#realism will be our doom

[plumbob-sim]

So glad Project rene/sims5 isnt going in the "alpha" and realistic direction.... pls just look at Life by You </3

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Can you elaborate on the Our Flag Means Death thing? If you want

Yeah! So I get that realism isn't the be-all end-all of fiction, but. I really wish Taika Waititi et al. had done even 30 seconds of research on 18th century American history before they wrote an extended joke about the protagonist having a "man for sale" in episode 3. Yes, it's a white man being sold, but a guy still gets led to a market by a rope around his neck and then auctioned off... and this is played for laughs. I don't know a ton of Caribbean history, but even I know that no one in Nassau in 1717 would have been confused by the idea of selling a human being, the way they are on OFMD.

That was all before I found out that the real Stede Bonnet was a known enslaver and possible rapist. I think his story could be a horror comedy about a horrible person being horrible (see: What We Do in the Shadows) but the Stede we see on OFMD spouts progressive pop-psych slogans and is allegedly here to teach us radical self-love. Not a great combination.

Also, I'm one of the people who found OFMD unwatchable partially because I'd seen Black Sails. Black Sails came out 8 years before, features a lot of the same historical figures and Treasure Island characters, and has more queer rep than OFMD. But Black Sails's main plot is about a doomed-yet-glorious fight to end slavery in the Americas in the 1700s, and it is unflinchingly honest in its depictions of racism, imperialism, and homophobia. So it's jarring and deeply unfunny to see some of that same material cleaned up (the polyamorous main character is now a monogamous gay man; the kill-or-be-enslaved stakes are now potted plant thefts) or else swept under the rug (acknowledging slavery and homophobia would ruin the fun! let's pretend they don't exist!) for a different show that gets lauded as "groundbreaking" for its milquetoast repackaging of queerness.

[raplinesmoon]

The House The Sea Built (KNJ x F!Reader)

Inspired by the Korean film Il Mare, and Namjoon’s album Indigo

pairing: rapper!namjoon x artist!reader

genres/aus/rating: strangers to lovers, angst, smut, magical realism au, time travel au, 18+

summary: It was meant to be a simple, yet practical request - leaving behind the seaside cottage meant you had to find a way for your mail to get back to you. But the response you receive from the previous resident, a man named Namjoon, dated two years in the past, is anything but simple. With extraordinary circumstances allowing you to write to each other, your tired souls find solace in your shared loneliness, and friendship blossoms. But what happens when that isn’t enough? When the ability to change life before and the future ahead becomes too tempting to resist? Will you and Namjoon find the fulfillment you crave, or will the aftermath leave you even lonelier than before?

warnings: lots of pov switches, heartbreak, references to mental health, drinking, swearing, lots of little coincidences, mentions of breakups, lots of Indigo references, Namjoon gets angry, minor accident and injury, Taehyung cameo, character d*ath, happy ending!, smut warnings: masturbation (m and f), erotic letters, squirting

word count: 13.8k

a/n: It’s finally here. This literally has to be one of the most intense labors of love I’ve undertaken, but I love Kim Namjoon, and Indigo, and this is the result of that love. I hope this fic can help you believe in the magic that exists in our mundane little world, and that it can help some of your loneliness go away, or just be understood, much like Indigo did for us when it came out. I hope you enjoy!

Present Day, 2022

What was it about saying goodbye that made it so hard? People always reminded you that you’d have the memories to hold onto, cherished moments engraved in the delicate fabric of your mind. Still, they seemed so fleeting, easily doomed to fade into oblivion as their delicate threads tore off and disappeared into the fabric of your mind.

Lost in your thoughts, you hardly notice the slip of your pen across the cardstock, leaving a garish ink stain amongst the neat print. Sighing, you decide it’s best to end your letter here, hoping the next recipient wouldn’t mind the evidence of your daydreaming staring them down on the page.

Shivering, you wrap your arms tighter around you, taking in the surrounding sea one last time. While there had been many clear blue days during your time at the seaside cottage over the past year, today was not one of them. Today, the fog was so dense the mist clouded the horizon as far as anyone could see, the only sign of the water being the gentle sound of the waves lapping against the shore. Your toes itched to take one last walk on the feather-light sand and to feel it squish between your toes, but you didn’t want to get your shoes dirty before making it to your new apartment.

A soft meow calls your attention, and you look over to see a pair of curious green eyes studying you from the shadows. Smiling, you slip the postcard into its envelope, reaching for the heavy box of art supplies - the last imprint of yourself remaining in the house, and rising to your feet.

“Alright Bokboki, it’s time to go,” you whisper softly, your boots thudding against the gangplank that kept the house elevated from the rising tide. Handing your box to the movers, you remember to pick up the card, holding it tightly to your chest with one hand, while scooping up Bokboki with the other. The wind whipped around your face, your hair flying in all different directions as you stepped back to take a look at your home. 

Slipping the postcard into the rust-covered mailbox, you hoped the next resident would appreciate the place as much as you did. More importantly, though, you hoped they honour your request in the note - the letter you were expecting was too important to miss. 

Climbing into the taxi with Bokboki, you wave a final goodbye to the cottage, turning your gaze away to await the promise of the new life that lay ahead.

. . . 

Groaning you turn against the scratchy sheets of your new bed, temples throbbing with pain as you’re greeted by the rays of sunlight upon rising. You missed the dense fog of the house by the sea, allowing you to sleep in as long as you wanted. Here, in this lonely box of an apartment, you were a slave to everyone else’s clock, awakened by the unforgiving light that signaled it was time to have another productive day. You cover your face with the blanket, burrowing back into the sheets.

Five more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

. . .

Those five minutes had unexpectedly turned into twenty, and now you were tripping over the boxes you had yet to unpack, slipping and sliding on the cool tile as you struggled to put your heels on and smooth down your hair. First impressions mattered when it came to finding work in your field, and you had to present the polished, sophisticated image that won the hearts (and the pockets) of most gallery owners.

Locking the door behind you, you see the woman from across the hall step into her own apartment as you’re leaving yours.

“How are you today?” you ask with a smile, only to feel the wind from the door slamming shut in your face. Dejected, you make your way down the staircase with your shoulders slumped.

Passing by the mailbox, you wonder if it’s worth taking a look for your letter, but decide against it. It had only been the first day after all. Who knew if Taehyung was even awake right now, halfway across the world?

Shaking your head, you ward off the intrusive thoughts in your mind, knowing that the letter would come, and all your worries would be eased. For now, you had an interview to go to. 

. . . 

The cold glint of the gallery manager’s eyes is all you remember, his booming laugh echoing in your ears, the sound seeming less like the jolly joke he intended it to be when he called your work unrefined, and more like a mockery that made your skin crawl. All you’d wanted to do was curl in on yourself in that moment, your feet itching to run to the corner and collapse. Instead, you’d politely wished him a good day, waiting until you were outside to let the first tears fall.

With your eyes trained on the ground as you walk through the brightly lit streets, you barely take a moment to notice the joyful spirit that permeated the air, couples and families all out for a stroll in the chilly weather, enjoying each others’ company. It only made you feel more alone as you ascended the stairs to your apartment, Bokboki’s soft meows greeting you upon opening the door.

Looking at your phone, you see a missed call from Hyung-seo, your best friend, asking if you wanted to hang out tonight. Slumping onto your couch, you try to figure out the best excuse, when your eyes came across the picture of you in Taehyung in the corner, cheeks red from the cold and arms wrapping each other in a warm embrace. Your fingers tremble over the phone buttons, hesitating but never daring to press call. 

What was it about feeling sad that only made you want to be even alone? Humans were strange in that way.

Giving Bokboki a few scratches between the ears, you change into your pyjamas and brush your teeth. Tomorrow you’d go back to the house and check if the letter from Taehyung had arrived. You needed some kind of sign that things would be better from now on.

2 years ago, 2020

Namjoon looks at the tree with its vibrant leaves hued in red, orange and gold, and a twinge of sadness goes through him. As beautiful as they were, he knew he’d only get to enjoy them for a short while before the wind lifted them up and away, and winter settled in on the coast.

He hadn’t actually been inside yet. The company had dropped off all his things in the cottage, but Namjoon had been too scared to step over the threshold, because that meant accepting this new phase of his life. One where as the world had shut down and gone to sleep, he hoped that people wouldn’t notice how he faded into obscurity, never to be heard from again.

Quite frankly, Namjoon was tired of being heard from. As a performer and a rapper, he was used to thousands of eyes on him every second, whether it was at a concert or even through his pictures on the internet. The mask that he’d chosen to don as his alter ego, RM, had become heavy, the strings threatening to snap and reveal the tired, fragmented soul that lay underneath. He’d chosen to intervene before anyone could see him, the real him. He didn’t want to disappoint them.

Staring out at the sea, the wind ruffles the strands of his hair, and he knows he should get a haircut. But then again, who was gonna see him out here anyway? At most, maybe Yoongi or Hoseok would stop by, or his parents. They were the type of people who wouldn’t care if his hair was a little bedraggled, or if he gained or lost a couple of pounds. They’d love him anyway.

The garish ringtone of his cellphone jolts him awake from his thoughts, and he pulls it out of his pocket to see Hoseok’s name light up the screen, hitting the answer button.

“Namjoon-ah,” Hoseok’s voice rumbles through the screen. “You said you’d call when you got there.”

“Sorry, just unpacking,” Namjoon lied, hoping Hoseok wouldn’t catch on. “The house is nice. Do you know who designed it? It doesn’t seem like it was built by some generic construction company.”

He knows Hoseok is rolling his eyes on the other side of the phone, babbling that it was some architect, but Namjoon’s question had been sincere. He wondered who could have wanted to hide from the world bad enough that they’d design a house on this isolated beach, where the winds were wild and the sun shone rarely, and how someone who he’d never met could have understood his desire to not be found so deeply.

“Thanks for the Kaws figurine by the way,” Namjoon gives out at small smile when thinking of Hoseok’s parting gift. “I’ll find a nice place for it.”

Hoseok’s infectious laugh echoes through the speaker, and Namjoon feels his gut lurch, missing his friend.

“You better send me a picture of what you’ve done with the place, and don’t forget to call, huh? Me and Yoongi-hyung are gonna hold you to it.”

Namjoon remains silent on the other end, staring out at the vast horizon, nothing and no one around for miles.

Hoseok clears his throat on the other end, his voice becoming serious.

“Stay happy, Namjoon-ah, talk to you soon.”

“You too, Hob-ah,” Namjoon finally musters before the line cuts dead, leaving him alone once more. Staring at the open door, his new life waiting for him inside, he rises to his feet, walking towards the house that was now waiting for Namjoon to make it a home.

. . .

The first thing he had to tackle was his massive collection of books, the numerous volumes waiting to be homed on the weathered shelves. He knew they wouldn’t stay tidy for long, with his habit of taking one down every day to read and somehow never putting it back. Staring at the walls, he tries to assess the light filtering in through the window, wondering where he could hang his paintings. 

The entire house was blue, from the well-worn wood to the sunlight reflecting off the sea, casting a cerulean glow over the walls, matching the dark blue jeans he was wearing. Instead of being eerie, it reminded Namjoon of those dioramas of a ship in a bottle. This was now his space, his spot to look upon the world, instead of having the world look at him.

As he hung up the art on the wall, he stared at it, hoping it could look back at him, and offer him the inspiration to create he so desperately craved. Studying the strokes of the Lee Bae piece, the splotches and strokes only served to remind him of the dark abyss his mind had become. 

It seemed silly, the job Namjoon had. Who the fuck cared about him and his silly rhymes when the world outside was falling apart? When lives were changing like they never had before? At least for artists, their works could live on to be admired and reflected on without the pressures of the context it was created. For Namjoon, context was all that mattered - how he dressed, what he said, who he spoke to. Never how he felt.

Turning away from the lone painting hanging on the wall, he feels his temples throb with the beginning of a headache. Unpacking could wait. For now, he craved the fresh sea air, the whole reason he’d moved away from the city in the first place. 

The sand on the beach squished against his feet as he ran, feeling the wind blow through his hair, and Namjoon felt freeer than he had in months. Pausing by the oceanside, he panted, hands on his knees, and drew in his chest, screaming into the great beyond, his voice hoarse and tears streaming down his face.

. . .

Returning to the house, Namjoon paused outside the rust-covered mailbox. He probably should check if there had been any important communication from the label. After all, this break was not completely a break. At the end of it, Namjoon would still be pressured to show that the time off had been worth something. 

Reaching inside, he’s surprised to find an envelope within, feeling heavy cardstock in his hands. Curious, he opens it, finding a generic greeting card. Who could have sent him this? He flips the page open:

Hello there!

I’m the person that lived in this house before you did.

I have a favor to ask.

I’m waiting for a letter, actually.

So if you get anything addressed to me, could you please send it to this address?

Wishing you lots of luck in the new place.

Thank you again.

My best,

____

2022.

P.S. those pawprints by the door? They were there before I moved in. I tried my best to get rid of them, but I couldn’t. I hope you can forgive me.

Turning the letter in his hands, Namjoon is confused. The stamp was dated 2022, but it was only 2020. Whoever sent it had to be playing some kind of practical joke on him. As far as the realtor had explained to him, he was the first to live in the cottage, the architect’s lost labor of love away from the city appealing to his desire to get out of his hectic life. And there were no pawprints anywhere.

He pulls out his phone, ready to search your name on Google, but hesitates at the last minute. He knew what it was like to have his privacy invaded, to live a life under scrutiny in the age of the internet. Your letter seemed well-intentioned and even if you were a stranger, perhaps he could just do this one kind thing for you without expecting anything in return. 

Lost in thought, he almost misses the sound of a car crunching on the gravel outside, looking out the window to see a sleek black vehicle he knew all too well rolling up. Throwing his coat outside, he runs to it, a surprised expression on his face.

“Hyung!” he calls out to the two figures that exit, their expressions taking in the isolated area with nothing but the sea surrounding them. “What are you doing here?”

“So this is where you’re hiding from us,” Yoongi whistles, Hoseok nudging him in the stomach. 

“We brought some of your stuff from the studio,” Hoseok says cheerfully, his heart-shaped smile piercing through the fog.

“Do you want some tea?” Namjoon doesn’t want to invite them in, but feels like he has to.

Yoongi studies him, his dark eyes glimmering, and Namjoon senses something is up. They’d known each other for too long to keep secrets from one another. 

“This came for you,” he holds out a piece of paper. “It’s from Ji-hyeon.”

Namjoon flinches at the mention of his ex’s name, and instantly the walls he’d built up in his mind to keep them out of it crashing down, the bitter end of their relationship causing bile to burn in the back of his throat.

“Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it,” he spits out, and he watches Yoongi glance at him. He knew his hyung blamed Ji-hyeon for everything going south, for Namjoon needing to get away, but it hadn’t been just that. There was more going, more Namjoon wasn’t sure he was ready to share with anyone.

“The house looks great,” Hoseok interrupts the tension. “You’ll have to invite us in some other time. Hopefully you can actually learn to cook and clean up after yourself.”

He puts a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder, beckoning them to go, and Namjoon watches them leave, alone and finally able to breathe again. He hadn’t realized how stifling the presence of other people had become, even those closest to him. He just wanted to be alone.

Namjoon hears a whine from his side, looking over in surprise to see a kitten staring up at him with huge eyes, like it wanted something from him.

“Hey little goyangi,” he chuckles. “Who are you – Hey!” 

The kitten stares up at him for a few moments longer, before running towards the house, knocking over the can of paint by the entrance, Namjoon chasing after it. 

He walks in to see little black pawprints all over the entry, and is immediately reminded of the letter from earlier. 

P.S. those pawprints by the door? They were there before I moved in.

Namjoon runs to his study, tripping over boxes on the way, desperately searching for where he kept his pen and paper. He had to know how you knew about the pawprints, and whether you really were from the future.

Sitting against the wall, he’s unsure how to start - responding to yes your request seemed so trivial, limiting the ability to ask all the questions he wanted answers to. Instead, he decided to take a simpler approach, speaking from his heart:

Dear ____,

I’m fucking lonely…

Present Day, 2022

Curling tighter into your coat, you take in the old cottage, still standing as proudly and as empty as the day you moved in, a lone display piece against the backdrop of the sea. You’d contemplated coming back for a little while now, not having heard from Taehyung or the new resident. Taking matters into your own hands, you’d been surprised to hear that no one new had moved in, lying to the realtor that you’d left something behind. 

Key in hand, you open the door, greeted with the vast space that seemed cold and sad without the warmth of a human being and their possessions to fill it. Things had been rough lately, a few more visits with gallery owners and exhibitions not going the way you’d expected them to, and it made you remember why you loved this place so much.

Here, no one could remind you that you weren’t enough, that you’d have to try again. You were just free to be as you were, the ocean your silent partner. Throwing the sleeping bag onto the floor, you scoop up Bokboki, cuddling him in your lap. The two of you remain silent, watching the sky change and the clouds shift, until night falls and you drift off to sleep.

. . . 

You open your eyes with a start, the hard wood that you’d fallen asleep on causing pain to explode across your back. Turning, you see Bokboki snoozing off right next to you, his tiny body moving up and down with each breath. The first rays of sunlight have begun to break through the window, and you know it’s a sign that the weekend is almost over, and you’ll have to leave soon. 

Stretching, you wrap your sweater tight around yourself, slipping on your shoes to go check on the mail outside. The air is crisp and the fog dense. Slipping your hand inside the mailbox, you’re surprised when you feel an envelope in there, one that hadn’t been present at the start of the weekend. 

Taking it out, you open the envelope to find a plain piece of paper, the messy scrawl of black ink all over the pages. Could someone have responded to the card you’d left? Your eyes scan over the page:

Dear ____,

I’m fucking lonely. Sorry for the abrupt introduction, but I just had to get that off my chest, and as you probably know, there’s no one around for miles. As much as I want to help you, since it seems like you’re waiting for something (or someone?) important, but I think you sent that letter to the wrong address. I’m the very first person who’s lived here. I apologize for not being able to help more, and wish you the best of luck with your search.

Sincerely,

Kim Namjoon

Glancing at the stamp on the right hand corner, you see that it’s dated from 2020, and your eyes widen. Was this some kind of sick prank? Whatever it was, you weren’t going to put up with it. You’d been pushed around and dismissed by too many people in your life to stand for it with some stranger.

Rifling through your bag, you find your small sketchbook and a pen, tearing off a sheet. As much as it pained you to rip what could house a potentially new piece of art, this warranted a response and warranted one now.

Listen,

I don’t know why this letter sent to you, but if you’re playing some kind of joke, can you please just leave it where you found it? Thanks.

___

P.S. you’re not seriously sending me letters from 2020, are you? That has to be a typo. Also, the weather is getting colder outside, please make sure to bundle up.

Stuffing the letter back into the mailbox, you feel tears prick at your eyelids. Why couldn’t anyone ever take you seriously? You weren’t just some doll or plaything to be tossed around and abused. You were a real person, with real feelings, and it seemed like no one ever got that about you. You didn’t know why you’d ended with another well-wish, now this Namjoon guy would just think he could use you again.

Suddenly, you feel a cold splish! on the tip of your nose, looking up to see a soft scatter of snowflakes descend from the sky. You feel Bokboki brush against your leg, and smile, your anger of a moment ago forgotten. The tension in your shoulders eases as you close your eyes and make a silent wish that despite the bumpy start, the incoming snow would treat you kindly, and perhaps all that you deserved would finally come your way.

2 years ago, 2020

Namjoon shivers with his hands in his pockets, standing outside the mailbox once again. You’d sent another letter. He’d seen it on his way out to the nearby small village this morning, his empty fridge taunting him. While his fingers had itched to tear open the envelope, he needed time to sit and process whatever your response would be. 

Opening it, his eyes fall at your cold response, the only thing keeping his frozen tears at bay your request for him to stay warm. Maybe you did have a heart after all. Sighing, he shoves the letter into his pockets along with his hands, breaking into a run as he ventures to escape the frigid winter air.

Shaking the snow from his hair, he strips off his winter clothes, teeth chattering from the cold. He walks down the hallway to the bathroom, stripping the rest of his clothes and filling the tub up with warm water. At the sound of the dripping, his new cat friend comes pattering in. Namjoon had decided to keep the curious creature after much contemplation. Just because he felt lonely, didn’t mean he wanted to be completely alone.

He sighs as he steps into the tub, the water instantly filling him with warmth. Closing his eyes, he reaches for his phone on the bench nearby. His eyebrows furrow when he sees dozens of messages from Yoongi and Hoseok, asking about how he’d settled in. There was another text too - one from the company’s head, asking how the progress on his new album was going.

Namjoon wanted to bang his head against the wall. He’d barely had a break and already, people were demanding things of him again. He wondered when this all became so painful - when the fame began to feel like shackles, when everything began to seem forced. Namjoon swipes on the message, deleting it for good. He wouldn’t let the pressure get to him again. If he wanted to write music, he would. If he wanted to make poetry, he would. If he wanted to throw paint against a canvas, he would. But no one could tell him what to do.

His phone clatters against the bench, Namjoon dropping it in favor of the wineglass that rests by the tub. Taking a sip, he sighs, the hot water restoring life to his body and the alcohol numbing his brain. 

“I do wish me a lovely night,” he chuckles to himself.

Present Day, 2022

Dear ____

Like you predicted, the weather got colder. It even snowed! I’m afraid though, that with the wintertime cheer, I’ve gotten a cold. I don’t know what to make of this – I can’t tell whether you’re a prophet or a fortune teller or just someone who owns a lot of crystals. But somehow all of those are easier to believe than the fact that you’re from the year 2022. 

Best,

Namjoon

Clutching the letter to your chest, you sigh heavily, unsure why you’d decided to keep writing back to the strange man who seemed to live inside the mailbox at the cottage. He seemed less harmless than you thought he was, his words so sincere, you could almost imagine the smile that lit up his face as his messy scrawl danced across the page.

Reaching across your desk for a piece of paper, you dig through your collection of pens, finding your favorite one. You smile as you pen a quick response, refraining from telling him I told you so about the cold weather. It seemed extraordinary to be writing to him. Although you still couldn’t fully wrap your head around the fact that he was from the past, you hadn’t realized how lonely your life had become.

Ever since Taehyung had moved away, you’d only had Hyung-Seo. The life of an artist was lonelier than people realized. There were no glamorous gallery openings or art parties in dimly lit rooms. Many of the other artists you came across were cold and unwelcoming, preferring to stick to their already existing circles, and showing no interest in you or your pieces. Hyung-seo was the only friend you managed to hold on to, but even she had her own life to worry about.

Maybe that’s why it felt so right to be writing to this Namjoon guy. You’d been denying it, but there was a void in your life - you had no one to talk to, no one who would really listen to you. Even Bokboki couldn’t say anything back. But Namjoon listened to you - he wrote to you even when you’d been rude, searching for ways to prolong the conversation. And his words, despite how brief they were, made you feel just a little bit less lonely.

. . . 

2 years ago, 2020

Namjoon guzzles the last of the beer, the rush hitting him while he waits for Hoseok to come out of the convenience store. Pulling his mask up and his hood over his head, he looks down at the ground, hoping no one recognizes him at this hour. He didn’t have the capacity to deal with a fan sighting right now. In fact, he’d been hesitant to agree to Hoseok’s offer of hanging out in the city at all, preferring the peace and solitude he’d come to associate with the beach house.

He had a love-hate relationship with the place, the tall buildings and masses of people in the street only serving to make him feel lonely. For a place full of people, the city was full of sorrow. In the days he’d lived here, Namjoon’s only solace had been bike rides on the river, the briny smell of the water being the impetus that had spurred him to move out to the oceanside in the first place. While he missed it, he didn’t miss the feeling of being a wanderer, not having a place to belong in this vast metropolis. 

Hoseok comes out with his haul of snacks, the two of them ready to head back to his apartment. In the car, Namjoon reaches into his pocket, fingers brushing against the last letter you’d sent, and he has a spark of realization. The address you’d been writing him from was near Hoseok’s place, maybe five or ten minutes away. Maybe he could finally meet you, the mysterious woman who occupied most of his thoughts and activities these days, the one who made him feel a little less alone in the world. 

“Can we take a detour?” Namjoon asks suddenly, prompting Hoseok to look at him with raised eyebrows. “I have somewhere I need to see.”

Hoseok nods silently, and Namjoon is thankful he doesn’t question him. He gives the directions, and Hoseok drives, coming to a stop a few minutes later. Namjoon can stop himself from bolting out of the car, running up to where he know you live—

Only to find a construction site and a half-finished apartment complex, and his face falls. Taking a look at the exposed beams and the planks of wood, it finally hits Namjoon that you’re a real person. A person who’s going to live here. He wonders what you look like, what you do for work. He wants to know more about you, know where you are in the world, and when your paths will cross. 

“Why are we at a construction site?” Hoseok comes up beside him, concern etched in his features for his best friend.

“No reason,” Namjoon sighs. “I just thought there’d be something else here. Let’s go.”

2 years ago, 2020

Namjoon looks at the kitten, studying it with the utmost scrutiny. A tortoiseshell coat, and striking green eyes, and a little triangle patch of black hair in the middle of its head. 

He hadn’t known the little guy was supposed to have a name already, but now he’d just found out: Bokboki. Namjoon is unable to speak, sitting there stunned with his little companion after reading the letter you’d just sent, ranting about how you’d spent the entire day just lounging around with your cat, whom you’d found when you moved into the house. 

Namjoon hadn’t seen many other cats strolling around the beach, and since this one seemed to have a particular connection to the beach house, he realizes that in some strange twist of fate, the two of you owned the same pet, the fortuitous connection between you two only building and building. So, you really were from the future.

You’d sent him something else besides the letter, something that had shocked Namjoon even more than the revelation about little Bokboki. The piece itself is tiny, printed on a sheet even smaller than the one you’d written your letter on, but it’s nothing short of stunning. The simple flowers, not unlike the ones he’d seen growing by the beach, are shaded in different hues of blue. He can see where the acid caused the paint to stratify, feathery strokes running over the page, and the once vibrant flowers are now washed out to nothing but white, obliterated by the dark midnight of the background. In the very corner lies a small signature, and Namjoon realizes the neat scrawl is of your name. 

You were an artist. Just like him. 

Namjoon feels a pang within his chest, unable to reason why the tiny painting you’d shared affected him so. You hadn’t said anything about it, hadn’t bragged or even gone into detail about what it meant or why you’d chosen to paint it, or send it to him. And yet, Namjoon felt as if through this painting, he knew more about you than he had through the course of all your letters sent to each other. 

You understood him. You understood what the pressure to create was like, how hard it was to condense the vast world around you into a set of lyrics, or a single painting, and to still invoke a full-bodied spectrum of emotions. He wondered if you understood the burnout too - when art no longer felt like freedom, and more like a set of shackles. How when what once made your heart beat no longer touched it at all, it felt like dying your very first death. 

He doesn’t realize the tears have fallen down his face until he sees the paper he’d picked out to write back splotched with wet spots, and he sniffles.

Scrolling through his library of guide tracks until sleep makes his eyes heavy, Namjoon glances over occasionally at the painting, at a loss of words for how he could even begin to repay the beautiful gift you’d shared with him.

. . . 

Dear Namjoon,

Are you for real? A still life that does not stop, keep my flower blooming again. It’s like you wrote this about my painting!! But how could you, when I hadn’t even sent it to you yet? The song was amazing by the way, even though I had to go out and buy a CD player to listen to it. You’re very talented. You should release it! I’m sure it would go viral on Spotify.

I had an inkling you were an artist too. That’s why I sent you my piece. I’m glad you appreciate it, even when others don’t seem to. But enough about me, I want to talk about you! Your music is so addictive, I can’t stop listening to it. Do you like making songs? I know sometimes it can be hard to create things and not see them get the appreciation they deserve, but I have full faith that if you were to share your talent with the world, you’d find an audience for it (okay maybe the audience would just be me, but isn’t that reason enough?). It seems we’re living in a strange thread of time right? Our previously separate lives are intertwining, thread by thread, and I can’t help but think that there’s something bigger going on. But I’ll save you from my rambling. For now, I wish you good luck with your songwriting!

Sincerely, 

____

Namjoon stares at the letter, his eyes rimmed with red from tears and a lack of sleep. He wants to pull at the threads of his hair and yank them from his scalp. When he’d scrolled through his guides on a whim, choosing to send you a CD burned with Still Life, he’d never expected this reaction. He had never meant for you to hear it, or for anyone to hear it for that matter. It wasn’t the kind of music anyone expected from him, or the dark, sexy kind of song that made any money, and so he’d let it sit on his computer, abandoned.

Until now. 

Namjoon wants to tear up the letter into a million tiny pieces. How dare you say that to him? How dare you give him this fragile sense of hope, knowing any moment, this cruel world could snatch it away? You were wrong. In this day and age, no one was actually interested in music. Sure, they blasted songs through their headphones on the way to work, or while running outside, or in the clubs, but did anyone actually listen to what the artists were saying? No. The lyrics remained lost in the back of their brains, no one ever stopping to think about the conversation that he was trying to initiate. Everybody talked about him, but no one ever talked to him.

Finding another piece of paper, Namjoon nearly rips through it with the force of his pen scratching across the surface.

Dear ___,

You asked me if I like making music. I don’t know anymore. I just don’t know.

Present Day, 2022

Dear ___,

We’d like to thank you for your time spent applying to our gallery. Unfortunately, we regret to inform you…

You toss the letter in the trash before you can even read the rest, covering your mouth to stop the tears from spilling out while you were in the middle of the street. It hadn’t been a good week for you. Not only had Namjoon written you an abrupt response, leaving you to wonder whether he was angry, but you’d finally gotten the letter you were waiting for from Taehyung. Except, instead of the response you’d expected, you’d been greeted with nothing but a big red stamp - return to sender.

You shove your hands in your pockets, staring blankly ahead as you walk wherever your feet will take you, uncaring of people scolding you to get out of their way or to watch where you’re going. Eventually, you find a bench, plopping down on it with a sigh, only to be met with the rude stare of some old man who promptly gets up and leaves. You weren’t good enough for anyone it seemed.

From across the bench, you can see a rusty telephone booth, a relic you thought didn’t exist anymore, and an idea sparks in your brain. A very bad idea. But your mind is powerless to stop the way you rise, feet walking towards the phone booth. 

The door creaks when you open it, and you give the buttons of the phone a cursory tap, just to make sure they still work and you aren’t about to have your credit card eaten. Although it wouldn’t matter much if it was - it’s not like your name was worth much. Dialing the last number you knew to be Taehyung’s, you wait as the dial tone rings and rings.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice answers. “Hello?”

“Who is it?” a deep voice rumbles in the background, and you slam the phone back onto the receiver, your heart beating out of your chest. 

Running out of the booth, you don’t stop until your feet carry you all the way home.

. . . 

Shoving your coat and your shoes off, you strip off the rest of your clothes, throwing them against the wall with a thud. You want to scream. You want to break something. But you have nothing of value. Nothing that would equal the pain and the heartbreak you feel right now. All you have is yourself. And you’re completely alone.

You slam the door to your room shut, ignoring Bokboki’s soft meows, and collapse to the ground, sobs wracking your entire body. You lay there with your head against the door, wondering why the world had chosen to be so cruel to you, to leave you so lonely. 

That was the hard part about getting older. When you’d been in high school, everybody had told you your adult years would be the best of your life, with so many milestones to look forward to - getting a job, entering a relationship, getting married, buying a house, having kids. And that you’d have so many people by your side to witness it all. But the reality was, none of that was true. Instead, you felt more like you were wading through the wide open ocean, with no one around to see you struggle to keep your head above the surface. 

You muster enough strength to get up, stumbling over the desk, head in your hands as you stare at the piece of paper you’d chosen out to write your next letter to Namjoon. Tracing your hand over the edge, you pick up the pen, beginning to write.

I thought falling in love would make me so happy. But all it did was break me inside. It gave me fleeting happiness, only to snatch it away and laugh in my face, telling me that I’m not enough. That I will never be enough. Why though? Why does it have to be me who feels so lonely? Why do I have to go through this pain? Am I not worthy of being loved? Am I undesirable in some way? Once, just once, I wish I could love someone and have them love me back. And not in the transient, fleeting kind of way. No, I wish I could be loved, wholly and completely. I wish to know what it feels like to have someone who’ll sleep beside me every night, to wake up warm instead of freezing. To feel another pair of lips against my own, to have those lips both soothe me and undo me. To feel someone’s fingers inside me, bringing me to highs I can never reach alone. To know someone else’s body as well as I know mine, to lose myself in them completely while we make each other come.

As you write, an image flashes in your head, one of a faceless man. You have no idea what he looks like, but you can hear his voice. It’s the same voice that writes to you nearly every day, that hears your deepest thoughts, and you want him to know your darkest desires.

Your fingers slip underneath the waistband of your panties, warmth pooling in between your legs, and you resist the urge to rub your thighs together to relieve some of the pressure between them. You let out a staggered breath when you swipe through your folds, fingers sliding easily against the wetness that has begun to pool, and your hand rises to circle lightly around your clit.

You let out a moan you didn’t know you’d been holding in, closing your eyes and leaning back against the chair, your legs spreading on their own as the deep voice in your mind continues to talk to you, to repeat what you’d written in the letter, and you feel yourself clench involuntarily thinking about the faceless man in the back of your mind. 

Sinking a finger inside of you, you grind your hips, your throbbing clit catching the palm of your hands. You tremble at the wet noises you can hear, accompanied by the soft staccato of your whines, and your thumb circles back around your needy bud, increasing the pressure, the pleasure rapidly building as you slide in another finger, fucking yourself against your hand. 

It takes a split second for your walls to tighten around you and the taut knot in your stomach to snap, your body convulsing as your slick spilled all over your fingers, soaking your underwear and the chair below. 

You open your eyes, huffing breathlessly as you remove your sticky fingers from inside of you, your heart pounding in your eyes. Looking down at the piece of paper, you shove it to the side, shame flooding your entire body at the debauched fantasy of Namjoon you’d just gotten off to. He was your friend, not some cheap rebound attempt. Your fingers tremble as you grab the pen, trying to write another letter to him to quell your racing thoughts, hoping calm would find you again after the storm that had just ensued.

. . .

2 years ago, 2020

Namjoon shouldn’t be reading this. This clearly wasn’t meant for him. But wasn’t it? You’d put the letter in the mailbox, knowing it’d go through to him, knowing he’d read the very words that had his face flushing red and his cock stirring underneath his grey sweats. He felt like a total perv, getting hard when you were clearly vulnerable and sharing something personal with him, but he’d be lying if he hadn’t thought about how you looked, how you felt, how you tasted.

It’d been too long since Namjoon had sex, and he’d forgotten how strong and persuasive desire could be, leading him to do the most fucked up things. Namjoon reads the letter again, and again, and again, wondering if you touched yourself while you wrote it. Wondering if that’s why the words sounded so rushed, so frantic, spilling out of you like he’d never heard you speak before. He wonders who could make you feel that way, and jealousy stirs in his chest when he realizes it’s most likely someone else. Not him. 

Still, it doesn’t stop him from tugging his sweats down, his hard cock springing out, and he wraps one hand around it, leaning back against the bed. His eyes close as he pumps himself, imagining you behind his eyelids - your lips, your breasts, your pussy. But also your smile, your eyes, your hands. And Namjoon aches to touch you, to touch anyone, to banish the deep-rooted loneliness within his heart.

A bead of precum escapes the tip of his dick, and Namjoon slides it around himself, stroking harder, and faster, thrusting into his hand imagining it was you instead, just like you’d wished for him to do. Underneath him, the bed begins to creak, and Namjoon lets out a low groan, throbbing as he bucks his hips in time with his hands. 

“Fuck,” Namjoon growls as he explodes, curses falling from his lips as he slumps into the bed, chest falling and rising with heavy breaths. Sparks tingle under his skin, Namjoon’s body coming alive like it hadn’t for months. 

At the same time, the guilt settles in, and he feels as though a lead weight is pressed against his chest, crushing his lungs until he can’t breathe. He feels sick inside for taking your moment of vulnerability and using it for his own selfish gains. The gross feeling remains even after he’s gotten up and cleaned himself off, his head buried in his hands when he sits at his desk. 

Grabbing a piece of paper, he begins to write, words of apology flying off the page, hoping it’s enough to excuse his depravity, that you’ll forgive him, that you’ll still want to write to him. He doesn’t know what he’d do if you didn’t.

Dear ___,

I’m sorry you’re feeling this way. I don’t know if you meant to send me those vulnerable words, but if you did, I want to thank you for thinking that I’m trustworthy enough to share them with. I know nothing I say can completely heal the sadness within your heart, but maybe I can offer some wisdom from my own up-and-down experiences with love.

The reason we’re so tormented in life is because love goes on, not because it goes away. But even after we lose that love, the life of a person who’s been in love is more beautiful and vibrant than that of someone who’s never experienced love at all. Cheer up. Everything will work out the way it’s meant to.

- Namjoon

Namjoon stares at the letter for a few moments, unable to believe the poetic words that had just left him in this moment of shame when he’d been struggling to write for months. His brain churns with an idea, and he opens his mixing software, grabbing the notebook he uses to pen his lyrics, and beginning to write. 

If love ain’t for us

I’ll be satisfied with this

I don’t need your touch

I just need your love

Come closer, come closer

Present Day, 2022

Perusing the piece of paper, you wonder if Namjoon’s been drinking the past couple of days. He’s never opened up this much to you, preferring to keep your interactions surface level and friendly. But his last letter hadn’t been just friendly, it’d been poetic, reassuring you that love was worth it. You wonder if he’d been thinking of someone specific when he penned the words. Now, with this next letter, you finally had your answer.

Dear ____,

It was Ji-hyeon. Ji-hyeon was their name. I thought we had it all - the perfect chemistry, thought we wanted the same things. But I was a fool to think that love was for me. I’ve been trying so hard to let the memory of the breakup go, but it haunts me every day. Every day, a little piece of me chips off and withers away when I realize that I’m losing myself. I’m losing my sanity. I’ve ceased to be a human and instead become a prisoner to this industry. To making music. And I just want to let it all go. To quit. That’s why I moved out here in the first place, to find some peace away from the hectic city. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t. I can’t let it go because music is who I am, art is who I am. And it breaks me because the pull of creative expression will always overtake anything, or anyone in my life. I can’t live normally, as much as I yearn to. I can’t love anyone.

- Namjoon

You clamp your hand over your mouth to stop the tears from falling, Namjoon laying himself bare on the page, and your heart hurts for him. Not only because of his sadness, but because his loneliness is the same loneliness you feel, both of you wandering souls in this unforgiving world. 

Watching your clothes spin in the washing machine, you think of Taehyung, and how he was your Ji-hyeon. Except, it was different. You’d known love, you’d known happiness unlike Namjoon had.

Grabbing your notebook, you scribble across the page, telling him that it doesn’t have to be that way, that real love is like the beauty of an amazing art piece. Something can be both beautiful and full of love, it doesn’t have to be full of ugliness and heartbreak for it to inspire you to create. Pausing, you think back on a story from a while back, deciding to divulge it to him. 

The watercolor I sent you? It’s from two years ago, I was painting a whole series on wildflowers in cyanotype. But I went through so many different renditions, so many different drafts, that I ran out of my favorite watercolors, the . I ran to my favorite store, hoping, praying that the creative streak I was on wouldn’t leave me, that if I just had those watercolors, I could keep going. I could make something of myself. But they weren’t there. Someone had bought them just moments before I entered the store, the last set. After that, I just gave up. I was strapped for money and couldn’t afford another set, let alone the time it would take to scour the city looking for them. I haven’t touched the paintings since. 

. . . 

2 years ago, 2020

Namjoon throws his coat over his shoulders, stopping only to scratch Bokboki between the ears before he runs outside, stumbling into the taxi as he frantically tells the driver to take him into the city. The roads pass him by, the serene landscape becoming dotted with more and more buildings, more people as the minutes go on. He asks to be let off at a random intersection, tipping the driver generously before he’s off running again.

There were a million art stores here. Surely one of them had to have the watercolors you were looking for. Namjoon didn’t want you to become like him, paralyzed and unable to do what you enjoyed. No, he wanted better for you, and he’d make sure it happened, so your beautiful wildflowers could see the sun’s rays once again.

Finding one on the corner of a narrow street, he slips inside, greeting the store owner warmly before heading to the back wall full of paints. 

His eyes scan through the rainbow of tubes and pans, until he sees them, the Kuretake ones you’d talked about in his letter. And there was only one left. Grabbing it, he rushes over to the cashier, paying for it, and running back out into the cold air, excitement coursing through your veins when he thinks of how happy you’d be when you saw him.

On his way out, he brushes against a shoulder, apologizing to the woman he’d accidentally bumped into. She gives him a polite smile before continuing on her way inside, and Namjoon smiles back, continuing on his way until he can hail a cab.

When he reaches back home, he slips the colors in the mailbox, and waits. 

It’s a few days later when your response comes back, your joy evident in the way the ink bleeds across the page, telling him you’d sobbed happy tears when you saw the watercolors. You’d immediately gone to start another painting, and Namjoon feels joy bloom inside his chest at the kindness he’d done for you. 

Reaching inside the mailbox, he’s shocked when his fingers close around something soft and wollen, pulling it out to see a scarf, indigo in color. The deep blue and violet fabric warms him instantly, as well as the note attached.

They say indigo is the color of intuition and perception. This scarf helped me find wisdom when I was struggling. I hope it does the same for you.

Present Day, 2022

It was a stupid mistake.

Looking at the letter again, you roll your eyes. Men. They could be so emotional sometimes, and yet they’d blame women for not having control of themselves. A small smirk makes its way onto your face as you read Namjoon’s sheepish request, asking that you send him a new tape recorder, since he’d destroyed his in a fit of rage before moving to the cottage.

Part of you wanted to laugh at his impulsiveness, but the other part of you felt sorrow for all the work he’d probably lost, just because of one rash mistake. You didn’t want him to feel sad. You wanted him to feel empowered to create, to make music again. And so, you set out on your quest to find one. The winding city streets took you on quite a journey, passing by various cafes and bookshops and parks, but you didn’t let yourself get distracted. You were a woman on a mission. 

Your search finally took you to a little electronics store on the outskirts of your neighbourhood, and you look through the various tape recorders, wondering which color Namjoon would like. You wonder if he’s finally ready to start making music again, and smile when you think about being able to hear his songs again.

Paying for the tape recorder, you gather your things and walk out into the street, headphones in your ears. You’ve just stepped into the intersection when you hear a scream, feeling something slam into you from behind, sending you hurtling to the ground. Your ankle twists out of position as you topple over, and pain explodes across your entire leg as you hit the ground, scratching your hands.

Lying there, your mind chooses not to focus on how much pain you’re in, or the fact that you’re now bleeding. Instead you hyperfixate on the tape recorder that lies a few feet away, wondering how you were ever going to help Namjoon make his songs now. 

You don’t know how many moments pass like this.

Waking up, you hear the beeps of a blood pressure monitor, pain trickling from the back of your head down to your ankle. You’re not in your room. It’s a hospital bed, and across from you, you see Hyung-seo looking at you with concern, jolting up out of her seat when she sees your eyes are open.

“Here, drink some water,” she offers you a cup, and you accept, the liquid soothing your parched throat. “You sprained your ankle, please take it easy.”

“Hyung-seo,” you croak to her, still worrying about the tape recorder and Namjoon. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

. . . 

2 years ago, 2020

Namjoon can’t stop running. He’s probably run further down the beach than he should have, the house disappearing until it’s ceased to be a speck in the distance, disappearing completely from his view. He stops himself, bracing his hands on his knees, and heaves in a few deep breaths, suddenly realizing he forgot to feed Bokboki before he went out. 

He hadn’t been able to think straight for the past few days, opening the mailbox every couple of hours anticipating a tape recorder and another letter from you, but instead, he found nothing. At first, he was worried that something had happened to you. But as the days went on, an ugly feeling settled inside Namjoon’s chest. One that convinced him that you were ignoring him, that you’d purposefully grown tired of your interactions, and now wanted nothing to do with him. Maybe you’d found someone new.

Namjoon stumbles towards the ocean, feeling the waves lap at his feet, soaking through his running shoes. Fury floods his mind when he thinks of how open, how honest he’d been with everyone in his life, sacrificing his own damn mind to make them happy. And now, he didn’t even get the same back.

He wades deeper into the water, his waterlogged feet meeting resistance, and screams, his hands pulling at the strands of his hair. And then he screams again, louder this time. But no one is there to hear him.

It’s at least an hour before he returns to the house, shoes soaked with mud. Before he goes inside, he decides to peer inside the mailbox, knowing it’ll probably be worthless. As he opens the rust-covered door, his heart sinks with guilt when he sees a letter from you, and the tape recorder he’d so anxiously been waiting.

He wants to punch himself for his impatience when he reads the note, explaining that you’d met with a small accident and had been in the hospital for a couple days. His heart aches with concern for you? Were you okay? Did his selfish request cause you to get hurt?

Closing the door behind him, Namjoon looks at the tape recorder, wondering if it had even been worth it to ask for it from you. Would it really get him to work on his album? Or would it just taunt him as another reminder of his failures in life.

Sighing, he clicks the play button, ready to make the most of it no matter the outcome. But then he pauses. The sound of the tape is faint, but he can hear a voice on it. Your voice. You’re singing. Your voice is raspy, sounding unpolished, yet also rings clear and sweet. You riff a little melody, adding words that sound like a lullaby and Namjoon feels a pang in his chest. You sound so beautiful.

You end the brief recording with a laugh, apologizing for wasting space on the recorder, and telling him he can delete it. But Namjoon doesn’t delete it.

Bent over his desk, he takes the sincere melody and crafts it into a beat of his own, his low voice joining yours in perfect harmony.

With numerous thorns

The morning that comes and goes

In my own way

I'm gonna anesthetize myself, yeah-yeh

Present Day, 2022

Ride the A1 bus all the way until the second last stop. 

When you get off you’ll find a tree-lined street on both sides. 

If you cut through the patch of trees on the southwest, and walk exactly 1,632 steps, you’ll stumble upon something extraordinary.

I hope you like walking.

Holding the piece of paper with directions to your chest, you fight off a sheepish smile, heart pumping loudly in your ears as you think about Namjoon’s directions for your little “date”.

It wasn’t a real date, you see. The two of you had decided to send each other on adventures in your own time, but Namjoon had called it a date. The thought made you absolutely giddy. You hadn’t been on a date since Taehyung. As strange as it felt to be going somewhere on your own and calling it a date, it felt like Namjoon was with you, his spirit trapped in the letters of the page, leading you to somewhere wonderful.

You count your steps carefully as you walk, the trees lining your path on both sides, just like Namjoon had said. You marvel at their height, the blue sky peeking out from the canopy of their lives. Continuing to count each precise step, you look down at the ground until you reach 1,632. When you look up, you suck in a breath.

It’s a field full of wildflowers, the vibrant colors peeking through the grass like the twinkling of stars in a midnight sky. Your smile widens as you run into the field, laughing at the smell of the beautiful blooms, tracing your fingers along their delicate petals.

Finding a spot to put your bag down, you pull out your notebook, and begin to sketch, the wind ruffling your hair and Namjoon’s field of flowers keeping you company.

. . . 

2 years ago, 2020

Namjoon steps through the gallery, keeping his head down to avoid being recognized, sipping the coffe from the café you’d told him to go to before ending up here.

I think there’s an artist you’ll like, your letter had read, and Namjoon, like the smitten fool he was, was powerless against his own two feet as he immediately set off in search of the mysterious paintings. 

He hadn’t meant for the word date to come out. It just had. He knew you were lonely like this, and even though he couldn’t be there to erase your loneliness in person, he figured sending you to the wildflowers would be the next best thing. And it was. You’d excitedly written back, explaining that you’d come back with at least a dozen new sketches, ready to paint and turn into cyanotype. Namjoon had leaned back in his chair, his grin wider than the ocean, his heart pounding in his chest and his palms becoming sweaty when he thought about your smile, and remembered your beautiful laugh from the tape recording. 

The gallery isn’t busy this time of day, but he avoids talking to anyone, instead making a beeline for the corner you’d talked about. When he comes upon it, his jaw drops open in shock.

The strokes of the piece are ragged, burnt umber and ultramarine blue blending into a series of minimalist lines, the points where they blend creating a black deeper than any night sky Namjoon had seen.

Moving closer, he studies everything, from the worn canvas, to spots where the paint appears thicker in one area than another. The simplicity of the piece blows Namjoon away - the honesty portrayed within, showing him that he doesn’t need to be flamboyant or ostentatious to make an impact. Minimalism spoke words.

Glancing down at the artist’s title card, he sees the name. Yun Hyong-keun.

Namjoon comes home and fires up his computer, looking up interviews and more about Yun, mesmerized by the artist’s perspective on life, emphasizing his own humanity before his duties as an artist.

After his research, Namjoon pens a thank you to you for showing him the work. Coming up on the end of the letter, a bold thought crosses his mind, and he dares to write it down.

___, I’d like to meet you in person if that’s okay? Can we meet here, on this very beach? I’ll give you a day, closer to your time, so you don’t have to wait. How about December 13, 2022 at 3:00? Let me know if that works.

- Namjoon

Present Day, 2022

You slam the dress onto the countertop, the cashier looking at you in surprise.

“Aren’t you going to try it on?” she asks, one eyebrow raised. 

“Nope, just pack it up, please,” you implore her, blushing at the bold red fabric you’d picked out. Namjoon couldn’t miss you in this.

You were losing it. The date he’d given you was in three days! Not nearly enough time to prepare. How was it fair that he got a whole two years and you only got a couple of days. You wanted to meet him, but you also weren’t ready. You wondered what he’d be like. If he’d be the same as you imagined him to be, or different. Whether his voice would sound as deep and melodious as the strings of a cello, or if he had short hair or long hair. In any case, you were sure he’d be wonderful.

The next couple of days pass by in nervous anticipation, with you talking nonstop to Bokboki about your hopes and fears for the foretold meeting. You re-read all the letters you’ve shared with Namjoon before bed, wanting to impress him with how well you know him.

When the sun rises two days later, you rise bright and early with it, hopping in the shower, making sure your hair is styled to perfection, and not a smudge of makeup is out of place. You feel shy putting in so much effort, but you didn’t want Namjoon to think you were a slob. Finally, you slip on the red dress, amazed at how it fits like a glove. 

Studying yourself in the mirror, you can’t help but notice that your skin looks brighter, your cheeks rosier, your hair shinier. You look like life has found its way to you once more, imbuing you with an overall glow that hadn’t existed since before you broke up with Taehyung. Your cheeks flush when you realize Namjoon is the reason for the glow, and you shake your head, banishing all your intrusive thoughts from your mind before slipping on your coat and running out the door.

It feels like the cab ride to the beach is longer today, your leg bouncing up and down in anticipation. When you finally see the beach come into view, you ask the cab driver to stop then and there, not even waiting for them to take you all the way up, instead throwing a handful of bills you hope will cover the ride.

You leap and sprint down the beach, until you reach right behind, the house, where Namjoon said he’d be. Looking around, your face falls. No one is here. Not wanting to give up, you spend a few minutes combing up and down the beach, looking for another human in sight. But there’s no one.

Returning to the house, you let out a soft gasp when you see a man there, his messy black hair blowing in the wind. Dread fills you as you realize you don’t even know what Namjoon looks like. But maybe this was him? You decide to tread carefully.

“Excuse me?” you ask him, and he turns to study you, his eyes reminding you of Bokboki, looking right through you. “Are you here to meet someone by chance?”

His polite smile turns into a grimace, and he shakes his head.

“Whoever your Tinder date is, it’s not me, I’m afraid,” he says. 

“Why are you here then?” you question him, looking around at the abandoned beach. “No offense, but this isn’t exactly a tourist hotspot.”

“I had a friend who used to come here, said it inspired him to make art about the woman he loved,” the man says sadly, and you decide not to press on, giving him his privacy.

“Hey!” you hear from behind you, looking to see him waving at you. “Good luck with whoever you’re looking for. I hope you find them.”

. . . 

2 years ago, 2020

Namjoon wants to yank at the strands of his hair. He pushes his glasses back up onto the bridge, looking at your letter. He’s so fucking confused. He can imagine your small tears dripping onto the paper when you returned home from the beach, disappointed that he didn’t show. But Namjoon is bewildered. 

He wouldn’t have missed meeting you for the world. There was no single excuse, no event, that could have caused him to miss such an important day. Unless, of course, it wasn’t up to him.

Namjoon takes a walk outside the house, descending the stairs to the beach, the indigo scarf you’d given him wrapped tightly around his neck. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and sending a wish out in to the vast world, a wish for your paths to finally connect.

It hadn’t hit Namjoon until he procured the bouquet of wildflowers in excitement for your date, going to the very field he’d shown you. His excitement had been palpable, until he’d returned home to Bokboki staring him down, and he realized he still had two years to go, and the flowers were going to wilt.

His chest had ached with the realization that it would be a long time before he ever met you, and even then, your meeting wasn’t guaranteed. Running a hand through his newly cut hair, Namjoon was struck finally with the revelation that had been creeping up on him through all these months - he’d fallen in love with you. He couldn’t pin it down to a specific moment, but rather the momentous collection of all the times you’d talked to each other. He was in love with you, despite having never seen your face or talked to you in person. His heart was many things, but it wasn’t a liar.

Which is why it broke him to think that he may never have a chance to tell you how he felt in person. That you’d never realize the depth of his feelings, because maybe your paths weren’t meant to converge. But that didn’t stop him from wanting to show the world his love, in the chances that maybe one day, you’d see it and come looking for him.

Fingering the scarf, he looks at its mellow hue, so like the sea before him, and a single thought occupies his mind.

“Indigo,” he whispers. His new album would be called Indigo.

Present Day, 2022

Sipping on your coffee, your ears perk up when you hear a voice behind you, one you hadn’t heard in a long time.

“Seojin, I’ll make it home for the engagement party, you have nothing to worry about,” Taehyung’s deep voice fills your ears, the hairs on your arms coming to stand up as he talks to someone on the phone. Your coffee cup falls out of your hand, tipping over and spilling onto your shirt.

“Shit!” you curse as the hot liquid burns you.

“___? Is that you?” you hear Taehyung’s voice call out, and you turn away, gathering your things and hiding your face.

You hear footsteps come up beside you, Taehyung’s tall figure looming over you, and you inhale the scent of his cologne, closing your eyes.

“It is, isn’t it?” Taehyung looks over at your turnt figure, reaching out an arm to pull you to face him. You can’t even look him in the eyes, instead looking at the floor. You want to tell him to go away, to fuck off, but you feel powerless and weak.

“Can we talk?” he says softly, and you don’t know why you nod. Maybe it’s finally to get the answers you’ve been searching for ever since you decided to wait for his letter in the mail.

You follow him listlessly to a table, looking out the window while he orders another coffee. Looking at your disinterested figure, you hear him let out a heavy sigh, before beginning to speak. 

“It wasn’t easy being abroad, having to study there all alone,” he begins, slipping off his coat. “At first, your letters gave me something to look forward to. But then I got tired of feeling so alone. I grew close to one of my colleagues, who was by my side the entire time. We’re getting married soon. I’m so sorry ___.”

Looking up at him, you know he can see the bloodshot look in your eyes, tears threatening to spill over the edge. You don’t say anything, throwing your coat over your shoulders and running out of the cafe, your feet aching in your heels until you’re all the way home.

Slumping onto the floor, you lean your head against the window, watching the rain fall softly outside. Bokboki piles into your lap with a soft meow, and you stroke his head, continuing to watch outside. Opening the drawer to the coffee table, you reach inside, finding the framed photo of you and Taehyung, your smiles taunting you from the other side of the frame.

Things had been so simple back then. You’d loved each other, you’d wanted to spend the rest of your lives together. So why hadn’t it worked out?

Immediately, your thoughts drift to Namjoon, and how you hadn’t been able to connect with him. Were you just doomed to be alone for the rest of your life?

No. You get up, traveling to your desk to pull out another piece of paper. You could change this. You could fix things between you and Taehyung. You could cure this crippling loneliness you felt. And you knew just the person to ask.

. . .

2 years ago, 2020

I thought I could forget him. But, from the moment I heard his voice, it all came back to me. The fact that he loves someone else, and the fact that I’m aware of that, and I still love him, brings me more pain than I can ever admit. I’m sorry that I’m asking you this, but please help me. Please help me not to lose him. I’m sorry, Namjoon.

Namjoon stares blankly at the letter, unable to process the words on the page that you’d written. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and clears his mind of all the thoughts currently at war with one another. He couldn’t think about what you’d just asked of him. He didn’t want to think about it, knowing his heart would splinter even further at the fact that you loved someone else. Someone who wasn’t him.

Leaving the safety of the beach house, he decides the fresh air will help him clear his head, catching a cab to the city. When he bids the driver goodbye, he wanders aimlessly through the streets, people all around him, and yet Namjoon can’t stop thinking about you.

You, who was never meant to be in his life except as a fleeting presence, as transient and ephemeral as the trains that stopped at each station, before continuing on their journey. He knew now that your paths were never meant to cross, and that he had to make his own way in this world, as alone as he’d been before he met you.

The dreadful realization hits him that he needs to leave the beach house - he couldn’t stay there any longer. It was too full of memories, ones he’d made while writing to you, and as painful as it was to forget them, it was time to let go.

He decides to catch the bus on his way back, standing alone at the stop, until suddenly, he’s joined by another person. Turning around, he sees a woman next to him. Her eyes meet his, and widen at his indigo scarf, looking closely at it. Namjoon coughs, and she averts her eyes. Something about her seemed familiar, but she was probably just another stranger. Namjoon wants to talk to her, to be able to talk to someone else besides you. He opens his mouth to make a comment about his scarf, but is interrupted when a tall, well-dressed man swoops in, his arm wrapping around the woman. 

The bus chooses that moment to arrive, and he watches the two of them climb on, the women looking back at him with a frown on her face when he fails to join them, his feet glued to the ground.

Not wanting to wait for the next bus, Namjoon walks towards the nearest cab, falling asleep on the ride home.

When he’s finally in the safety of his room again, he decides to write you again, knowing this will be the last letter he ever sends you. Because he loved you, and he wanted you to be happy with who you loved, he knew it was time to let you go.

Present Day, 2022

Holding your portfolio in your hands, your fingers tremble with excitement as you get off the bus, stepping right onto the street where Cypher Labels was located. You’d had a creative breakthrough, and someone finally wanted to hire you!

You would write to Namjoon and tell him the good news, of course. You bite your lip, worrying about him. You hadn’t heard from him since he sent the later saying he’d help you reunite with Taehyung. You had nothing but immense gratitude and affection for him in your heart. He was truly a good person, and you hoped only the best would find him in life. 

Do you remember the very first letter? You wished me luck in the house the sea built. This time, I wish you luck. I hope I can help you find what you’re looking for.

You step into the offfice, and the only two people there are two hushed men whispering to each other. At the sound of your heels clacking against the floor, they look up. The shorter of the two studies you curiously, and you can’t help but feel like he’s familiar. Maybe it’s his eyes which pierce through you.

“___! It’s you, right?” the other one gives you a heart shaped smile, his bubbly demeanor immediately putting you at ease. He beckons you to take a seat at the third chair.

“I’m Hoseok, and this is my business partner Yoongi. We’re so glad you could make it. Your artwork has us very intrigued.”

You blush at the compliment, holding your portfolio to your chest.

“Do you mind telling me a little bit about the album and the project itself?”

Hoseok looks over at Yoongi, his face suddenly falling, and Yoongi gives him a tilt of his chin.

“This project is, uh, it’s special to us,” Hoseok says softly. “It’s for a friend that we lost. He used to work with us here at the label, and we were so excited when we got the drafts from him. He’d been struggling to make music, but he moved out to the beach and began talking to someone, and he finally told us he was ready to share the music inspired by his time out there with the world. The album is called Indigo, named after a scarf he was given by the woman he loved, who inspired most of the pieces on the album.”

Your face pales at Hoseok’s description. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be true.

“We lost him in a car accident nearly a year and half ago. He was on his way to meet someone.”

“W-what was his name?” you manage to choke out in a whisper, and you see Yoongi’s nostrils flare at the tears that have collected in your eyes.

“His name was Namjoon.”

You’re up and running out of the studio before you can even process the news, sobs pouring from your body as you keep going, unable to keep the tears at bay.

Namjoon had loved you. He fell in love with you through the letters he wrote, and now he was gone. Gone after he was on his way to meet someone. You do the math in your head, and realize a year and a half ago was the day in Namjoon’s life after you’d written to him, asking him to help bring you and Taehyung together.

Your heart clutches in your chest, and you double over in pain. The album had been for you. It had all been for you, every little thing Namjoon had done. And now he was gone, and he’d never know the truth.

The truth that you’d realized after reading Namjoon’s response, after hearing his willingness to sacrifice his own happiness to ensure yours. That you’d fallen in love with him too.

Sniffling into your sleeve, you pull out your phone, calling a cab. When it arrives, the driver asks you for your destination, and you hesitate, not able to give the address to your apartment. That’s when it hits you. You could change things, just like you’d asked him to. You could write him a letter and deliver it to the mailbox, so hopefully, he wouldn’t go out that day to meet you and Taehyung. You could save him, so that he’d have a full and complete life like he deserved, even if it would never be by your side.

Giving the driver the address to the beach house, you pull your sketchbook out of your pocket, scribbling furiously on the paper.

Namjoon, please listen to me. Please don’t go to wherever me and Taehyung are, I’m begging you. Please listen, please stay home. 

The driver zooms towards the beach, sensing the urgency caused by your tears, and you nearly sob in relief when you see the house coming into view, not even waiting for the car to come to a full stop before you’re running towards the mailbox. Panting, you struggle to breathe against your tears, shoving the letter in the mailbox, hoping, praying that you’re not too late.

You collapse on the ground, whispering a silent prayer against the sand, hoping it wasn’t too late to show him your last act of love - saving his life.

Namjoon’s timeline, 1.5 years in the future

Namjoon never thought he’d return to the beach house, resolving to abandon it the moment he’d let go of you. But then he’d gotten the mysterious letter in the mailbox, telling him to stay home, and he figured he had to go investigate. Coming up upon the rickety house, it’s the exact same as he left it - the worn wood and creaky boards of the walkway. The sea around hasn’t changed either, the waves as calm as the day he’d moved in.

Except for the boxes. Namjoon’s eyes widen in surprise when there are a dozen or so boxes outside the door. Someone was finally moving in. Namjoon clutches the letter and waits by the mailbox, suddenly frozen. He didn’t know why he’d come here. As much as his feet wanted to turn back, he couldn’t.

He hears the door open, and a woman steps outside, wearing the same indigo scarf that he had around his neck, and in an instant, he knows it’s you. You’re even more beautiful than he could have imagined, and now he’s finally found you.

“___,” he calls out to you, and you look up to see where the deep voice is coming from,lips parting when you see Namjoon making his way towards the door.

You stare at him in silence for a few moments, and Namjoon is worried you don’t recognize him, that in this timeline, he means nothing to you, and his heart curls into itself, preparing for the inevitable heartbreak.

“Namjoon?” you whisper. “Is it really you?”

“I got your letter,” he shudders with a sob, holding out the piece of paper. He feels a raindrop splash on his head, and then another, before the heavens open and it begins to pour soaking you both.

Namjoon stays where he is, marveling at the fact that you’re finally here, right beside him. You step towards him, reaching for his scarf to pull him towards you, your lips pressing gently against his own. His arms come up to wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to him, his lips parting to engulf your own in a more passionate kiss, his cold fingers stroking your warm cheeks. Despite the raging storm around you, Namjoon finally feels at peace, the two of you finally finding your shared moment of forever, here in the house the sea built.

A/N pt. 2: Well now I’m fucking sad. But in all seriousness, I hope you enjoyed  reading this as much as I did writing it. And again, I hope it can provide some comfort. As always, any feedback or comments are much appreciated, but I appreciate you all anyway. Lots of love, Isi 💜

taglist: @miscelunaaa @luaspersona @whoisbts @blumenfeld @rapmonie2047 @little-dark-empress @lovemepie67 @ggukkieland @joonsytip @namjooningelsewhere @chrisellaxxjung @jub-jub @outro-kook @kamilamb @coffeedepressionsoup @fujinogf @wecanpretendit @lovely-joon @rkivian​ @rebloginfics​ @firesighgirl​ 

[pyreo]

I know there's people who like their fantasy storytelling to take a few steps away from reality, you know. Nothing that verges on allegorical to the stuff we worry about in real life. And I think I'm on the opposite team to that and y'know, the further away we get from gw2's original core story the more I see The World Summit instance as more pivotal than it appeared.

It's the part in the middle of Season 2 where you bring the world leaders together to try and insist that they need to aid you fighting Mordremoth, a primal force who's only just now awakened and started causing disruption and deaths. Mechanically, it serves to show the various cultures being made aware of the upcoming antagonist for mostly the first time.

But there's something that grips me to this day about the realism in that segment. You know full well that this thing is beginning its warpath and will kill those around you. You and your guild know that you need to take action immediately before it gathers itself together to a point you cannot fight it any more. I don't think the scene serves much more than obligatory scaffolding in a narrative sense but it echoes the way I feel in real life all the time. It's the focal point where I've never felt more aligned with my Commander.

Smodur: They're plant creatures! How hard can they be to fight. One good flamethrower and…

Knut: Mordremoth is not yet as close as the Sons of Svanir. They press in around our homesteads. That is more important.

Phlunt: Are you saying we should put ourselves on the line to protect all of you? We are safe in Rata Sum.

Jennah: I'm not ashamed to admit that I don't see how this will work. What are you asking of us?

It's not easy to ask the Main Five Peoples to get anything done together - they do come from legitimately incompatible cultures and there's bad history between humans and charr, and sylvari and asura. But you have to present an argument to each one to convince them this is the most important thing to devote resources to.

It's been about ten years since this was written and it still feels exactly like every conversation that deflects from the reality of climate change. The 'we have bigger things to worry about', the 'it's not that bad', the denials, the giving up, the ones who have enough to feel secure individually and don't really care.

That and the way the narrative turns from 'you're the hero, slay the dragon' to a domino effect that cannot be stopped, wrenching the planet off its hinges and it was all down to you. There's a big difference in changing the threat from ancient dragons awakening to devour all life... and it being the Commander's fault that the stabilising effect those dragons had is unplugged. The allegory becomes undeniable - you doomed the world. You have to chase down that tether and pull the weave back from unravelling even if it'll tear you apart. And even if nobody realises how close their lives are to ending, even if nobody respects you for it.

You have to look the most powerful people alive in the eye and plead with them to fucking help you for god's sake knowing it's a crisis and if you don't take action right now instead of waiting for it to get worse... being able to tell them 'I told you so' will be no solace at all.

And fuckin.... if fantasy stories are there to give us hope for ourselves, nothing hits as directly as the journey from "It's not that bad, why should we put anything on the line for you?" to

That hope means something very real to me.

[anxious-witch]

Here's some more JO positivity ❤️

I love how much they are not afraid to care about things, show that they care, and invite others to share in that, in a completely genuine way. In this day and age, when cynicism is often upheld as 'realism' and showing genuine emotion is often scoffed at as being naive, trite or silly, because people become closed off to survivey, to me it feels like they and their music are saying 'actually, you know what, feeling deeply is what makes us human, feeling deeply and owning it is what makes us invested in the people and the world around us, and that's the only way forward because if we want a life and a future worth living, we need each other and we can't be scared to show that we care'. Once again, ESPECIALLY as 5 young Balkan men, I know this gets repeated, but it's really an extra layer because the social programing was definitely against them when it comes to this.

The thing that drew me the most to them is how much joy and love they have for each other and what they do. And you can't really fake stuff like that, because it's not an 'image' you create, it's real energy you invest. They feel like a group that understands that nothing is more important than taking care of each other, because that's the basis of everything else.

I, as someone who's been in activism for almost a decade, really love the underlying message of their songs and their concerts, which to me reads as 'actually, love and joy are radical acts in a world which constantly tries to tear them away from you or shame you for them'. And they don't do it in a way that's trivialising. It's not the ignorant 'oh, you should ignore that stuff is bad, just be happy'. It's 'yeah, the world is often a horrible place, but one of the ways of surviving that and not only surviving, but really living, is turning to each other, refusing the narative of being doomed, and finding love and joy where you can'.

It's no wonder to many LGBTIQ+ folks and others who have experiences of being marginalised are drawn to them, our communities know a thing or two about the radical power of joy.

And all the effort and attention they put into everything they do makes me think they are something much more substantial than 'nice' - they seem like genuinely kind people.

Love and joy are radical acts ❤️ I couldn't have said it better myself. In a world that tells us not to care about anything because everything is temporary and destined to fall apart, they say "I will care for this until it does" and I think that's so, so brave.

Thank you for this ask, I don't have much more to add because you said pretty much everything. Part about activism is so important

[tanihanya]

You wanna know smth that worries me loads in media rn? The Overwhelming Pessimism (rant post, written at 12am lol)

Please correct me if I'm wrong, but I was watching some older shows with my dad earlier-- and while some were a couple dated, Some things, really, really stuck out to me. We were watching M*A*S*H, the episode where the Cardinal Visits. It touches on deep topics, while still keeping it's normal humour, and feels good at the end. However, It was more after watching it-- that I sorta noticed... M*A*S*H would never air today.

And, No- Not because people would be 'Too Sensitive' - But the opposite, It's not dark enough. It's not grimy. It gives war as it is without being constant, overwhelming angst, and brooding darkness, and pessimistic characters--- I tried to think, about shows that were hopeful and meaningful and light today-- Movies, Even-- and I just, Couldnt. And that's because... as far as I know, what optimistic shows exist? From Superhero movies to sci fi, we have gritty, dark stories about corruption and being doomed and hidden issues we don't think about, constantly weighing down all the time. Online, we only see shit and how awful the world is outside, and never- never once- Like M*A*S*H and TNG, some shows I really like, Ways to deal with it, or try to help and fix it-- Nothing good, as if the human condition is nothing but misery and regret. But it's not like that. The World Sucks, it really does-- But we fucken neglect the things that make it redeemable, too- We neglect that change can, and has, happened. We seem to design the future as this unstoppable force of evil, that none of us can stop. Where are my TNGs and MASHs to help? where are the shows that are meant to give me faith? Where are the people still dreaming of futures, even if unattainable, to try to achieve? Where is our future? If all we ever think of is darkness, how can we ever expect it to be light? When we phrase "Realism" as the same as pessimism, the world falls into the pessimistic ideas itself-

Is Pessimism realistic? or are we making it realistic by being so pessimist? When we make only awful and gross futures, what future do we expect to grow into?

We don't allow eachother to dream. That is the right we are taking away from ourselves-- Something no external force can do. People in the past have dreamt of tomorrow in the worst of situations, why do we only ever make these nightmares? I'm going to be honest, While it's true that the world always has, and likely will, always suck, the fact is that we live here anyway- We need to make these changes, or try to, or the world will never become any different.

Yes, It's hard to try to change things, but it's harder to live in a world where nobody tried.

Where are the happy stories? Where have they gone? Where are shows like M*A*S*H, which acknowledge and explore the shit while appreciating the good ?

Where is half of our Human Condition? Where have we hidden it? It's easy to consume doomsaying media, Everybody does it. I do it. It's addictive to feel doomed, it's easy to throw all out and say that our futures will only get worse but--- Who Benefits? How does it help? It is hard to be hopeful, and it always feels like it gets harder as time goes on-- But we have to be Hopeful anyway. We have to dream or at least believe that things Can Improve.

If we never do that, then we never allow things to improve at all. If we let the world take away our ability to dream, we're giving up something that it has no right or access to. We need to welcome change. Yes, Recognise that "It's not good enough" But still be able to celebrate that it happened at all, that today is better than yesterday. I can't remember who said this, But I'm gonna quote a line that I heard once: "Welcome to Earth, Your Mission is to leave a better place than the one at your birth."

Forget about changing the world, you can change things down on our level. the personal level. you can still try, you can still work hard to make yourself happy- you can still be kind, and appreciative to others. We can still work for those glorious, unachievable dreams instead of these vicious, equally unrealistic nightmares. I hope this made sense <3

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

Hello! i saw the ask game and i wanted to ask your opinions about my best guy Theoden!

Love your blog!

<3 <3 hello hello! Yess, he is the best!

First impression

I always loved him. It's the soft dad vibes that he gives off in the film and I always transposed those onto book version of Theoden as well, even if they aren't as front-and-centre.

Impression now

As you all know I have a soft spot for imperfection and Theoden is very much an imperfect leader who is trying his damndest in an impossible situation.

I love his fear of being like his ancestors (sure "lesser son of greater sires" but in the immediate memory Fengel and Thengel weren't anything to write home about and I'm sure Theoden had the "don't be like your grandfather" running in his head), which is a nice parallel to Aragorn's own fears and concerns. That certain weaknesses are "inherited" or you're somehow doomed to repeat the failings of your forefathers.

I also really appreciate Theoden's practicality and realism. This is definitly shown way more in the books than in the films.** But he is so pragmatic and realistic about what is happening and has a strong, stable workman-like air to his leadership as king and general. It's very grounding and a nice compliment to the high fantasy that is happening around them all.

--

**I have Views & Opinions on what PJ did with Theoden in the films in relation to Aragorn

Favorite moment

In the movies, I love all of his speeches. My favourite, favourite scene is "but do you trust your king/where is the horse and the rider" bit with Gamling. Second up are the paralleling scenes of "I know your face" with Eowyn. Soft dad vibes <3 <3

In the book, I naturally have my favourite scene is when he's missing Grima and having those complex feelings of "I'm angry at this man for what he has done and his betrayal, while at the same time I'm grieving the relationship we used to have/the man he once was." It's so very human.

I just love Theoden's deep humanity. A feature so often missing in the race of Man who are usually more High Arthurian, for lack of a better way to phrase it. Not that the likes of Aragorn and Faramir don't have their deeply human moments, they for sure do, but Theoden is consistently the most deeply human of the leaders, aside from Denethor, and I really like that.

Idea for a story

There's a part of me that's a secret Theoden/Grima shipper, so you know. Anything utterly tragic in that department with some bittersweet hope(?) at the end. Kill me where our love hurts most, my liege.

Otherwise, I would love an exploration of Theoden and his father's relationship and how he positions himself within the frame of his father and grandfather's legacy. Also his changing views on what it means to be Rohirrim - considering I am sure he has a complex relationship with that. He's more comfortable in Westron and Sindarin than the language of his own people! That's got to have some complexity to it.

Unpopular opinion

I'm not sure I have one on Theoden? I feel like most of my opinions are pretty par for the course.

Favorite relationship

Definitly Eowyn. I love the father-daughter vibe happening with them. I wish we saw more of it.

Favorite headcanon

When Theoden adopted Eomer and Eowyn he went around to everyone in Meduseld apologising in advance. People were like "?? your niece and nephew seem charming and lovely ??" and Theoden was like "ok but you don't understand: They are the Children of Eomund. This is going to be INSANE."

He always loved them, of course, but they were little terrors. You know that dual thing of dealing with grief of losing parents/being orphaned at a young age and how that can lead to lashing out plus natural peronalities being on the fiery side.

Theoden just like, put everyone on High Alert.

(lol Grima would have been like mid-late twenties and Theoden is like: New Guy, do you like children? And Grima is all: Abso-fucking-lutely not. Why? Theoden: No reason. Gamling, I was wrong, we can't put the new guy on baby-sitting duties.)

----

Thank you!!! Theoden is just, ah, one of my top tier faves. And thank you, I'm glad you enjoy my wee lil' tumblr :D

[h0jos-f4vorite-t3stsubject]

After watching gameplay of the rebirth demo up until the Nibel fire event, I have so much to say and I apologize how deranged I'll sound. (This is long I'm sorry)

Firstly: ASGDKFGSLDOAHDKHD *unholy crying screaming breaking walls*

Secondly: I love Sephiroth, I love him so much I'm one of those annoying mfers that believes I'm married to him. It's just objectively true and no one can tell me otherwise I can fix him. This was the first time I was actually, genuinely, 100% scared of him. His fall from grace, his breakdown, the pure rage and sadness and betrayl was so palpable and so real. The 180 he did from a respectable and heroic man to a bloodthirsty monster devoid of all sympathy was just so good.

3: the remake trilogy has an iron grip on my heart with its devotion to bringing realism and emotion to the once unvoiced, pixelated polygons of the 90s. The way they made "Cloud" act like Zack, with his voice lines and mannerism is just so nice, and how it glitches with Cloud's actual memories of what he experienced going back home (going to his mom's, going through Tifa's house, crawling towards his mom's burning house. And can I just say, what a dick Sephiroth can be. "Run, Cloud. You have to leave. You have to live." Those were his mother's words in her final moments. And Sephiroth taunted Cloud with them in remake.

D: the little details and reworking of old details is just amazing. Seph finally being pissed and fed up with Gast as he's the one that started the project that created him. The flashes of my favorite and most hated old man Hojo during the breakdown sequence as that is Sephiroth's primary abuser. The text in the books he reads having details blacked out, which makes me think that pushed Sephiroth even more to the point of him not knowing Lucrecia was his mother. Because her name was blacked out. I suspect Hojo did this, either thinking in advance about Sephiroth finding those books or sending people out to hide the details months or weeks before he was shipped out.

Bonus: the trailers for rebirth has me on edge. Cloud attacking Tifa? Aerith not dying? Zack still alive in parallel timeline? Why does Marlene know what will happen to Aerith? Why does the man that made my username the way it is keep popping up more and more? What's Hojo's involvement in the story? Are we finally going to save Aerith? I have theories and predictions.

Bonus 1: I really hope we don't save Aerith. I love her, but literally she had to die. The entire game was created with the message of loss and love, how much time are you spending with those you care about before they eventually pass on. Aerith's death was a sudden and sad one, but at the end of the game it was ultimately her and her influence in the lifestream that saved the planet (and I firmly believe that!! In the original game, Holy did what it could, but Meteor was stronger. The lifestream had to spawn and push it back, and it was stronger because of Aerith, her face showing up at the end of the game has me believing that. Literally she had to die or else the planet would die). Taking something as essential and plot driven as her death, while it'll be a twist, it ruins the message of the game of spending what little time you have left with your loved ones. I'd actually be more happy if Aerith was saved and then she turns and goes "What have you done? This wasn't supposed to happen. You shouldn't have saved me. You doomed us all."

Bonus 2: if the theory of the Sephiroth at the end of remake being a Sephiroth that is hyper aware of the timeline and trying to help us (the whole "Seven Seconds" thing being him warning Cloud of what to look out for), I have a strong feeling he might be on our side. Why else would he have his own playable section in the rebirth demo with his own character equip animations? Yes, I know he was playable in the og 7, but he wasn't as playable as this. Og didn't have the synergy mechanic either. Why does Cloud or "Cloud" have synergy with Sephiroth if it's just going to be wasted on one section of the game? I hope Sephiroth officially joins our party and becomes a whole playable endgame character.

Bonus 3: Hojo. The man, the trashy, the worst thing that has ever happened to the story of 7. His constant grip on the narrative so far has me thinking that we might actually get to see him at his peak. He's the center of everything, the fall of Sephiroth, the death of Vincent, the tragedy of Lucrecia, the start of the death of Zack. Hojo being aware of the whispers from remake, him seeing Sephiroth on his monitor, him laughing when Jenova's body was stolen, his little line in the rebirth trailer "This is the beginning of the end". Hojo knows something we don't and might be a more powerful villain because he's either planned ahead or worked in the details of this new timeline bullshit. Plus, with the intergrade dlc and its ties with deepground, I think Hojo will have a much MUCH bigger part to play with the remake trilogy and just maybe a Dirge of Cerberus remake. I can't wait to see how they build up my favorite lab rat.

[littlefreya]

Do you read smut novels? And if so do you have any recommendations?

Hey love, I do tend to read erotic novels every now and then, however, the queen of recommendation on that genre is @wolvesandhoundshowltogether. So if you want, feel free to leave her an ask. She'll be more than happy to assist. I'm more of a fantasy/horror/thrillers/historical and magical realism savvy :)

Now onward to my recommendations.

Landscape with Animals - Cameron S. Redfern

This is one of the first erotic novels I bought and read and even though it's been almost 20 years since then I can never forget about the journey it took me through. The main characters are nameless and we know very little of their past and current lives. What we do know is that their relationship is quite the taboo...

At some sense it feels a bit like voyeurism as we get a chance to experience their very intense, feral and doomed relationship. While this is not a classic plot-book and more driven by the characters' perspective, it's loaded with emotions and will get you hooked.

More under the cut

Wicked Intentions by Elizabeth Hoyt

It was only a few paragraphs ago where I mentioned loving thrillers! So this book is actually a combo of historical thriller and passionate erotic romance. What grasp me is how evocative and how well written it is, and of course I can't say no to murder mystery.

More books under the cut

Beautiful Stranger - Christina Lauren

Allow me to give you the synopsis from Goodread

Escaping a cheating ex, finance whiz Sara Dillon’s moved to New York City and is looking for excitement and passion without a lot of strings attached. So meeting the irresistible, sexy Brit at a dance club should have meant nothing more than a night’s fun. But the manner—and speed—with which he melts her inhibitions turns him from a one-time hookup and into her Beautiful Stranger.

I think that's nuff said. Mr sexy brit reminded me of a certain agent Walker throughout the story. And it definitely delivers as promised.

The Red: An Erotic Fantasy - Tiffany Reisz

Another book that Marta texted me with "sfsafka Freya!!! you must read it, ASAP"

Yet another mysterious british man making our dear protagonist an offer she cannot refuse. Or is it? This book has quite the delicious surprise... and the smut is... top notch. It's not as romantic as its debaucherous.

The Chief - Monica McCarty

Currently reading this one, though quite slowly. This is another book recommend to me by Marta. Historical romance, highlands 👀 and again, really well written.

[my-mt-heart]

Caryl, and Carylers, Are Stuck In Limbo

Putting a warning right up top because some of the things I get into later might be triggering to those who have struggled with mental/emotional health. Please don’t feel obligated to read that part or any of this if it’s too difficult. 

I could easily turn this into a “positivity” post, focusing on all of the romantic implications of Daryl’s and Carol’s scenes in the finale. Like Daryl’s eyes being glued to Carol when she says what a beautiful day it is, how Judith’s final words of advice to Daryl imply that his happiness is with Carol, how Daryl’s “I love you” marks a new milestone not just for their relationship, but for a “man of few words” like Daryl Dixon, how Carol’s “I love you” intentionally tries to remove the gravity of those three words in order to lessen the agony of their goodbye, and how the open-endedness of it leaves room for more stories for them in the future. 

I would love nothing more than to focus on all of that, it’s what I’m most comfortable doing, but that would mean overlooking a massive issue that impacts these characters’ alleged future and impacts the fanbase and that feels like a great disservice. If it makes me a negative nancy or whatever we’re calling that subset of Caryl fans, then that’s that. For the record, I hate that we’ve fostered this culture where our thoughts have to exist in a binary. Why can’t my thoughts be nuanced? Why can’t I give credit where credit is due and think critically about other things? Does it mean I don’t really love the show or its characters? It feels like someone associated with the show might be perpetuating that way of thinking, but I’ll get into that soon. 

Like I already mentioned, my biggest gripe with the finale is the lack of emotional realism for the characters in terms of the paths they’re taking. There have been no clues, none whatsoever, that Daryl’s “ready to move on” or that Carol had any desire to take over for Hornsby. It retcons years of some of the most beautiful character development I’ve ever seen, and fuck, it even retcons the retcons from just this season alone. How do you justify Daryl deciding to leave Judith after he’s become a “daddy” to her? How do you justify Daryl deciding to leave Carol after he tried so hard to stop her from running away? I see no effort whatsoever to make it even remotely believable. They were just forced to take several steps backward, getting trapped in narrative limbo, doomed to repeat the same storylines we saw in S9/S10C where Carol has to play pretend for the good of everyone else around her and Daryl has to be on his own, struggling to find where he belongs. After 11 seasons, the characters and the audience have earned some relief, and what we’re all stuck with is just more heartbreak and anxiety. Why? Because AMC needs to service a spinoff that has never and still does not make any narrative sense. That’s all it is, character integrity be damned. 

I’m not trying to rob anyone of the hope they might have for more Caryl stories down the line. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with hoping, and we do deserve those stories, but we don’t have anything official. Vague promises from actors and EPs don’t carry much weight because at the end of the day, their goal is to try to get us hooked on what they’re selling, and if they can’t do that with good storytelling, the only thing that really matters, they’ll resort to marketing ploys. So, I think it’s important to be skeptical and to use our wallets to remind AMC that we’re skeptical. Otherwise, we’re only giving them permission to keep stringing us along indefinitely, to deny us the stories we really want because they expect us to settle for less than what’s been earned.  

Think about the shortcuts taken in S11 and the regressions in the finale. If you think that can be chalked up to Kang’s and her writers’ “incompetence,” then I’d also encourage you to consider everything we’ve been told about le Daryl so far. Castles, and nightclubs, and endless epic-ness, oh my. But if Gimple has CRM brain, Zabel has never worked on a TWD show before, McDermott is focused on setting a different tone, and Norman needs Daryl to be the unattached, badass hero, then who’s monitoring the character arcs so that if Caryl fans were to watch, we feel welcome to the story, like we’re still with the character we’ve known and loved for 12 years even as he navigates new challenges? Who’s double checking that his relationship with Carol is still being respected? If Daryl’s in a similar headspace as 10C, does that mean we’re in for another Leah-esque arc? More ship baiting? 

I don’t agree with other fans that Norman bears *all* the responsibility for what happened to our promised Caryl spinoff, but it does upset me to see this disdainful attitude about Caryl fans, who are also his/Daryl’s fans, expressed over and over again as if 1) we need to be guilted or shamed into watching his show and 2) we don’t meet his criteria for what constitutes a fan. But for all the offense he seems to take that we don’t just accept this show without Carol or take him at his word that Caryl will meet down the road at some unknown point in time, we the Caryl fans, again that’s Carol AND Daryl fans, don’t feel listened to and we don’t feel reassured. 

My job teaches me to see the unglamorous side of television, but engaging in fandom has taught me something just as valuable, which is the human side. No, actors shouldn’t be bullied. I’ve been very adamant about that. What needs more emphasis though is how the fans are treated in return. They’re numbers to the network, but to me they’re real people who for one reason or another found something meaningful in following these two characters throughout their journey together, and they don’t deserve to be exploited for their viewership. They don’t deserve to have, what is for some, their only source of comfort in life ripped away so more privileged individuals can live out whatever dreams they have for themselves. I’m not singling out Norman, but he says he doesn’t like all of the “whining.” You know what I don’t like? *Putting out that trigger warning again.* I don’t like people in my DM’s sharing stories of severe anxiety, depression, self-harm, or suicidal thoughts because they lost something special to them, because they feel rejected by a show they love or an actor they admire. To many, it is not “just a TV show” and I think anyone who turns their passion for film/TV into a career should be able to empathize with that.  

Emotional and financial investment in Carol’s AND Daryl’s story is a completely valid reason for skepticism and “protests.” I’ve seen people argue that creators don’t owe their audience anything and it’s their story to tell, and while some shows certainly set a poor example, that’s actually not how things are supposed to work. If you’re making a TV show, you do so with your audience in mind. If you spend twelve years utilizing the amazing chemistry between two actors to build a meaningful relationship like no other, you honor that story and in doing so, you honor the millions of people who enable you to tell that story in the first place. Theoretically, the people who work on your favorite show should take satisfaction in giving you something you’ll love. I’m happy to say that’s been my experience so far as a writer in the industry. 

And as a woman in the industry, I can’t not take it personally if I have reason to suspect sexist/misogynistic practices are hindering some of the most talented and hard working among us, the ones who are needed both on and offscreen to create content that resonates with a diverse audience. It’s been encouraging to see so many others take it just as seriously, I imagine because so many others are also women and have had to battle sexism in their own lives. It’s not painting anyone as a victim or minimizing their agency. It’s just offering support. Women helping women.  

We’ve been called crazy, unhinged, conspiracy theorists, and feminists for raising these concerns and sure, we have blind spots. Yes, there are lines that shouldn’t be crossed. But overall, I don’t believe fans have anything to feel bad about. When all of this started,  AMC didn’t seem to think Carol matched Daryl in popularity, and we’ve been trying to push them to realize that isn’t true, that in fact, she is vital in her own right as well as to Daryl’s story. I don’t like to make assumptions about people I don’t know, but even if we got some things wrong, I can’t imagine Melissa would begrudge the overwhelming amount of love and appreciation she’s been shown, and I hope there isn’t a doubt in her mind how much her portrayal of Carol means to us. The whole point of rallying in her name was not to pressure her into something she didn’t want to do or invade her privacy. It was to make absolutely sure she has the power to choose what she wants for her character’s future. 

I will be beyond thrilled if I have to put my foot in my mouth like Norman said. I’ll put all the “foots” in my mouth because more than anything, I want Carol and Daryl to reunite and finish their story the way they should. But if it’s true my viewership is valued, show me, don’t tell me. In the meantime, I will not relax and I will not chill. I’m going to be upset about what I’ve been left with, which is the absolute last thing I wanted for both of my favorite characters. 

Like I said, my blog is still here. My inbox is open. 

[zhnnveuxpasdrmir]

Trying to explain that this quiet, braided anthology of short-short, thought variant, actor driven one-offs is a must-see breakthrough teleplay, a timeless masterpiece!, a work of explicable magic.

I was one of the six people in the world that actually saw this in 2010, but I'd only caught a few bits of it at the time. They were arresting as hell. It's exciting to finally get a chance to appreciate it now, due to the grisly stupidity of all corporate media conglomerates, and the ease of getting high quality archives of unfairly treated past media anonymously on the dark web, along with heroin and guns! 😁

I liked how The Booth At The End examines the fallacies inherent to popular reads of morality, and somehow criticizes specific religious cultures without once mentioning any of them, or admitting to any particular central framework by name. The script is rooted in widely understood monotheist ethics.

It's unrepentant, dour, merciless, and openly, loudly, glaringly deceptive in its candor.

Xander Berkeley. Holy shit. was just unbelievably powerful on this show. Every actor turns in a lifetime achievement award worthy scene, but mr Berkeley is just: setting your disbelief aside, so casually! You believe. The unthinkable is thoroughly plausible in these weency, handy little scenes that.... feel longer. You'll think it was an hour. It was like six minutes.

I don't know fully why this isn't a better known show! Maybe it's too hard to face. If you have an interest in the craft of acting, in show, this little one-sitting binge demonstrates expert theatrical film making.

And these goddamn endings will fuck you up for life!

so here's my theory on the Man, Doris, and the doom of human kind:

oh he's certainly not the Devil. He's a creation of G-D though for sure. As is Doris.

If he has to be a specific character from the stories, he's The Christ, not exactly The Messiah, but something a lot more like christian Jesus if he'd lived on since Resurrection, only through a magical realism lens instead of a worshipful one. The Man is aware of what G-D is, knows it's not what humans think it is. Some say "the wandering Jew" but no: this is not and never was a human.

if Doris has to be a specific character from the stories, she's Satan, or a fallen angel, but let's be real, G-D's ex-favorite, luring the new boy away from G-D's detachment, and into "the trap". I don't agree with the above article in thinking it ended too soon, it ends exactly where it should, where it has to.

because that demand Doris makes is real, and it's one that our planet's conception of G-D has always, always failed. She's right to state this demand, and the Man must comply. Both of them will be literally destroyed by the task. This is shown over and over in both seasons.

The Booth At The End is a genius series of stage teleplays that criticizes flaws in popular conceptions of G-D, how it distorts our perceptions, and how those distort our experience of need. Each "normal" character symbolizes a specific 'mistake' or foible; each supernatural character represents an attempt, by 'history' ambition institution or spiritual quest, to understand and eliminate those errors. The two seasons are a diptych demonstrating respectively How and Why we are trapped forever in a Hell of our own device. 🌞❤️

[timptoe]

When Genocide Is the Best Option

I played the Mass Effect trilogy for the first time during the summer of 2022, and it broke my brain. So I played it again over the last six months, trying to figure out why it did what it did to me, and after finishing it again last week, I’ve had the same reaction of intense grief I did the first time. I know I’m a newbie and a decade late to this game, but I’ve tried to piece together what it is about the ending that’s so brilliant and so terrible. And in true English major form, I’ve written 3000 words to try and exorcise it from my head.

It starts with the ending of Stranger Than Fiction.

In Stranger Than Fiction, a boring accountant named Harold Crick (played by Will Ferrell in the best performance of his career) one day starts hearing a voice in his head (Emma Thompson, my love), narrating his life. It’s annoying, but bearable, up until the day he adjusts the time on his wristwatch and the Author says, “Little did he know this simple, seemingly innocuous act would result in his imminent death.”

Understandably perturbed, Harold seeks to prevent this, ultimately by seeking the Author out and trying to convince her not to finish typing out the book and, presumably, his death. (The unexplained magical realism in this movie is absurdity on par with Samuel Beckett, I can’t tell you how much I love it.) She handwrites the ending for him to see, and Harold shows it to a Professor friend (Dustin Hoffman!) who tells him, “Even if you avoid this death, another will find you and I guarantee that it won't be nearly as poetic or meaningful as what she's written.” And Harold agrees once he reads it too, because in it, he saves a little boy. Isn’t that what we all want, for the end of our stories to have meaning?

But the Author ends up changing the ending. When the Professor reads the finished story with the new, happier ending where both the boy and Harold live, he’s clearly disappointed. They have this exchange:

Professor: It's okay. It's not bad. It's not the most amazing piece of English literature in several years. But it's okay. Author: I think I’m fine with okay. Professor: Why did you change the book? Author: Lots of reasons. I realized I just couldn't do it. Professor: Because he's real? Author: Because it's a book about a man who doesn't know he's about to die and then dies. But if the man does know he's going to die and dies anyway, dies willingly, knowing he could stop it, then...I mean, isn't that the type of man you want to keep alive?

Shepard is the type of person you want to keep alive.

The series does a good job of getting us attached to Shepard, so it’s natural that we want a happy ending for them. We want The Good Ending. And we’ve been trained by the last century-or-so of western fiction heroes’ journies to expect The Good Ending, too. We expect Frodo and Sam to be rescued from Mount Doom by the eagles. We expect Cloud to beat Sephiroth and come out the other side, whole. And even when the protagonist does die—think the Hero of Fereldan choosing not to sleep with Morrigan, or the wipeout of the team in Rogue One, or the dad dying in Life Is Beautiful—it’s usually a sacrifice ultimately in service of The Good Ending. The world is left better because of the hero’s death—a choice that isn’t really a choice, because we expect The Good Ending. 

But instead, at the very last moment, Mass Effect throws us into the cruelest version of the Trolley Problem imaginable.

On track one, if you choose to keep the trolley on its original path, you Destroy all AI. Which means you kill a valued member of your crew and an entire race of sentient synthetics in cold blood. Sure, Shepard (probably) lives at the very end, but this is definitionally Not The Good Ending. The hero can’t commit genocide and still be the hero. And the idea that Shepard could live with themselves after making that choice isn’t consistent with Paragon morality. Maybe if your Shepard is a Renegade, they become an antihero in this moment, but it’s still not The Good Ending as we understand it.

So jump to track two, and choose to Control the trolley and drive it away from death toward new purpose. Which is fine, except that a) the whole arc of the third game shows that Control isn’t possible and is actually evil, embodied in the mission of Cerberus and the person of the Illusive Man; and b) Shepard is then no longer Shepard at the end of the story—they’ve lost the humanity they’ve been fighting so desperately to preserve, stripped away to become the closest thing the galaxy has to a god. Maybe they’re a good god for a hundred years, or even a thousand, but maybe the Leviathans’ Intelligence was, too. Can we expect Shepard-without-humanity not to eventually turn into the Catalyst? To say that the only way to save humanity is to “preserve” it? Renegade Shepard even says in the epilogue, “I will destroy those who threaten the future of the many”; Paragon Shepard’s version, “I will act as guardian for the many,” isn’t much better. Who decides who’s the many? Autocracy can’t be The Good Ending.

Track three’s gotta be The Good Ending then, right? The game certainly presents it as such: Synthesis, the ultimate bridge of understanding between organics and synthetics. The only way to truly achieve peace, argues the Catalyst. It’s the central option in that final chamber, it’s the shortest path to walk to, it’s literally colored lifestream!green. And it’s a completely violation of the bodily autonomy of every living creature in the entire galaxy. The body horror’s real on this one, y’all. I actually picked Synthesis on my first playthrough because of how clearly it was presented as The Good Ending, but watching the epilogue…I mean, it’s great for EDI. Probably great for Joker too. But then I saw the little green circuitry flash across James’s face during Shepard’s memorial and I thought, This guy? The body-as-a-temple guy? No way he’s okay with any of this. Imposing your will on an entire galaxy full of sentient beings feels inconsistent with The Good Ending.

Those are our choices in the final moments of the game. And honestly, the most nearly moral choice is probably track one. Control, at best, pauses the cycle until AI Shepard decides to start the cycle of reaping again. Synthesis takes away the freedom of all sentient creatures—even those who aren’t spacefaring yet, which: imagine if we today suddenly got Synthesized, the chaos that that would bring—to be themselves. So we’re left with Destroy. Think about that. From a certain point of view, genocide is the most nearly moral decision. Which means there is no moral decision.

There is no Good Ending.

In trying to come to terms with the ending, I’ve read a lot of takes about how the writing is bad. I just don’t think that’s the case. I rather think it’s some of the most brilliant writing in Bioware’s canon, precisely because it’s so uncomfortable. Maybe the Choice comes a little bit out of nowhere, though it’s vaguely hinted at in certain descriptions of the Crucible War Assets, like how the Crucible “tunes into the mass relays' command switches” for “the safe discharge of tremendous amounts of energy”, producing “some kind of energetic pulse that might pass through the magnetosphere of a planet unimpeded.” But even if the Choice is a swerve, the choices aren’t. Destroy has been Shepard’s mission from day one. Control is set up as an alternate option starting at Mars. And Synthesis is hinted at as The Good Ending by EDI, the Leviathan, and Legion.

And let’s talk about Legion for a minute, and why the Geth/Quarian peace doesn’t affect the conversation with the Catalyst. My first playthrough, I was aghast that silver-tongued Shepard wasn’t able to argue with the Catalyst that none of the options were necessary, that the Geth/Quarian peace proves all three choices are unnecessary, that everything’ll be alright with a little grit and empathy. Shepard’s able to argue (and convince) damn near everyone else in the series of almost anything; it feels like bad writing not to let them do that with the Catalyst, too.

Except for two things. First, Shepard is actively bleeding out. They’re barely conscious when the platform takes them up into the Crucible, not exactly up for a rigorous Lincoln-Douglass debate. But second, and more importantly, the Catalyst is an unreliable actor. The Leviathians’ Intelligence that becomes the Catalyst has one—and only one—purpose: to stop the chaos of organic/synthetic antagonism. The cycle of reaping works for millenia until, finally, a creature actually makes it through the Citadel and onto the precipice of firing the Crucible. That’s never happened before. And more to the point, the Catalyst can’t stop the creature; it has no corporeal form. So the Catalyst has to come up with a new plan: rather than allow the creature to Destroy its solution or, worse, supplant it as the new source of Control, the Catalyst needs to convince the creature to go through with Synthesis. I’m willing to bet the Catalyst would rather just kill Shepard and continue the cycle of reaping, but it knows that that’s no longer possible, so Synthesis is its best remaining option. It has every reason to lie to Shepard, to cajole Shepard into making that choice. It is utterly consistent in its motivations.

In other words, it’s good writing, even if it’s terribly inconsistent with The Good Ending we’ve come to expect.

(As an aside, I know from bad writing: I’m a refugee from Final Fantasy. FFVI was my first—and still my favorite—RPG; FFVII and its followups are brilliant, FFVIII has some of my favorite characters, FFX is a theological treatise better than anything I read in seminary. But FFXIII and especially FFXV are complete and utter garbage. Hollow characters. Unearned conflicts. Absurd twists with no basis in the narrative. A storytelling mode that’s so rigid as to be unbearable. And FFXV’s ending! No pathos, no resolution, the barest connection to anything else in the story, just a huge timejump and then “kill the bad guy.” Uuuuuugh.)

In teasing out the deep grief I felt after beating Mass Effect the first time, I was surprised at the type of grief it is. It’s not the sharp grief of the loss of love, like I felt when my mother-in-law died or when my wife miscarried twice. It’s not the dull grief of the loss of innocence, like when I left home for the last time or when I watched the towers fall on TV. It took a while to process, but I think it’s the grief of the loss of purpose, the same lingering malaise I felt when I finally realized my career of twenty years was actively bad and I had to leave it behind. Mass Effect’s ending is so hard because we want Shepard either to live, or at least to have a “poetic and meaningful” death, and they don’t. They live, they become a mass murderer; they die, they become everything they’ve fought against. That single choice has the effect of making everything before the Crucible feel purposeless. 

And yet.

There’s a quote I like from Beckett that goes:

You must go on.

I can’t go on.

I’ll go on.

Art is not always meant to comfort us. Sometimes, it’s meant to break us and then, a la Hemingway, help us become “stronger in the broken places.” Beckett and the absurdists and the existentialists get that on a deep level: there’s always An Ending, rarely is it a Good Ending, and sometimes what you do before and after the ending matters more than the ending itself. And I think that’s where I finally get to with Mass Effect: yeah, the ending is absurd and purposeless. And that’s the point.

I want desperately for Shepard to get The Good Ending because Shepard is the type of person you want to keep alive. I want Mass Effect 3 to end like Mass Effect 1, with Shepard’s companions wondering where they are, and then they run up a piece of debris like a conquering hero for all to see. I want to see my Shepard reunite with Kaidan, to run across the scorched battlefield of London into a fierce embrace and say, “I would never leave you behind, not really, not forever. Not again. Never again.” And he doesn’t. And that sucks.

And there is a deep beauty in fighting until you can’t anymore, in making the only choice you can because it’s still your choice, in finding new purpose after The Good Ending, or The Not-So-Good Ending, because if Mass Effect is about anything it’s about endurance. We will endure this war because we have to. I will endure this pain because I have no choice. Life keeps going because life keeps going with no reason or rhyme so it’s our job to make a reason, to invent purpose where none exists, because that’s what we do.

Existence is absurd. Doubly so in a universe like Mass Effect’s, filled with aliens who wield feckless power and technology that is indecipherable and an enemy who is fundamentally Other. For Beckett, the response to that absurdity is a happy, mighty “fuck you.” Maybe you can get The Good Ending if you try hard enough. Maybe there’s never any such thing as The Good Ending. None of that’s the point anyway because, again, existence is absurd—so fuck you, my life has meaning because I say it does. My choices have meaning because I say they do. We have purpose because we say we do. 

As Shepard says, “However insignificant we may be, we will fight. We will sacrifice. And we will find a way. That’s what humans do.”

I’m left conflicted about the next game. A huge part of me—the part that loves the twist in Stranger Than Fiction, the part that’s all about redemption and grace and simplicity—wants the game to be “The Search for Shep.” And I think if it is, it’ll negate the purposelessness and terrible beauty of the ending to Mass Effect 3, which would be an absolute shame. The ending of the Mass Effect trilogy is so powerful because it forces you to find meaning in the journey, not in the ending itself. It turned the whole series on its head for me at least because, honestly, I didn’t really like it during my first playthrough. I mean, it was…fine? Some good characters, some good lines, but kind of a mundane military FPS. Halo with space wizards. But it’s that ending, that existentially absurd ending, that lifts the rest of the series into high literature. (Not that I’m down on fix-it fics, mind you. There’s no work of literature that isn’t elevated by fanfiction. Hell, I’m writing my own fix-it fic from Joker’s POV! I’m just…conflicted about what to do with canon, which is another thing that makes me think it’s good writing after all.)

So that’s where I am. Never thought Mass Effect would jump into my top five favorite games ever, but here we are. It helped me come to terms with some pretty deep feelings I didn’t know were still in me, in the way good literature does. I’ll be chewing on this one for a long, long time. And lucky for me, the state of the fandom ten years after the trilogy ended is so robust that I’m in good company. Got a lot more thoughts, but I’ll stop there. Thanks, friends.

Sometimes, when we lose ourselves in fear and despair, in routine and constancy, in hopelessness and tragedy, we can thank God for Bavarian sugar cookies. And, fortunately, when there aren't any cookies, we can still find reassurance in a familiar hand on our skin, or a kind and loving gesture, or subtle encouragement, or a loving embrace, or an offer of comfort, not to mention hospital gurneys and nose plugs, an uneaten Danish, soft-spoken secrets, and Fender Stratocasters, and maybe the occasional piece of fiction. And we must remember that all these things, the nuances, the anomalies, the subtleties, which we assume only accessorize our days, are effective for a much larger and nobler cause. They are here to save our lives. I know the idea seems strange, but I also know that it just so happens to be true.  - Kay Eiffel, The Author, Stranger Than Fiction

[lafcadiosadventures]

Marx 🤝 Hugo on Balzac

Marx: “The realism I allude to may crop out even in spite of the author’s opinions. (…) Balzac was politically a Legitimist; his great work is a constant elegy on the inevitable decay of good society, his sympathies are all with the class doomed to extinction. But for all that his satire is never keener, his irony never bitterer, than when he sets in motion the very men and women with whom he sympathizes most deeply - the nobles. And the only men of whom he always speaks with undisguised admiration, are his bitterest political antagonists, the republican heroes of the Cloître Saint-Méry*, the men, who at that time (1830-6) were indeed the representatives of the popular masses. That Balzac thus was compelled to go against his own class sympathies and political prejudices, that he saw the necessity of the downfall of his favourite nobles, and described them as people deserving no better fate; and that he saw the real men of the future where, for the time being, they alone were to be found - that I consider one of the greatest triumphs of Realism, and one of the grandest features in old Balzac.” Karl Marx letter to Harkness, April 1888.

Hugo: “Unknown to himself, whether he wished it or not, whether he consented or not, the author of this immense and strange work is one of the strong race of Revolutionist writers. Balzac goes straight to the goal(...) by grace of his free and vigorous nature; by a privilege of the intellect of our time, which, having seen revolutions face to face, can see more clearly the destiny of humanity and comprehend Providence better,- Balzac redeemed himself smiling and severe from all those formidable studies which produced melancholy in Moliere and misanthropy in Rousseau.” Hugo’s Eulogy for Balzac from J. Berg Esenwein and Dale Carnagey’s the art of public speaking.

*marx could be thinking of Michel Chrestien, portrayed as the honorable alternative to Lucien de Rubempré, who dies a hero in 1832 at saint-mery (but balzac makes him fall in love with a princess because. of course he does)(i have not read all of balzac’s novels so i’m not sure if he has more revolutionary heroes, since marx claims he is “always” speaking in positive terms of them)

[fremedon]

Brickclub 5.1.15, “Gavroche Outside”

God, this chapter.

Hugo’s been very cagey about the ultimate fate of the barricade all this time. We know the insurrection will fail, but every time he’s reported that the insurgents felt they were doomed, he’s taken care to specify that that is the characters’ sense, and not fully endorse it as narrator; and every reference to Saint-Merry has been a double reminder that people did survive Saint-Merry, and that Saint-Merry exists in this world--our barricade is fictional; it’s not bound by the fate of any of the real ones. He’s held out a thread of hope for the fate of the characters.

This is where that thread is cut, abruptly and finally.

We were talking on Discord about the overwhelming, Tolkienian feeling of magic passing out of the world between the successive generations of revolutionaries-- @everyonewasabird mentioned the barricade losing its magic in two places, Prouvaire’s death and here, and becoming more grimly realistic after each of those deaths.

Gavroche, in a way, is killed by that realism. He’s the personification of Paris, quite explicitly. He’s a trickster: Bird has mentioned that his episodes before the barricade are always set in a timeless space, and one where the narrative functions according to the rules of trickster stories--i.e., if you go up against Gavroche, you will lose. The only other character who shares that narrative space is the Bishop.

Gavroche is stealing from authority, to put its goods to the use of the rebellion, and taunting authority’s agents while he does. Not even fifty pages ago, at the very end of Volume IV, we watched him do this with the wheelbarrow: he goaded a National Guard company into firing on itself for ten minutes and walked away unscathed and singing.

At the barricade, he is in the center of his place of power, as the narrator calls out in the reference to Antaeus touching the earth. By every narrative law of the mythic space and age he’s stepped out of, Gavroche should be untouchable.

To see him cut down is like watching a random orc patrol kill Tom Bombadil. It shouldn’t work.

But we’re not in that kind of story anymore. We’re in the story where the indomitable fighting spirit of Paris is slaughtered in the streets by well-fed men from the suburbs, who laugh while they take potshots at a 12-year-old.

[synchronousemma]

15th June: A strawberry-picking party is proposed

Read the post and comment on WordPress

Read: Vol. 3, ch. 6 [42], pp. 231–233 (“It was now the middle” to “‘the very thing to please me’”).

Context

A lame carriage-horse delays the exploring party to Box Hill. Mrs. Elton seizes at Mr. Knightley’s wry invitation to Donwell for a strawberry-picking party.

We know that this occurs in “the middle of June” (p. 231).

Readings and Interpretations

For Want of a Nail

Pat Rogers notes the importance of horses in Austen’s England, despite the inconvenience and expense occasioned by them causing water transport to be cheaper and quicker: “the horse served in the office of car, lorry, tractor, traction engine, moped, racing bike, pet and friend. It was employed by couriers, mailmen and highway robbers. As well as hauling barges, it bore hearses, ambulances, fire-engines, state coaches; and it carried its owner's hopes on the race course and in the hunting field” (p. 428). Horses’ ubiquity is reflected and sometimes played off of in Austen’s works: “We take little notice of the horses in Austen’s novels, but they are there, unobtrusive and essential, as they were in everyone’s lives. A lame carriage-horse delays the trip to Box Hill (E, 3:6), one of a number of strategic deferrals which build up expectations in this book” (ibid). Similarly, James Carson writes of this as the first in a series of examples of how, “[t]oward the end of the novel, Austen structures the very plot on the health and reliability of horses” (p. 176).

Making an Ass of U and Me

This section contains another example of the relationship between ideas and everyday practicalities in what Pam Morris terms “Mrs Elton’s Marie Antoinette posturing in wishing to ride to the strawberry-picking at Donwell on a donkey”:

Mrs Elton’s desire for a donkey as symbol of Arcadian simplicity provides a wonderfully comic image, yet it is typical of Austen’s materialist psychology. Idealist assertions of the mental realm as the primary reality are undercut in her novels as objects persistently point to the way things are required to give substance to the immaterial. Things, in Austen’s texts, demonstrate the necessary interdependence of the subjective and the objective, the idealist and the empirical. We know ourselves, even our interiority, through our interaction with things. […] In this way, Austen’s realism brings to notice a field of visibility—the materiality of human life […]. (p. 93)

Janet Todd points out that, in reality, the donkeys of Jane Austen’s day were “servicable beasts,” and her house in Chawton maintained two: Mrs. Elton’s donkeys, however, are “part of her pastoral kitsch. She has led up to them through her variety of props, her floppy hats, baskets and pink ribbons; the donkeys come in with the ‘caro sposo’” (p. 19). Mr. Knightley responds with the opinion that “‘[t]he nature and the simplicity of gentlemen and ladies, with their servants and furniture, I think is best observed by meals within doors’” (p. 232). But, though Mrs. Elton’s “play-acting in the strawberry beds, if it came off, would not be entirely genteel,” instead “partak[ing] of the anxiety, the uneasy make-believe of the tourist who is not at home in the real world of the country house” (pp. 19–20), Todd sees Knightley’s response as culpable as well:

The Englishman dislikes the pastoral, associated as it was with the doomed French Marie Antoinette and her play-acting as shepherdess at the Trianon hameau with her perfumed sheep […]. Mr. Knightley dislikes this frivolous, perhaps aristocratic, perhaps French falsity. He fears an outdoor lapse of civility if they move from the ordered space of the civilizing dining room with ladies, gentlemen and servants, to a less controlled but equally owned outside arena. But Mr. Knightley himself falls short of another standard, the gentlemanly civility of a less socially anxious age than his own. For in this scene, Mr. Knightley becomes just as rude as Mrs. Elton—and more intentionally so. Indeed it is a recurring aspect of this landowner’s character: he fails often to converse as he ought […]. In opposition to the French, the English liked to associate themselves, with bluff sincerity […]. Mrs. Elton calls Mr. Knightley a humorist; in fact, he is at times simply boorish and insularly proud of being so. (p. 20)

Devoney Looser places more emphasis on the humorousness of Mrs. Elton’s imagined scene:

In encouraging Mrs. Elton to follow her heart and arrive on a donkey—imagining that she will put Jane and Miss Bates on them, too—Mr. Knightley invites his other would-be guests (and Austen’s actual readers, of course) to a campy, circus-like show. Austen, through Knightley, compels us to entertain comic visions of Mrs. Elton’s excesses. […] His line, “I would wish every thing to be as much to your taste as possible,” seems designed for the observant reader’s laughter.

The wished-for donkey scene never materializes, but the conversation encourages readers to conjure up the image: Mrs. Elton, with her entourage, would ride in to the party on an ass, as her caro-sposo husband promenades beside her like a groom, twice over. The conjured scene mimics an arrival into Bethlehem, although Mr. and Mrs. Elton are no biblical Mary and Joseph. That Mrs. Elton would also put Jane and Miss Bates on donkeys offers up a further outlandish biblical approximation. It’s hardly Three Wise Women arriving to pay homage. The narrator suggests that, as much as Mrs. Elton’s ridiculous plan would annoy Mr. Knightley, it would also delight his dry, blunt sense of humor. So this conjured scene would—or should—both annoy and delight the astute reader of Austen. Mrs. Elton’s performing the role of a coddled, wealthy, fashionable Virgin Mary, with Mr. Elton as her sycophantic, accompanying spouse-groom (to an ass no less) is campy-priceless. (pp. 6–7)

Lady Patroness

David Monaghan, who argues that Emma dramatizes the proper assumption on the part of Emma and Mr. Knightley of social and moral authority, writes that “[t]he visit to Donwell marks a further stage in Emma’s reassessment of her role in the Highbury community”:

Like balls at the Crown, excursions to Donwell are not a part of the normal pattern of Highbury life. Mr Woodhouse has not been there for two years, and even the more energetic Emma has been absent for long enough to be ‘eager to refresh and correct her memory’ [vol. 3, ch. 6 [42]; p. 234]. Thus, although the gathering of a few friends to pick strawberries and eat lunch cannot match a ball for excitement, the mere fact that it does happen is an important sign that Highbury is becoming less set in its ways. Indeed, in at least one sense, the visit augurs even better than the ball for the future of the village because it offers clear evidence that Mr Knightley is prepared to take on fully the active moral role that he played briefly at the Crown.

Whereas he was most unwilling to participate in the ball, Mr Knightley now becomes an initiator of social activity. Mrs Elton’s reaction to the cancellation of her visit to Box Hill makes it obvious to Mr Knightley that she is likely to come up with an extremely improper scheme by way of compensation. To avoid this he offers her an alternative form of amusement in the shape of a strawberry-picking party in the grounds of his house, thereby ensuring that her restless energies will be placed under his personal control. The success of Mr Knightley’s manoeuvre is evident in the prompt and firm way he is able to check Mrs Elton’s attempts to be ‘Lady Patroness’: [quotes from “‘It is my party’” to “‘I will manage such matters myself,’” pp. 231–2]. (pp. 134–5)

For Monaghan, then, Mr. Knightley’s invitation is part of a deliberate plan.

Mrs. Elton’s insistence that she is “Lady Patroness” is, of course, just what we expect from her at this point. Morris writes:

The Woodhouses are ‘first in consequence’ in their community due to birthright. They represent neither new money nor new blood, Emma takes pride in thinking. What infuriates Emma is that Mrs Elton utterly refuses to give place or recognition to the old hierarchy of rank upon which Emma relies. ‘I am Lady Patroness, you know. It is my party’, Mrs Elton informs Mr Knightley in regard to the strawberry-gathering at Donwell [p. 231]. She graciously bestows her favour upon Mr Woodhouse, this ‘dear old beau of mine’, and Mrs Weston, ‘I was rather astonished to find her so very lady-like! But she is really quite the gentlewoman’ [vol. 2, ch. 17 [35], p. 197; ch. 14 [32], pp. 180]. By thus sweeping everyone in Highbury into her condescending bestowal of recognition, she magnifies her own imagined idea of self as measured by the extent of her social dominion. Mrs Elton is one of those many characters in Austen’s fiction whose representation seems strikingly to dramatise self as factitious; yet it is a performance driven by embodied needs and passions. Mrs Elton’s discourse resembles a torrent of egoistic energy that sweeps all topics into the vortex of her sense of self-importance. (p. 98)

There is an obvious satire against Mrs. Elton in the statement that her “resources were inadequate to such an attack” as a delay of her outing. Sara Bowen points out the irony:

Whatever his other foibles, Mr. Elton has warned Augusta Hawkins about her possible loneliness in Highbury. Augusta insists that “‘the world I could give up—parties, balls, plays—for I had no fear of retirement. Blessed with so many resources within myself, the world was not necessary to me’” [vol. 2, ch. 14 [32]; p. 179]. Mr. Elton is right in his assessment: Augusta is frantic for the Donwell outing because she “only wanted to be going somewhere” (354); she needs a donkey because “‘it is not possible for her to be always shut up at home’” [p. 233]. (p. 113)

A Real Prince

Colleen Sheehan argues that Emma contains “barbs and innuendoes aimed squarely at the irresistibly large target of the Prince [of Wales, George Augustus Frederick],” who had a reputation for profligacy, debauchery, and self-indulgence. The al fresco dining Mrs. Elton proposes in this section, to the subtle mockery of Mr. Knightley, is one such barb:

If Mrs. Elton, the self-proclaimed “Lady Patroness” of Highbury society, were to have her way, Mr. Knightley’s midsummer’s eve strawberry party, like the Box Hill outing the next day, would be entirely under her direction. In perfectly picturesque fashion, she would have them be a “‘sort of gipsy party,’” with the ladies wearing large bonnets and little baskets hanging on their arms, and everyone coming on donkeys to enjoy a picnic out of doors. Mrs. Elton’s scheme is very much like an actual party held in honor of the Prince Regent’s birthday on 12 August 1811, recorded in the Sussex Weekly Advertiser, replete with hats, baskets, a cold picnic, and donkeys. It too was “a gipsey party,” though it did not take place on Box Hill. Instead, it occurred at Bexhill: “The Prince Regent’s birth day was this year celebrated by the principal inhabitants of Bexhill, in rather a novel manner, by forming themselves into a GIPSEY PARTY. Early in the morning all was bustle—donkies, carts, old wigs, cloaks, hats, &c. &c. were put in requisition, and about eleven o’clock the party, (nearly all in some appropriate character) moved in procession, attended by a great concourse of spectators, to Coden Down, about three miles off, where tents were immediately pitched; an elegant cold PIC NIC collation, from the baskets of the party, was set forth on the grass, and very heartily partaken of. . . . [W]hen the whole party retired, very much gratified with the novel diversion, [they] unanimously agree[d that] the anniversary of their beloved Prince’s Birth-day shall be FOREVER celebrated at Bexhill, in a similar manner.” (n.p.)

Discussion Questions

What textual effects does the attribution of a plot-changing event to something as prosaic as an injured horse have? What might Austen’s motive have been for using this as a plot device?

Was Mr. Knightley in fact joking when he invited Mrs. Elton to Donwell?

Do you think Mrs. Elton’s vision for the Donwell party is likely to be an intentional dig at the Prince Regent?

Bibliography

Austen, Jane. Emma (Norton Critical Edition). 3rd ed. Ed. Stephen M. Parrish. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, [1815] 2000.

Bowen, Sara. “Fanny’s Future, Mary’s Nightmare: Jane Austen and the Clergyman’s Wife.” Persuasions 36 (2014), pp. 100–16.

Carson, James P. “‘One of Folly’s Puppies’: Austen and Animal Studies.” In Global Jane Austen: Pleasure, Passion, and Possessiveness in the Jane Austen Community, ed. Laurence Raw & Robert G. Dryden. New York: Palgrave Macmillan (2013), pp. 165–87.

Looser, Devoney. “Jane Austen Camp.” ABO: Interactive Journal for Women in the Arts, 1640–1830 9.1 (2019), pp. 1–15. DOI: 10.5038/2157-7129.9.1.1172.

Morris, Pam. “Emma: A Prospect of England.” In Jane Austen, Virginia Woolf and Worldly Realism. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press (2017), pp. 83–107.

Rogers, Pat. “Transport.” Jane Austen in Context, ed. Janet Todd. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press (2005), pp. 425–33.                           

Sheehan, Colleen A. “Jane Austen’s ‘Tribute’ to the Prince Regent: A Gentleman Riddled with Difficulty.” Persuasions On-Line 27.1 (Winter 2006).

Todd, Janet. “The Anxiety of Emma.” Persuasions 29 (2007), pp. 15–25.

[even-gods-must-die]

A Science Fiction Comics Reading Guide

“World civilization right now is teetering on the brink... so in that sense also, science fiction is the realism of our time. Utopia and dystopia are both possible, and both staring us in the face.” - Kim Stanley Robinson

//Sorting...Alphabetical

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[001]

[Title] Don’t Go Without Me

[Writer/Artist] Rosemary Valero-O’Connell

[Year] 2020

[Summary] A tryptich of lesbian sci-fi/fantasy stories. An alternate dimension that drives two lovers apart. A malfunctioning spaceship leaking memories. A party on the eve of prophecy.

[Publisher] Shortbox

[002]

[Title] Give Me Liberty

[Writer] Frank Miller // [Artist] Dave Gibbons // [Colorist] Robin Smith

[Year] 1990

[Summary] Randian libertarian wonk Frank Miller and “prestige” superhero artist Dave Gibbons try to do some kind of centrist satire of liberalism-gone-too-far in the style of British comics mag 2000 AD, and instead accidentally create a environmentalist revolutionary tract. Funny, in-your-face, and jingoistic. Worth it for Robin Cook’s incredible colors alone. Don’t read the sequels if you can help it.

[Publisher] Dark Horse Comics

[003]

[Title; JP] Gunnm // [Title; ENG] Battle Angel Alita

[Writer/Artist] Yukito Kishiro

[Year] 1990-95

[Summary] Kishiro’s classic class-conscious robot fighting manga is full of gruesome violence, apocalyptic cityscapes, roller derby action, melancholy piano playing, and voluminous 80s hair.

[Publisher; JP] Sheisha // [Publisher; ENG] Kodansha USA

[Volumes] 9

[Further Reading] Holy Night & Other Stories; Last Order; Mars Chronicle

[004]

[Title] Habitat

[Writer/Artist] Simon Roy

[Year] 2016

[Summary] Simon Roy is the undisputed master of “hard science fiction” comics, and basically all of his other books (listed below) could have been on this list. Habitat is Roy’s definitive work, about a massive orbital space colony where civilization has collapsed and the remaining feral inhabitants fight for limited technological resources they don’t understand.

[Publisher] Image Comics

[Further Reading] Jan’s Atomic Heart; Tiger Lung; First Knife; Grip of the Kombinat; Griz Grobus

[005]

[Title] Hollow Heart

[Writer] Paul Allor // [Artist] Paul Tucker

[Year] 2021

[Summary] The real monster... is love.

[Publisher] Vault Comics

[006]

[Title] Homunculus

[Writer/Artist] Joe Sparrow

[Year] 2018

[Summary] A scientist creates a sentient supercomputer, an immobile thinking machine that can only observe as its environment changes around it. This book makes me cry every time.

[Publisher] Shortbox

[Further Reading] Harvest, Cuckoo

[007]

[Title] I.D.

[Writer/Artist] Emma Rios

[Year] 2016

[Summary] 3 strangers meet in a cafe to discuss whether to undergo an experimental procedure to transfer their consciousness into new bodies.

[Publisher] Image Comics

[008]

[Title] Land of the Lustrous

[Writer/Artist] Haruko Ichikawa

[Year] 2012-Ongoing

[Summary] Humankind split, leaving behind a race of petty, brittle gem people guided by a mysterious Sensei. Phos, the youngest gem, is too weak, clusmy, and rude to be a warrior. Instead, Sensei orders Phos to write a natural history, and uncover the mysteries of the planet and its many lifeforms in the process.

[Publisher] Kodansha

[Volumes] 11

[009]

[Title] Mirror

[Writer] Emma Rios // [Artist] Hwei Lim

[Year] 2016-19

[Summary] On an asteroid colony, a scientist creates a menagerie of sentient animals, who rebel against him. A mouse, a bear, a bull, a sphinx, a curse. A doomed romance between a boy and his dog.

[Publisher] Image Comics

[Volumes] 2

[010]

[Title] Mobile Suit Gundam: The Origin

[Writer/Artist] Yoshikazu Yasuhiko

[Year] 2001-11

[Summary] In Universal Century Year 0079, the spacenoid Principality of Zeon declares was on the Earth Federation. The earth’s only hope is an experimental new mobile suit, the Gundam, piloted by surly teenage prodigy Amuro Ray.

A long-form remake of the seminal 1979 mecha anime Mobile Suit Gundam by its original character designer and animation director Yoshikazu Yasuhiko. The Origin has it all: action, comedy, romance, mecha, space colonies, and gourgeous watercolor pages in each chapter.

[Publisher; JP] Kadokawa Shoten // [Publisher; ENG] Kodansha USA, Vertical

[Volumes] 12

[Further Reading] Mobile Suit Gundam: Thunderbolt

[011]

[Title] Planetes

[Writer/Artist] Makoto Yukimura

[Year] 1999-04

[Summary] Hachimaki dreams of buying his own spacecraft and exploring the solar system. Easier said than done for a working class astronaut with the tedious job of collecting tiny debris orbiting the Earth before it can cause catastrophic accidents. Planetes is an essential classic of realistic, humanist science fiction.

[Publisher; JP] Kodansha Ltd. // [Publisher; ENG] Dark Horse Comics

[Volumes] 4 (2 Omnibus)

[012]

[Title] Prism Stalker

[Writer/Artist] Sloane Leong // [Letterer] Ariana Maher

[Year] 2018

[Summary] Against her wishes, Vep is forced to become her people’s representative in the Chorus Academy, a school devoted to interplanetary colonization. Far from home, Vep has to cope with unfamiliar environments and violent combatants. Prism Stalker is one part rumination on colonial diaspora and one part brutal fight comics.

[Publisher] Image Comics

[013]

[Title] The Seeds

[Writer] Ann Nocenti // [Artist] David Aja

[Year] 2018-21

[Summary] A young journalist enters the demilitarized zone following rumors of alien invaders. Expecting to uncover a conspiracy or a hoax, she instead gets wrapped up in something weirder: doomed love. The Seeds is lyrical, prescient, and cutting.

[Publisher] Dark Horse Comics, Berger Books

[014]

[Title] Stages of Rot

[Writer/Artist] Linnea Sterte

[Year] 2017

[Summary] An alien whale dies and new societies and natural ecosystems rise from its rotting carcass. Quiet, contemplative, and surreal.

[Publisher] Peow Studios

[015]

[Title] Tartarus

[Writer] Johnnie Christmas // [Artist; Issues 1-5] Jack T. Cole // [Artist; Issues 6-10] Andrew Krahnke // [Colorist; Issues 6-10] Hilary Jenkins // [Letterer] Jim Campbell

[Year] 2020-21

[Summary] Tartarus is a fast-paced action adventure about an imperial cadet dropped into the center of a galactic conflict when she discovers she is secretly the daughter of the galaxy’s most dangerous criminal.

[Publisher] Image Comics

[Volumes] 2

[016]

[Title] Terraform

[Writer/Artist] Zack Morrison

[Year] 2018

[Summary] A robot tasked with reshaping a planet finds itself changed instead.

[Publisher] Self-Published

[017]

[Title] Test of Loyalty

[Writer/Artist] Sam Alden

[Year] 2016

[Summary] Horsepunk.

[Publisher] Hazlitt

[018]

[Title] To Your Eternity

[Writer/Artist] Yoshitoki Ōima

[Year] 2016-Ongoing

[Summary] A mysterious stranger sends an immortal shapeshifter to study the connections between all life, and protect it from a mysterious threat. Starts out as a sad boy-and-his-dog tale before evolving into a vast alt-historical epic spanning centuries. Lush, heartbreaking, sentimental, and brutal.

[Publisher] Kodansha

[Volumes] 16

[019]

[Title] Voyage

[Writer/Artist] Molly Mendoza

[Year] 2015

[Summary] Voyage transforms a historical account of the Voyager 1 and 2 space missions into a dreamlike tribute to discovery, human connection, and the beauty of the universe.

[Publisher] Self-Published

[Further Reading] Skip

[020]

[Title] The World of Edena

[Writer/Artist] Moebius

[Year] 1983-01

[Summary] Originally an advertisement for French car manufacturer Citroën, the Edena stories grew into a sprawling epic about a pair of explorers from a sterile society who become lost in a series of surreal alien environments. Moebius influenced multiple generations of sci-fi artists with his precise illustrations of fantastical landscapes.

[Publisher; ENG] Dark Horse Comics

[Further Reading] Art of Edena, Arzach

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[Addendum] Essential science fiction novels for comics fans:

[001] A Fire Upon the Deep // Vernor Vinge

[002] Aurora // Kim Stanley Robinson

[003] The Dispossessed // Ursula K. Le Guin

[004] Lilith’s Brood // Octavia E. Butler

[005] The Word for World is Forest // Ursula K. Le Guin

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[/end]