for a time you can’t remember, you begin to wonder if that birthday wish of yours had came true after all.

Your feelings for Minho had always existed somewhere inside of you. Your head, your heart. A tiny inkling into something more, a could be. Two individuals wishing, waiting to make a move.

It seems the Valentines Pact sealed the deal.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

FIC TAGLIST. @gimmeurtmi @jisuperboard @porang-poranglinos @palindrome969 @stayceebs97 @inniescandy-01 @idklin0

[i-lived-i-died-and-now-i-sleep]

Baldwin IVs love language

I thought about how one person could possibly win over Baldwins heart and decided to write about the ways I think he enjoys to be cherished as a partner. Hope you enjoy!

I think Baldwin prefers three out of the five love language types: Quality time, words of affirmation and physical touches. Let me explain why:

Quality time: Baldwin definitely enjoys to spend some alone time with his significant other. It doesn't matter if you sit together after a long day and you listen to him talking about the political situation in the kingdom, you two sitting comfortably next to each other while you both read a book, or even meet up to eat dinner together: this is his favorite time of the day. Spending time with you,getting to know you is THE most important thing for Baldwin. For most of his life, he usually spend the evenings either alone or with work but ever since you came into his life, he looks forward to each end of a day when he can finally join you and just cherish your company. I really think due to the leprosy and the limits of physical love that comes with it, Baldwin falls in love with a mind,not looks. So if you talk to him about philosophy,history or some good stories of French knights,he will absolutely fall for you. He really needs this time to make sure that he stays grounded, to remember he found a home in you.

Words of affirmation: While Baldwin definitely stands his ground in political discussions and acts as a remarkable ruler on the outside (and the inside!), I think he also has a very vulnerable side to him. How could he not? Carrying the future of the whole kingdom on his shoulders while suffering from an incurable disease that may or may not be connected to the wrath of God? Baldwin definitely has his moments when he is sure that he can't continue like this. Shallow moments when the anger he feels about this situation does seem to get to his head. He usually spends these moments alone in his private chambers because he doesn't want to show anyone how he much the world hurts sometimes, but after some time, he would definitely let the mask down (haha) in front of you. It may take a while for him to be really comfortable to show anyone how he truly feels but as soon as he accepts you as his safe place, he WILL let his guard down. You accepting this side of him, listening to him rambling, drying his tears feels like heaven on earth to him. He loves to hear words of support from you, how he is a good king and how proud you are of him. But sometimes it's enough for him to just listen to your breath while he lays on your chest and accept his tears.

Physical touch: Listen to me, this man is touch - starved for what seems like forever. Every day of his life consists of people avoiding his presence, avoiding his touch, fearing him. And he isn't even angry about this,how could he? They fear the leprosy and he completely understands this. He himself still can't believe sometimes that God brought this upon him and the way this illness is destroying every part of his body is utterly disturbing. Yes, sometimes he feels like a rotten corpse that somehow still clings to life. He would never EXPECT anyone to willingly touch him, although he silently hopes that he will feel physical love again...somewhen. So when you softly touch his hand while you both play chess, he is sure that he can hear the blood rushing through his veins. His heart is beating faster than ever and although he can't exactly FEEL you, seeing someone closing the physical gap is enough for butterflies to fly in his stomach. The thought alone that you don't FEAR him, that you don't think him ugly or nasty but,on the contrary, long for his touch may be the best feeling for him. So every time you draw him in for a soft hug, kiss his mask or lay your hand in his, he feels like the luckiest man on earth. He will always make sure that he and your shared physical touches aren't a danger to you tho; the last thing he wants for you is to share this unholy illness with him.

[fateandloveentwined]

wuxia and confucianism

Hey. Thought I'd answer the wuxia-confucian question very briefly. I did suggest wuxia being closely knitted to confucianism, but I do understand the other perspective of wuxia being anti-confucian. Quick answer only because I've got little time right now -- might add on to it later!!

confucianism

First the central themes of confucianism:

常 (cháng): Virtues of compassion and courtesy. 仁 (rén)、义 (yì)、礼 (lǐ)、智 (zhì)、信 (xìn)、忠 (zhōng)、孝 (xiào)、悌 (tì) (there are more). These in order in crude translation mean compassion, righteousness, courtesy, wisdom, integrity, loyalty, filial piety, and respect to one's older siblings. These are the main ideas Confucius, the founder of Confucianism, wished to spread through his philosophy.

纲 (gāng): Order. This is about the relationships between people, the filial piety of child to their parents, the relationship between significant others, between friends and teachers, and expanding outwards in the sphere of influence in our circle of life, the patriotism and loyalty of a liege to his lord.

Understand that Confucius came up with these ideas in a time of war. He lived his life traversing different kingdoms and establishing his prominence by getting emperors to trust him as a consultant and employ his school of ideas. As such, these beliefs are very much centred around creating harmony and order in society, and of course entails the respect of commoners and lieges to their lords (because why else would kings employ his beliefs over other schools of philosophy if not so?).

wuxia

Moving on to the wuxia genre, the 侠 (xiá) in wuxia emphasises righteousness. xia, as people, are itinerants and rebels in the fictitious pugilistic society who tire of the power of the aristocracy and seek to use their own, often unlawful ways, to help others through 锄强扶弱 (chú qiáng fú ruò) -- helping the needy and going against the strong (the morals are debatable but that's me trying to sum up wuxia in 5 minutes off the top of my head rip).

conclusions

So I guess that's enough information for you to form your own conclusions, and here's what I think, at the very least.

Against Confucianism -- Subverting the power pyramid. Many of the heroes/xia's in wuxia are lawless rebels. They aren't good, upstanding citizens of the society. Hell, xia was first popularised from 游侠列传 (yóu xiá liè zhuàn) in the Han dynasty records, talking about how a "xia" went against the officials and helped the commoners in the name of righteousness. This goes against the confucian beliefs of respecting your lord and serving the kingdom.* That's why I can understand why some would consider wuxia going against confucianism.

Align with Confucianism -- Righteousness. Ultimately, however, wuxia is about righteousness and nobility and honour, defined by society and commoners and not by royal blood. These values of etiquette, decorum, and nobility were long ingrained in the hearts of all these chinese characters, from when the courtesy and etiquette rules were defined in the Zhou dynasty, and afterwards, from the Han dynasty on, when emperors heavily employed Confucian beliefs in education and throughout society because it helps in rebuilding a harmonious society.

Confucianism is about compassion and righteousness, the staples permeating and defining chinese culture in the last two thousand years, and it is these values that serve as the central impetus of the xia and wuxia genres. People are born into these values; as such they fight against the injustice they see, and thus engenders the lost xia's of every dynasty.

*And well, even Confucius wasn't that dead set on fealty to lords. Confucian highly venerated loyalty, but when the court is corrupt, they acknowledge insurgence over the mindless following of an emperor. This is a story for another day, one I would have to back up with more quotes and citations, but I hope this answered your questions, or even better, let you form some conclusions of your own :)

Confucian philosophy is only one aspect that has correlations/influences over the "xia" genre, there are many other interesting things to say about Taoism and Buddhism as well (e.g. Jin Yong's wuxia classics have quite a bit of Buddhist values in the characters owing to author preferences), it's definitely worth looking up on these things if you're interested!

initially reblogged under the original meta post on wuxia, xianxia, and cultivation differences, but i realised it was too long and would bury the reply, so please don't mind me opening a new post for this again.

feel free to ask and discuss!!

[flowerandblood]

Stay and love, leave and die

Halloween Request Oneshots Series

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Strong! • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, noncon, virginity loss, smut, angst, choking, violence, threats, kidnapping, obsession ]

[ description: After the death of her grandfather, the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Harwin Strong travels to Storm's End to remind Borros Baratheon of his fathers oath to her mother he had made years ago. There she meets her uncle, whom she has not seen since a certain terrible event that took place between him and her brother. Her uncle decides to take his payment for what happened to him. Aggressive, obsessive, very dark! Aemond.]

This oneshot is inspired by anon request and is created with Halloween in mind, so unlike what I usually write, these fisc will be very dark and uncomfortable. Keep this in mind before you start reading.

Today marks one year since Ewan Mitchell played the role of Aemond Targaryen. I want to celebrate with this messed up Halloween oneshot! Love you my Aemond girlies 🎃🎃🎃

Alternative Universe Series: The Fall from the Heavens

*English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy!*

My others works: Masterlist

____

She didn't remember much about the night her uncle lost his eye; at the time she was too young to understand what had really happened. When she came down into the great hall in only her nightgown and saw the maester bending over her uncle she squealed loudly, covering her mouth with her hand, terrified and distraught, bursting into tears.

She and Aemond were betrothed through the King's decision.

Her grandfather believed that a union between them would ensure that the kingdom would not fall apart after his death.

Her uncle did not speak to her much before their betrothal because she was a girl and her her feminine concerns did not arouse his interest. However, sometimes when she met him in the library, he would read aloud to her and she would listen to him with interest.

They would then exchange thoughts about their lineage, and even though it was purely childish, naive musings, they both felt like adults then.

She was really fond of him.

He was calm, polite and didn't mock her like Jace and Aegon, who said that when she frowned her eyebrows and pressed her lips together she looked like a hamster.

It turned out that their grandfather's decision, instead of confusing and intimidating them, brought them closer together. Her uncle was a man who understood perfectly what duty was and considered it his task and responsibility to prove himself as a husband according to his father's will.

He began to introduce her to his world full of weapons and trainings filled with effort, his beloved books on philosophy and history.

She knew that it gave him great satisfaction when she borrowed thick volumes from his private collection, which his mother had presented to him, pleased that she was able to discuss with him more and more boldly and confidently on subjects that interested him.

He embarrassed her when one day he asked her hesitantly if she could spend the night by his side. From what she understood he did not sleep well, although he did not want to say for whatever reason. He found that her presence reassured him, and since she was to be his wife, her place was with him.

She couldn't hide the heat and joy that spread through her heart at the thought that he craved to feel her by his side.

From then on, she would sneak out to his chamber at night, slipping under his bedding, falling asleep beside him pressing her forehead against his, holding his hand in hers. He never tried to touch her in an indecent way, never ordered her to expose her body, instead allowing her to place innocent, warm, childlike kisses on his lips whenever she desired.

If it hadn't been for the darkness around them she would have noticed that his cheeks were rosy with shame and contentment, that he was smiling lazily as he lay there with his eyes closed.

From then on, he slept peacefully.

Then, however, her younger brother deprived him of one eye when he dared to tame Vhagar, and her mother, despite promises that she would be able to visit him, allowed it only after a few days, hiding behind the fact that her half-brother should rest. However, when she appeared at the door of his chamber full of hope, Criston Cole sent her away and she never saw him again.

She sent him letters for eight years, one every two months, but he never wrote her back.

When king Viserys died her mother decided that she would fly to Storm's End to remind Lord Baratheon of his fathers oath, while Jace was to fly to Winterfell and Luke to the Eyrie.

All things considered, however, she did not foresee one thing.

Vhagar.

When she saw her in the middle of the storm, raising her head towards her like a great moving mountain, she felt fear.

She had not seen him since that day.

She did not fly to King's Landing when Luke fought for his rights to Driftmark because her mother and the Queen thought it would only make things worse, and her uncle did not want to see her.

For a moment she hesitated in spirit, standing in the rain, whether to turn back, terrified at the thought that he was there. She recognised, however, that her mother had entrusted her with this mission believing that she would fulfil the task and she had to fight for her rights.

Therefore, she gathered her courage and approached the guards, informing them of who she was. They led her into a large circular throne room, lit up once in a while by an intense flash of lightning and the torches all around her.

That's when she saw him.

He stood in a leather cloak with sword and dagger at his side, speaking to one of Lord Baratheon's daughters, but when he heard the guards announce who had arrived he looked towards her, turning on his heel, holding his hands entwined behind his back.

His lips twitched in a mocking, menacing grin that sent shivers through her, his pupil narrowed like those of a cat that had just seen a mouse.

"My Lady Strong." He said teasingly, coldly, lightly, and she swallowed loudly, recognising that she had not come all this way to tease.

She was shivering with cold and fear and wanted to convey what she had to say as quickly as possible.

"Queen Rhaenyra wishes to remind you of the oath your father, Lord Baratheon, made to her years ago." She said softly and clearly, looking up at the distressed lord sitting before her on the stone throne.

"Prince Aemond has offered to take one of my daughters as his wife. Which of my daughters will one of your brothers marry to win my favour?" He asked her in a dry, raised voice, frustrated by her presence and what she was demanding of him.

She swallowed loudly, looking at her uncle in shock, seeing him watching her with satisfaction, his chin raised in a gesture of victory, the corner of his mouth still twitching in a smile.

He was proud of himself.

"Forgive me, my Lord, both my brothers who are of the proper age for marriage are already betrothed." She muttered, and Lord Baratheon laughed aloud, spreading his arms to his sides.

"So you come with empty hands. Go home, pup. Tell your mother she won't summon me when she wishes like some dog." He growled.

She swallowed the insult with difficulty, nodding, feeling her head humming, her heart pounding like mad, her uncle's gaze piercing her to the core.

"I will pass on your words to the Queen, my Lord." She said, forcing herself to be calm and bowed, turning away tense and walking out quickly, wanting to be back in Dragonstone as soon as possible.

She stepped out into the courtyard into the intense rain pouring down from the sky, loud thunder all around her, her whole body trembling from fear.

"Wait, my Lady Strong." She heard a cold, mocking voice behind her and squealed softly as she felt someone's strong, large hand clench painfully tight on her arm.

"Won't you greet your uncle? Don't you want to see at last my memento after meeting your brother?" He hissed, pulling his eye patch from his face with his free hand in one sharp, firm, agressive motion.

She drew in a loud breath when she saw polished sapphire shining ominously in his eye socket.

She stared at the sight simultaneously horrified and enthralled, there was something in his face, in his gaze, in the way he clenched his jaw, that she was unable to look away from him.

"− please −" She mumbled, trying to pull herself out of his arms, but he embraced her, pressing her close. She put her hands on his rain-wet leather coat and tried to push him away, but he only chuckled lowly at her helpless efforts, locking her in his grasp.

"− I see you've changed too − you even look like a woman now − maybe I should take you away and enjoy you after so many years of separation − didn't you miss me? −" He asked in a humiliating, sweet, mocking voice, leaning over her like a child so as to look into her frightened eyes, in which tears of terror had gathered.

She was afraid of the way he looked at her.

"− please, uncle, I just want to go home −" She whispered pleadingly and took his cold face in her hands, wanting to alleviate the situation somehow, to give it some affectionate gesture that would help him calm down.

Something changed in his gaze, he shuddered and licked his lower lip, looking at her with his head tilted, his grip not easing one bit, their hair, faces and clothes wet from the intense rain.

"− no −" He hissed and grabbed her in half, throwing her over his shoulder, she began to squeal and scream, slapping his back with her hands, her dragoness writhed ominously at the sight, ready to breathe fire.

He summoned Vhagar, who rose suddenly on her paws, the ground shook beneath her and her little dragoness scowled in fear, as terrified as she was.

"− please, don't hurt her! −" She cried to him and stopped struggling, knowing that Vhagar's teeth clamped down on her dragoness would tear her apart. "− please, I'll fly with you, I will do anything −"

"− hm −" He murmured under his breath, placing her on the ground right next to the ropes hanging from his saddle. He looked at her with an indifferent, cool gaze, his lips pressed into a thin line. "− up −"

She cried all the way, snuggling into the front of his saddle, feeling his body clinging to hers behind her, his face pressed against her neck.

"− I will make you my mistress − you will bear me bastards after I marry any of that fool's daughters − bastards are perfect for bearing other bastards, aren't they? −" He whispered in her ear, placing wet, sticky kisses on the skin of her neck, and she tried with difficulty to catch her breath, almost choking from her sobs.

She prayed for her mother to save her.

He dragged her by her arm, holding her painfully tight, towards his chamber, heedless of the surprised stares of the guards.

It was the middle of the night and he had commanded that no one was to disturb them.

He pushed her into his chambers and she fell to the stone floor, panting heavily, shaking all over, feeling like she was about to vomit from fear, tears and rain drops running down her cheeks. She could hear him breathing loudly with excitement and exertion, pulling off his coat, tossing it disorderly on the floor.

She was breathing hard, looking at him in horror, wondering what she was supposed to do, how she was supposed to fight him.

Suddenly, this one thought, this one attempt, seeing him begin to walk towards her with a menacing, final step that said it all came out of her mouth.

"I've written letters to you. For eight years, every two months. You never wrote back to any of them. Why?" She asked in a trembling, broken voice, feeling how tight her throat was with fear, how much her hands were quivering.

He stopped in mid-step, furrowing his brow, his face impassive, tense, cold.

"Liar." He hissed as he knelt over her, grabbing her by her neck, pressing her to the ground in a one, brutal motion, his free hand quickly found the dagger hidden under her cloak and tossed it aside with a loud clang of steel.

She figured that the more she resisted, the more pain he would cause her.

"I'm not lying. Ask your grandfather. I suspect he didn't even pass them on to you, did he?" She mumbled with difficulty, his fingers clenching on her neck so tightly that she had trouble breathing.

However, she noticed a kind of hesitation and uncertainty on his face, his nostrils quivering in a ragged breath.

"And what did you write in them, my Lady Strong?" He asked teasingly, his free hand sliding down to the tying of his breeches, his wide-eyed gaze directed at her, mad, implacable, cruel.

She licked her lips, feeling his fingers cold and wet from the rain clenching on her hot skin, tried not to think about the sound of the material slipping away, only what she had wanted to say to him for years.

"That I was too young to understand what happened then. That it wasn't until years later that I realised you had been deprived of more than an eye that night. That I can't sleep. That something in me died that day." She whispered with difficulty, tears of grief, fear and horror running down the sides of her face onto the stone floor he pressed her against.

She saw that he had stopped in mid-motion, breathing loudly, his lips pressed together, as if he was thinking hard about something.

"I will not give you back to your mother-whore. I will keep you as my payment for the harm she has done to me." He said coolly, furrowing his brow, looking at her as if he was explaining to her that it was the only reasonable thing to do.

Her heart pounded like crazy as she thought what she was doing was working.

That it wasn't rape per se that was his goal, but the appropriation of something precious that belonged to her mother, so that he could have a sense of atonement.

She nodded, trying to calm herself, wanting him to remain calm too.

"Very well." She whispered quietly, something in his face changed, a sort of surprise passed across his eye. He let out a loud sigh, as if he expected that only when he took her by force would she agree.

"For years I have suffered with the thought of that day. I will compensate you as best I can." She mumbled softly, a final, solitary tear running down her face.

She tried with all her might to think of that boy she loved so dearly and not the monstrous man who had just looked at her.

"Hm." He hummed again, letting her go, rising from his lap, his watchful gaze directed straight at her.

She grabbed her neck, drawing in air loudly, turning onto her stomach, quivering all over.

She heard the clang of steel and the sound of a loud filling. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, breathing hard, and noticed that he had poured himself some wine.

He moved slowly towards the chair opposite her and sat down with a loud creak of wood, arranging himself comfortably, crossing his legs.

"I await my compensation." He said lightly, as if amused, taking a loud sip from his cup, his healthy eye staring at her wide-eyed with a sharp, expectant gaze, his lips stretched in a lazy, dangerous grin.

She swallowed loudly, standing up slowly, feeling her legs refuse to obey her, thinking strenuously what she should do.

"No man would want me for a wife after this." She sobbed out with difficulty, looking at him horrified, and he chuckled under his breath, cocking his head to the side.

"If you please me enough, I will take you as my wife in the tradition of Old Valyria, and our children will be my official heirs." He said dryly, and she felt her heart begin to pound like mad, she shook her head as if she did not believe what he was saying.

"− your grandfather − your future wife − they would never −"

"− I don't give a shit about them − only my word counts in this matter − do you understand? −" He asked loudly, looking up at her from below, tapping his fingers on the armrest at his last word. She pressed her lips together, looking at him pleadingly.

"− we both know you won't marry me − you despise me − I −"

"I will be merciful and spare you from giving birth to my bastards. I will either marry you or kill you, depending on how much I like what you do now." He said softly, something like a gleam in his eye, content with this insightful thought, his cup reached his lips again as he took a greedy sip from it.

She clenched her hands into fists, knowing what he desired, knowing that if she didn't give it to him, he would take it anyway, violently and aggressively, and then just cut her throat.

She thought with despair that if she could spare herself even a little pain, she would.

He swallowed loudly, looking at her watchfully as she approached him with a slow, unhurried step, wordlessly sitting on his lap, her hair still wet from the rain, partly pinned back in a bun, partly lowered loosely down her back.

She raised her trembling hands to the buckles of her cloak, undoing them with a slow movement, his gaze fixed on her fingers. He lifted his gaze to her face, drinking quickly the remnant of wine he had in his goblet, looking greedily after a moment at her drenched gown, through which material he could see almost everything.

She felt something in his breeches pulse hard beneath her, and then again and again, becoming harder and harder.

"I don't know what to do, uncle." She whispered quietly, begging him in a way to end her humiliation, to just show her what he wanted and leave her alone.

He looked at her suddenly, humming again in his low, thoughtful, throaty tone, his hand slipping beneath the material of her underskirt, touching shamelessly her naked thigh, finally digging his fingertips into the soft skin of her hip, pressing her closer to him, forcing her to rub againt what was beneath her with slow back and forth movements.

She saw him part his lips, his other hand quickly set the cup down on the small table standing next to them and swiftly joined his first hand, also tightening on her hip. She felt the rocking movements of her hips tease something between her thighs, tickling her at the same time and making her shiver.

"Spread my breeches to the sides." He commanded in a hoarse, trembling voice looking at her expectantly, licking his lower lip in an involuntary, quick motion.

She did as he instructed and suddenly felt something hard and throbbing press against her naked body, she drew in the air loudly guessing what it was. She felt him take his manhood in his hand in a confident movement.

"Lift up and slide it inside you." He said coolly, but the tone of his voice betrayed some kind of excitement, his healthy eye open wide.

She swallowed loudly, resting her hands on his shoulders for balance, breathing loudly, trying not to think about how scared she was, how much she wanted to go home, his sapphire eye gleamed dangerously in the dark.

She settled against him and felt the fat head of his length push against her folds, sliding in just a little, stretching her slit painfully to all sides. She squeezed her eyes shut, letting out a quiet sigh of discomfort, a throaty groan escaping his lips.

"− fuck − keep going −" He exhaled, not moving however, his hand holding his manhood in such a position that it stood perpendicular to her body.

She bit her lips, gasping with effort as she tried to fit him deeper inside her, another loud, involuntary groan escaped his lips, he threw his head back, clenching his healthy eye, clasping his hand on her bare buttocks. He opened it suddenly and looked at her, breathing loudly through his mouth.

One brutal, sudden thrust of his hips startled her and tore something inside her, she cried out and convulsed in pain shaking all over, his large hands stroking her thighs reassuringly.

He knew he had just taken her maidenhood.

"− shhh − shhh −" He hushed her, rocking inside her with slow, steady rhythm of his hips, looking at her with misty eyes full of something she didn't understand, a single tear of horror and humiliation ran down her cheek.

She drew in a loud breath as he lifted his one hand to her face, his thumb rubbing the wet stain from her cheek, and then his fingers tightened on the nape of her neck, drawing her closer, snuggling her face into the hollow of his neck.

Stunned and helpless, she clenched her hands on the material of his leather tunic, seeking refuge in her tormentor, wishing only that he would not cause her any more pain.

"− hush − it's all right − look how easy it's sliding in now −" He whispered quietly into her ear, his length slipping softly all the way into her only to slide out almost completely, teasing something inside her. His movements began to become increasingly slippery, his thighs slapping against her buttocks with a quiet, sticky click.

"− just like that − just a little longer −" He cooed, stroking her wet hair, placing almost tender kisses on her temple, panting along with her with each of his movements, her body bouncing slightly with each of his thrusts.

She snuggled into him tighter, just wanting to hide, to escape, his neck smelling of smoke, sweat, rain. She closed her eyes, trying to relax, and he groaned loudly feeling her body stop resisting him, his lips roaming over her wet cheek, placing moist, sticky kisses on it.

"− I know − I know − 'm close −" He whispered with some kind of care from which a shudder went through her, the thought that when he did this she might soon expect his child.

She squeezed her eyes shut at the thought feeling the tears burning under her eyelids again, sobbing quietly, embracing him tightly, his thrusts getting faster and louder, slamming his swollen, fat cock into her again and again, both of them began to moan, his one hand clenched in her hair, the other squeezed her hip.

"− how could you leave me − I was waiting for you then − ah − all fucking night − but it doesn't matter − you're mine now − g-gods − fuck! −" He exhaled loudly, panting heavily along with her, his words making her feel her core throbbing around him, sucking him inside, some warm liquid spilling inside her and suddenly it was all over.

They sat cuddled together like that for long minutes, their breaths calming, not speaking or moving, just embracing each other, his face nestled into her hair, his nose pressed against her cheek.

"From now on everything will be as it should be, wife."

_____

Alternative Universe Series: The Fall from the Heavens

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Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess

[pocketseizure]

The Two Kings in Tears of the Kingdom

Tears of the Kingdom unearths the roots of Calamity Ganon in an ancient conflict between Rauru, the first king of Hyrule, and Ganondorf, a rival king who attempted to usurp him. In many ways, Rauru is characterized as a good king. He is noble, kind, and self-sacrificing, and he acts for the long-term benefit of the various groups of people living in Hyrule. In contrast to Rauru, the antagonist Ganondorf is an evil king who started a war because of his pride, ego, and greed.

Rauru and Ganondorf represent different styles of authority, both of which are grounded in Japanese fantasies of cultural identity. I’d argue that, in the end, neither king is fit to rule present-day Hyrule, which is why it’s appropriate that the game ends without any call to rebuild Hyrule Castle or the centralized government it symbolizes.

Rauru represents a golden age in Japanese culture when many arts now seen as “traditional” originated. This golden age is closely tied to Nintendo’s home city of Kyoto, which is associated with the culture of the imperial court before it moved to Tokyo in 1868. Because Tears of the Kingdom is a fantasy, the visual metaphors of Rauru’s character design are mixed, but his connection to a bygone golden age is tied to two symbols: the magatama jewels referred to as “secret stones,” and the kare-sansui dry landscape gardens of the Shrines of Light and the Temple of Time.   

The “secret stones” that Rauru gives to the six sages have the distinctive comma shape of a magatama jewel, one of the three sacred symbols of Shinto. These three symbols are as follows: a mirror represents clarity of heart, a sword represents the power to protect the weak, and a jewel represents the materiality of divine blessings. These three objects also serve as the regalia of the Japanese emperor, whose role was historically to perform ritual prayers and thereby serve as a symbolic bridge between the world of humans and the world of gods.

There is nothing sacrosanct about magatama jewels; at various street fairs and tourist areas throughout Japan, you can buy inexpensive polished quartz and jade magatama to attach to phone charms or friendship bracelets. As a result of its relative ubiquity, this particular shape of gem has both a historical and a pop culture association with being a magical stone bestowed by the gods on special and worthy individuals such as, most famously, the first Japanese emperor.

Along with his magatama “secret stones,” Rauru is associated with kare-sansui dry landscape gardens of the old imperial capital. Note, for instance, the front courtyard of the Temple of Time that Link visits at the beginning of the game:

The visual motif of raked white gravel punctuated by standing rocks also appears in various permutations within the Shrines of Light established by Rauru and Sonia. To give an example, this is what the player will see if they circle back behind the entrance of the “Rauru’s Blessing” shrines:

This style of dry landscape garden is frequently referred to as a “Zen garden” because of its association with large Buddhist temples in and around Kyoto. The most famous example of this style can be found at Ryōanji, in northwest Kyoto:

The philosophy of these gardens meshes well with the philosophy behind the Zelda series, which Shigeru Miyamoto has described as his attempt to create a tsuboniwa miniature garden for the player to explore. In the same way, dry landscape gardens represent a larger landscape portrayed on a much smaller scale. The rocks in the gravel are meant to represent islands on the ocean, or perhaps mountaintops rising above the clouds. Another common interpretation of these gardens – and one especially pertinent to Tears of the Kingdom – is that the rocks are the dorsal spines of a dragon swimming through the sky.   

Although dry landscape gardens have strong ties to Buddhist thought, they were primarily created by wealthy lords residing in Kyoto during the fifteenth century. This was a politically unstable era, and these lords needed to make a show of their wealth and cultural legitimacy. Unlike in China, where Chan Buddhism was largely anti-establishment, Zen Buddhism was the domain of the wealthy educated elite in Japan. Many of the rocks used in Zen-style gardens were imported from China and Korea at great expense, and lords competed to secure the services of celebrity landscape designers. Even today, the late medieval culture represented by dry landscape gardens is associated with the prestige of Japan’s former imperial capital of Kyoto.

Rauru is therefore associated with nobility and a certain air of sophistication. In the original Japanese script, he is unflaggingly polite and addresses everyone – Zelda, Ganondorf, and Link alike – with the sort of “clean” language associated with people of high social standing. To put it simply, Rauru is a perfect gentleman. He is the personification of the aristocratic virtues of the “traditional Japan” of the late fifteenth century, during which the wealthy filled the capital city with gardens while countless wars ravaged the countryside.    

In contrast, Ganondorf is a personification of the warrior culture of eastern Japan, especially as it was exemplified by the warlords who competed for territory outside the capital before the establishment of the Tokugawa shogunate at the beginning of the seventeenth century.

Oda Nobunaga was the most notorious of these warlords. He was infamous for being aggressive but effective, and his military prowess and ruthless tactics have been memorialized in a wealth of stories whose lineage stretches to the video games of the present day. I believe that Nobunaga (or, at least, a commonly fictionalized version of him) served as a model for Ganondorf, who seeks to take advantage of the instability of the newly established kingdom of Hyrule in order to expand his own territory.

Like Rauru, Ganondorf’s character design contains mixed visual metaphors, but I think it’s fair to say that his topknot and costume are meant to evoke a samurai who has thrown off the kimono sleeve covering his sword arm as an indication of his readiness for battle. This is a style still worn by practitioners of Japanese fencing and archery, which are common extracurricular activities in many high schools. Appropriately, Ganondorf fights with a tachi katana, a naginata spear, and the body-length longbow used in kyūdō archery – all weapons associated with the martial arts of Japan’s medieval military elite.

As if to cement his connection to Nobunaga, Ganondorf speaks in period-drama “samurai Japanese” that demonstrates neither the elegance nor the poetry of his incarnations in previous games. He seems to lack both regret and awareness of the consequences of his actions, and he is concerned primarily with hierarchy, conquest, and the thrill of battle.  

As was arguably the case for Nobunaga himself, there is no endgame for Ganondorf, only scorched earth. Ganondorf has absolute faith in his own power, and he views other people only as subordinates or enemies. According to his value system, there is no merit in compromise; he simply takes it for granted that he will win.

It makes sense that the aggressively bloodthirsty Ganondorf is a villain, but it’s important to understand that Rauru is not a hero. With all his magic and culture and imperial splendor, Rauru failed to understand that the system of power he created could easily be turned against him. A nation politically defined by a central authority whose rule is justified through military conquest and the cultural chauvinism of “ancient tradition” is not sustainable, and the legacy of such a kingdom can only be tears.

This is why Hyrule Castle remains in ruins at the end of Tears of the Kingdom, and this is why the game’s central hub is a research station populated with people from all over the world. This is why Zelda doesn’t attempt to re-establish Hyrule as a kingdom, and this is why it’s so important to her to understand the reality behind the myth of the nation’s history. This is also why the grand mythology of Hyrule’s origin is far less important to the player’s experience of the game than individual acts of community building. The highlights of Tears of the Kingdom are Link’s work in facilitating a local election in Hateno, helping Lurelin recover from a disaster, and volunteering in towns facing environmental issues such as water pollution and climate change.

Both Rauru and Ganondorf are compelling in their own ways, but it’s thematically satisfying that both characters are gone at the end of the game. When Zelda meets with the regional leaders of Hyrule during the closing cutscene, they promise each other that they will work together to ensure a lasting peace that neither of the two kings made possible. The legacy of the past still affects Hyrule, but Tears of the Kingdom suggests that it’s the duty of the younger generation to understand where this legacy came from in order to avoid the mistakes of their ancestors and move forward in a more hopeful direction.

[lightandfellowship]

I want to point out some absolutely ingenious symbolism from KH3's ending.

The chess piece in the center of the frame is one of Eraqus' "white" pieces, specifically the one that represents Sora. This piece has silver detailing on it, and in fact the crown perched at the top of it is silver as well.

However, the crown isn't completely flat, it has a raised edge that travels right through the center of it, meaning that when the light hits it just right, one side ends up darker than the other. As you would expect, the dark side is facing Xehanort's side of the board, and the light side is facing Eraqus' side of the board.

However, when Xehanort flicks the chess piece and talks about how Eraqus is the one who will be chosen to defend the world, not Xehanort, the chess piece shifts slightly, just enough to make the light hit it differently as it faces Eraqus more. Now the crown is mostly lit up.

So what does this mean? Here's my interpretation: though this chess piece is normally supposed to represent Sora, in this particular instance it more broadly represents something like "the person who's worthy of Kingdom Hearts/the X-blade", "the person who's worthy of protecting the world", or perhaps even "the person who's the true Child of Destiny". (That's why Xehanort talks about somebody else being more deserving of the title/being chosen over him as the defender of the world.) (Also recall that Xehanort's Keyblade Armor in KHDR is adorned with the very same crown that's on Sora's chess piece, so Xehanort is associated with the symbol, too!)

The chess piece's initial position paints it as being equal parts dark and light, which matches Xehanort's philosophy of balance. When the chess piece shifts positions, it becomes more light than dark (though crucially, the left side is still ever-so-slightly darker than the right) and this represents Sora, the hero of light.

Alternatively, the dark/light split of the crown and the chess piece directly facing the camera with no biases toward either side of the board represents how it's initially unclear who the Child of Destiny is (a "hero" of darkness such as Xehanort, or a hero of light such as Sora?), and Xehanort being the one to push the chess piece towards Eraqus and the light while talking about not being a "chosen" one means that he realizes he isn't the Child of Destiny after all, and that Sora is.

Therefore this is all symbolic of Xehanort handing over the X-blade to Sora in the scene that directly follows this flashback, and subtly explains to us Xehanort's motivations for giving Sora the X-blade.