#relied too heavily on convenient interruptions

[illeaadante]

devastated to announce that Barbie has done a version of “The Prince and the Pauper” 3 times and it got worse each time.

Like, Princess Adventure is *fine* but it doesn’t have nearly the drama,style, or musical chops of either Princess and the Pauper or Princess and the Pop-star. Truly the Made for TV version.

[aronarchy]

A key piece is missing from discussions of “generational trauma” explained through “they’re just continuing the cycle because that’s all they know,” or even “they’re doing it because they’re traumatized but haven’t processed that yet/gotten ‘therapy’ and that means they’ll take it out on others.”

If people will necessarily abuse just because they are traumatized and can’t help it (unless they ~get therapy~), in general, then we’d see a lot more kids start abusing their parents, or other adults, right? Because hurt people hurt people? But such “abuse as a reaction to my own abuse” is distributed unevenly—adults aren’t getting abused at huge rates by abused kids; those abused kids, if they do, will generally abuse other kids.

One might automatically assume they explain away the disparity through bringing up children’s lack of physical strength relative to adults’ as the reason for this, but clearly their explanation isn’t entirely such a biological one, as they also apply this logic to adult survivors of other forms of abuse who “hurt because they were hurt.”

So much emphasis is placed on trying to “break the cycle” in terms of interrupting the chain through “education” which alters one’s ideological beliefs. Persuasion to not harm their own children in the future, assuming that abusive parents were just mistaken or confused, just lacking in such education. When convenient, fault for that lack of education is laid upon “differences in culture” (and from there, the common narrative of the white man’s burden, to “enlighten” POC with ~disproportionate intracommunity abuse problems~ on their superior non-abusive moral values).

One begins to wonder, too, when looking at these patterns and noticing that those “finally cycle-breaking generations” are disproportionately people who experience intersectional marginalizations, i.e. being queer or disabled or mad, and that heavily informing their experience as they develop an anti-abuse politic. Strange how that’s so often underlooked as a potential factor, isn’t it?

If trauma equals likelihood of taking it out on others, and more trauma means more likelihood of more violence, why is it that the rich, the whites, the cishets etc still hold such overwhelming monopoly on violence/abuse/ability to commit violence or abuse. If we have such huge amounts of trauma, and if that rule is true, then why haven’t we gotten our revenge yet?

Because revenge is a luxury. Revenge is for those with the power to carry it out, as are all interpersonal acts, especially acts involving nonconsent or violence. But a large number of factors limit the oppressed’s ability to carry out such acts upon their oppressors--“you are locked up in a prison right now and physically unable to attack some billionaire thousands of miles away” is one such example (and the state uses this reasoning, the idea that this degree of limitation is necessary to prevent abusive violence, to justify locking people up). But these factors do not just include regulations upon physical space; it also manifests as leverage, disproportionate power to coerce.

When traumatized and marginalized people are pro-revenge, pro-abuse, and feel the need to take their anger/pain out on others? They will find the targets they can actually hit, not the ones mostly out of their reach, and that violence is generally directed sideways, or down. See all the scapegoating going on right now, painting an even more abused group of i.e. deviants/freaks as what must have been responsible for your own abuse, projecting nominally similar traits of your oppressors onto a class which both of you oppress, how intracommunity abuse so frequently relies on other preexisting societal bigotries/punching down, etc. Much of reactionary fearmongering about leftist revolution focuses on if they get even with us then where will they go next? they’ll start oppressing us too. Fearing that once they gain power they’ll turn it back on oppressors, and drawing false equivalence between holding power over others and escaping from others’ power over you. But also coming near a point that they’re not very comfortable making.

Some current axes of marginalization not moderating through “innate and inherent biology[/other traits considered inherently a part of You and your identity]” are things which you can, technically, change your status of, and change from oppressed to oppressor or vice versa with. i.e. abled people getting an injury which disables them, or rich people losing all their money or poor people gaining all their money (though structural factors work to make this extremely rare / more bound to personal characteristics to decrease the possibility of such class mobility). Some other things too, maybe (though murkier territory). But there’s one glaring example of “oppressed gaining privilege to become the oppressor,” which occurs consistently, and which conservatives love to ignore: ageing, teenagers becoming adults and becoming a part of the adult oppressor class, and with it vast newfound abilities to abuse and get away with it.

Liberals, and people further right of them, love viewing the problem of “abuse” as a problem of individuals, mapping on the atomization of the nuclear family into an assumed total atomization of all interpersonal acts throughout society, with all violence occurring in isolation, as a product of isolated motives and enablers, and thus the solution for violence being individual solutions. “Let’s get this person therapy to teach them how/why to not abuse.” “Let’s chop this person’s brain parts so their brain stops making them abuse (normal people wouldn’t do this, obviously, so it must be the fault of something unique to them).” “~Values~.” Just intervene individually, pick out the trauma survivors because trauma makes you do it. “Making it possible for this child to escape their parents if they want to” never even enters their heads. That solution seems even more obvious, more effective, more efficient, “how could they abuse them if they’re not even living in the same household as them anymore and they have zero other ties, even if they do still believe child abuse is fine”--but no, that can’t be an option, because “anti-abuse” activism is only allowed to stretch so far, can make changes as long as those changes don’t destabilize the foundations of hierarchical society itself (because those are still more valuable than actual people themselves, for some reason).

This mindset is much easier to deconstruct when you’ve done the work to get outside of it, but to those who still have a liberal value system and mode of interactions, it can be difficult to move past. Especially for traumatized people approaching some relative power previously unknown (i.e. getting older, or getting in closer proximity/more access to other people less powerful than you, some social shifts) and not even acknowledging where “the abused’s abuse” is going is heavily impeding most anti-abuse analyses and activism.

Lefty activists for other marginalized groups focus on material liberation over “debating bigots into not hating us anymore.” Youthlib activism must operate on a similar principle: while ideological discussions and persuasion and deconstructions of adultist talking points are helpful, they cannot be all you stake your activism on. You should not expect that while doing nothing else you can just argue your way to a child-abuse-free society. You should not keep waiting for abusers to have a “change of heart” or “realization of their trauma” crossing your fingers that they’ll just wake up one day and choose to stop using coercive power that they still hold. Get them that therapy when the givers of therapy are no longer collaborators in such institutionally abusive practices and when they are no longer holding youth hostage. ****** wants to say I/the comrades play dice with our own possibilities of “gaining rights.” We do not. We are here because we’ve tried their handholding and assimilation and concessions and nonprofit bullshit for years (decades, even, for those of us who started early trying to “debate”/heart-to-heart our own abusers out of abusing us and ended up continuing to be abused), and we’re ready for something a bit more direct.

[emelywrites]

Hi there! Could you write a fic about Diego and the Little Hargreeves? After being basically raised by Diego, she is very close to him, right? I think it would be interesting to see how their father’s funeral happens with them there. Cuz their other siblings barely got to know her, but Diego is more a father figure to her than Reggie ever was, and how she would stand by Diego in everything and showing how much they love each other and rely on one another (he would be so overprotective for sure)

Oh my god, I’m so sorry I took several months to get back to this but honestly I didn’t know where to begin. Now, these past few days I’ve been writing this, and I hope you enjoy. 

(For more parts see my Masterlist)

We Only See Each Other At Weddings And Funerals

Reginald Hargreeves was dead. You, 25 years old, far away from home, trying to stand on your own two feet, could not really care any less. You hadn’t seen your father since you and Diego had gone away from home. After you had graduated you went on to college across the country and now, deep in student’s debt and having just started to work, you truly did resent him.

What does one have an eccentric billionaire of a distant father for if not to pay one’s student debt? When you heard about it on the news one night you called Diego.

“Maybe there’s something in the will for you. God knows, you need it, Little”, he said.

“And to whom would he give something in his will? ‘The other child’? ‘The seven called her Little or something’?”, you wondered while putting some strong alcohol in your cart.

“And even if there isn’t. If you’re there we can discuss what you get. I don’t wanna go either but it feels like I truly have to”, he argued, “I think I’ll need you there, too.”

You sighed. He knew you couldn’t say no to him. He had raised you and that weighed quite heavily as an argument. “Fine. But I’m out the second someone asks who the hell I am and what the hell I want.”

That night you got quite tipsy and went to bed early because your drunk brain wouldn’t let you stay up. The next day at work you organised for a week off so you could go home for “a loved one’s funeral”, trying not to gag while you said that. 

On the train ride to The City you contemplated all the different scenarios that could play out. But nothing came to mind, really. Honestly, you didn’t even know what the others looked like. Diego and you tried to see each other as often as possible, so at least you were excited to see him. When you got off the train, he was waiting for you on the platform. You smiled brightly and ran into his arms, the duffle bag on your back slowing you down slightly and hopping around.

After you’d hugged for a little while he pulled back and took your bag. “Have you seen anyone yet?”, you asked on your way to the car.

“Well, yeah, I saw Klaus a while ago when I got him back into rehab. Not too excited about the rest”, he mumbled.

“I mean, Alison’s last film was pretty good apparently. I couldn’t go see it but I heard good things about it. It’s always great to hear “Hey, are you related to that actress? Cause you, like, have the same name and stuff.””, you laughed.

“Oh, and you know The Times’ alright selling author, Vanya, of course”, he rolled his eyes.

“You know, I think she was right. She was treated awfully, and so was I.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t write a book about it, for everyone to see, without even asking if we were okay with it.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have been alright with it.”

“Exactly my point”, he threw the bag in the backseat while you got in on the passenger’s side.

“Let her be, Diego. She’s been through enough, she doesn’t need us beating her up over living her life the way she wants to.”

He just rolled his eyes and then you proceeded to spend the rest of the car ride talking about your siblings and what had gone on in your lives while you didn’t see each other. When he parked the car next to your childhood home you looked at it with dread.

“Damn, this is what I took a week off for?”, you asked quietly, as if Dad could hear you if you spoke up.

Diego laughed. “Pretend you took the week off to see me.” You both smiled at that and got out of the car.

You took your own bag again and you entered the house. Pogo greeted you at the door.

“Oh, Master Diego, how nice to see you. Miss Hargreeves, I wasn’t expecting you.”

You gave him a short half smile and wrapped your hand around Diego’s wrist, trying to tell him that you didn’t want to make conversation and just get it over with.

“Nice to see you, too, Pogo. (Y/N) and I thought it’d be nice if she came along because she’s his daughter, too, you know. More than any of us, really”, Diego grumbled, obviously disappointed that you weren’t wanted.

“(Y/N)?”, Pogo asked, “That’s a very nice name, Miss Hargreeves.”

“Thank you. Diego came up with it after we moved out. Most people in the world outside this house have normal names”, you said.

You stood in awkward silence for a couple moments until Diego and Pogo nodded in a silent goodbye and you took off to explore the rest of the house.

“It hasn’t changed at all.”

Later that day all six of you stood in the courtyard, along with Grace and Pogo. Luther dumped the ashes while you stood next to Diego, his arm wrapped around you in a protective manner. You raised an eyebrow and let out a mocking snort when you looked at the pile of ashes on the ground, slowly getting soaked in the rain.

“You have anything to say, Little?”, Luther said with a raised eyebrow.

“No”, you said quickly.

Diego looked at you, who was looking at the ground, a smile that was trying to suppress a laugh on your face. The corner of his mouth twitched as he also tried to suppress his smile.

“You think it’s funny? Really? Dad died. Why are you even here?”, Luther asked you as he stepped closer.

“Hey, leave her alone, man”, Diego said.

“No, he’s right, it is funny”, you interrupted, “Look at that. It’s a pathetic pile of dust, that’s all he is now. That’s basically how he treated me my entire life, kind of ironic, huh?”

Alison snorted and Vanya’s lips twitched into a smile, before it immediately disappeared again.

“I’m here because I’m his daughter, too. Honestly, I’m hoping to pay off my student debt with a tiny piece of inheritance that I might not even receive because he forgot I existed. Some of my friends told me that their parents paid for their tuition, isn’t that crazy? And all my friends told me that their parents noticed them growing up. Anyway, I’m gonna get out of the Umbrella Academy’s hair. I was right, I shouldn’t have come.”

You turned to leave when Diego pulled you back. “You’re right. You have a right to be here just as much as the rest of us. Leave her alone, Luther. That’s my sister you’re attacking.”

“Boys, we don’t need a fight today or any day, really”, Alison tried to step up.

“This isn’t about you, this is about Little here, trying to sneak her way back in when it’s convenient.”

“It’s (Y/N) now, actually. And we’re all doing just that right now. We all left as soon as we could. You can’t fucking blame her for existing”, Diego shoved Luther, “Just because you stayed Daddy’s little boy doesn’t mean the rest of us didn’t grow up.”

Luther glared at Diego and then lunged at him. Everyone tried to do something about the two of them fighting but of course they never stopped until they knocked over Ben’s statue. I tightly grabbed Diego’s hand with a frown on my face and my eyebrows drawn together. Luther glared at us and then stomped off. The rest of us followed shortly thereafter.

This had been a bad idea.

[tay-is-writing]

Stargazers — Asahi x Reader

This fic is part of a collab run by @euphylli​ with the prompt “It’s 3am, why are you at my window?” Word Count: 1.9k Synopsis: On a hot summer night you find yourself unable to sleep and go to your neighbor for help Warnings: None just fluff

The humidity left a sticky residue in your room. No matter how low you set your thermostat, the hot summer air wouldn’t stay out. You tossed your blanket off of your body in a desperate attempt to cool off, or at least to stop sweat from coating your bedsheets. You would definitely have to wash those come morning. Despite your struggle, it still felt like a sauna in your bedroom, and you quickly gave up on the idea of getting any sleep that night. It’s not like you had anything to get up for the next day. You were home from college at your parents’ house for the summer, and... so was your neighbor.

You sent a quick glance out your window to your neighbor’s to see if the light was on. To your dismay, it wasn’t. You were getting flashbacks to high school as your mind became set on what to do next. Your fingers gripped the bottom of the window and slid it open. Immediately, you were smacked in the face by the muggy air outside, which was somehow even worse than your room. Removing the screen from your window and leaning it against your wall, you started to question your choice. It had been a few months since you had last spoken to your neighbor, and maybe this wasn’t the best way to start again. Nevertheless, against your better judgement, you swung your leg over the ledge and crawled through the window. You weren’t necessarily sneaking out. Sure, you were secretly climbing through your bedroom window, but you could’ve walked out the front door if you had wanted to. This was just more efficient.

Your foot made contact with the roof shingles, the ridges digging into your bare soles. You slowly slid down the roof towards the gap that separated your house from your neighbor’s. In all the years you’ve been bridging the gap between the two homes, you hadn’t fallen once. But then again, you weren’t quite as coordinated as you were at sixteen. Luckily, this wasn’t the first, and you let yourself fall forward onto all fours for balance. Did you look particularly graceful as you crawled up the roof? Frankly, you looked like a complete idiot, but, hey, it got the job done. As you crept up the roof, you considered turning back. Just imagine how embarrassing it would be if he turned you away at the window. You shook the thought off. It wasn’t like the two of you weren’t on speaking terms or anything. It had just been a while since you both had the free time to talk face to face so you relied heavily on texting and FaceTime calls.

Your thoughts took you all the way up to the window, where you gave three quick raps before you could take the time to talk yourself out of it. A yelp was heard from inside the room, followed by a loud thump which you could only assume was your neighbor’s body hitting the floor. At least he was up. A separation was made in the blinds that were obstructing your view of the room and two big brown eyes stared into yours. You gave a sheepish wave and the window slid open.

“Good morning, Asahi!”

“It’s 3 am, why are you at my window?” His voice was groggy and you assumed he was either on the verge of falling asleep or you had just woken him up. You felt slightly guilty for disturbing his rest but at the same time, you knew he wouldn’t be angry. At the moment he was mainly disoriented from the late hour and concerned as to why you were here for the first time in a while. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just a little restless, I guess. So can I come in or should I head back?”

“No! Don’t leave!” He quickly moved out of the way to let you slip through the window before closing it. His hands fidgeted nervously as he thought of what to say next. “Sorry, it just took me by surprise. You haven’t been over in a while and I was scared something was wrong, but I’m glad you’re okay. I wouldn’t know what to do if something happened to you.” A smile ghosted over your lips as you realized just how much you had missed him. You reached out for his jittery hands, trying to calm them. Surprisingly, he didn’t jerk away like you thought he would and instead let his hands settle in yours. This was new for both of you. Sure, you used to hang all over Asahi like he was your personal jungle gym, but this just didn’t have the same effect.

“Not you getting mushy already,” you quickly joked in a desperate attempt to change the tone of the conversation. “So, where are you taking me, big boy?” You cringed as that slipped through your mouth. That used to be your go-to nickname when it came to teasing Asahi, but now it just felt wrong. Without answering you, he walked to his closet and threw a pair of slides and a hoodie at you. “It’s a literal sauna outside and you want me to wear a hoodie?” You watch his eye trail down your body and you remembered the lack of clothing you currently wore in a desperate attempt to cool off enough to sleep. Since the idea of getting any rest that night was out of the question, you reluctantly shrugged on the jacket, mumbling about how you were gonna sweat like a pig.

When the two of you left the house, it was through the front door this time and not the window. Asahi opened the passenger door to his car, a beat-up Nissan that he bought for college, to let you in like the gentleman he was. He slid into the driver’s seat and turned to you. “How does convenience store food and a trip to the park sound?” You eagerly nodded. Late-night snacks with Asahi was some top tier shit, and frankly, you were feeling pretty hungry.

A sense of peace filled your mind as you watched Asahi drive. The car ride was mostly silent, only the sound of Asahi’s playlist that you’d always scrunch your nose at when he’d play it with you. Soft streetlights would periodically illuminate Asahi’s face as you passed beneath them. His hair was disheveled from only waking up minutes ago and his stubble wasn’t yet shaved. Despite that, he still looked perfect to you. If you were being completely honest, you used to have a crush on Asahi in high school, but he was always so skittish that you were afraid to act upon it and end up scaring your friend away. Yet some of that old crush still remained. It was extremely repressed, obviously, but definitely still there. When you walked inside the convenience store, Asahi was still on your mind. When you realized you didn’t have your wallet on you since you were in your pajamas, he insisted on paying and refused to let you pay him back. He opened up your door again and refused to let you carry the bag of junk food on your lap while he drove. When one of his hands slipped off the wheel to rest on the center console, you had to restrain yourself from reaching out to grab it. When you reached the park, you jumped out of the car before Asahi had the chance to open it for you. It wasn’t that you didn’t like how he was treating you, in fact, it was quite the opposite, but you just didn’t know how much more you could take before your long-repressed crush resurfaced.

The two of you settled on a spot in the grass to eat the snacks Asahi had bought. A bag of popcorn was emptied in about a minute in your repeated attempts to land a piece in Asahi’s mouth. After going through a majority of the food you let yourself fall back into the ground. He followed your movements and laid next to you, both staring up at the sky. On nights like this when the two of you were younger, you’d make up random constellations and try to find them again the next night. Your personal favorite was the “man bun” constellation, which just happened to be a random cluster of stars that sort of formed a circle, but mostly it just existed to poke fun of Asahi’s hair.

“God, the stars are so beautiful.” Your head was tilted up, gazing at the twinkling lights in the sky, and your lips were parted in amazement. Asahi fixated his eyes on you. To him, all the stares paled in comparison to you. You were perfect.

“I know something more beautiful,” he murmured, gaining your attention. You knew where he was going with this, and there was absolutely no way that you’d let him get away with saying something so cheesy. It was adorable when he said stuff like this, but interrupting and making Asahi flustered was much cuter.

“Of course! You’re the most gorgeous person I know.” A small smirk ghosted your lips as you watched his face flush red. You weren’t lying; he was gorgeous. You rolled over on your side to look at him, not even bothering to be discreet about it. “Asahi, I have something to tell you.” His face morphed to concern, but you continued before he could interrupt. “I like you. I actually have for a while now, and I completely get it if you don’t feel the same way. It’s not something I’d want to throw our friendship away over, but I just wanted to let you know.”

An uncomfortable silence overtook the conversation, and you started to regret your decision. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at Asahi, fearing that he’d have an unsavory expression. It wasn’t until you heard a slight chuckle that your eyes darted back to him. His face was still the color of a tomato and he had a permanent smile implemented on it.

“Please tell me you’re serious about this. Do you know how long I’ve liked you? Daichi and Suga would tease me about it for hours when we hung out.”

It felt like pure bliss to hear those words. You reached out to touch his face to confirm that this was, in fact, happening and not a result of heat exhaustion. “Can I kiss you?” you asked, not wanting to startle him or move too fast. He gave a quick nod and you brought your face to his. Your noses brushed against each other as your lips connected. God, you were thankful for kissing conventions because Asahi would’ve seen your heated face if his eyes were open. Not that he couldn’t feel it. He brought his hands to gently rest on your shoulders, not wanting to force you anywhere. When both of you pulled away, you rested your forehead against his. It was far from a perfect kiss, most firsts are, but it was sweet. You shifted your body to a more comfortable position over his and went in for another kiss. This time was cleaner and you could feel yourself melt into him, the salty taste of popcorn residing on his lips. A soft hum came from his mouth, leading you to smile and slowly disconnect yourself. All those years you had spent yearning over him felt worth it as you saw him smiling underneath you. No one else in the world, just you two stargazers.

[qhostqizmo]

Thirty More Minutes

“You are very cute,” Essie mused. Her fingers wrapped through the lengthy strands of Amon’s hair; appreciating the silky texture and how long it had grown out. She rested her palms along the side of his head, and her fingernails buried deep through his locks to rake against his scalp.

“Cute enough to eat.”

The nobleman raised his brow, rasping a low and delicious laugh. “To eat?” he echoed uncertainly, resting the weight of his noggin in her grasp.

“Mmmhm~” She hummed her approval, leaning in to caress her lips against his. “Is that not an expression?”

His breathing hitched. “I believe the expression is: ‘good enough to eat’.”

She grinned wildly. “Yeah, you’re that too.”

He laughed once more, returning her kiss softly. Definitely good and cute enough to eat. She’d become attached to his shaggy mane; pulling it back, digging her digits in it, brushing it from his face. It was a good look on him. It was also a convenient place to hold when she really got into the kiss; groaning as the scrape of his whiskers rubbed against her chin.

Amon gasped against her lips. “We’re supposed to be getting ready,” he accused, making no attempt to stop himself either.

“Stop distracting me by looking so sexy then,” Essätha retorted, smothering his mouth with hers. He obliged her with a wonderful throaty sigh.

Her fingers and lips were pens, stroking a love letter against his face and through his hair; across his beard, his throat, the open collar of his shirt, anywhere she could touch. She memorized him in every language; in every alphabet, in every symbol and syllable. She knew him in words that were extinct, in words that didn’t exist, and those that never would. She knew him, and loved every corner, ebb, and flow of him more sincerely and profoundly than she thought possible to love anyone. He was her muse and her compass, and she adored him with every fiber of her being.

All the while, he swallowed air desperately, and tried to keep up. His hands cradled her face as hers carded through his hair, and those deep dark eyes devoured her; pupils blown, into a homey abyss. Shivers raced down her spine as she tried to catch her breath, and he kissed her tenderly; sweet and chaste, boldly endearing. He was gentle, and thoughtful, and terribly lovingly heartfelt with her. Warm careful hands, a giving mouth, and gods the way he asked permission without saying a thing as he tilted his head and nuzzled his nose to hers, his tongue tracing the seams of her mouth in an unspoken question, made her heart race.

Essie was far less dignified, and more blunt in her response. Her hands tugged him forward, tingles moving through her but more pronounced where his touch lingered. It was intense. He was a warm sun against her; radiating heat under her skin straight through her soul. It felt comforting, and reliable, and safe. She knew she could rely on the beckoning feeling of home of being in his hands.

“Mmm, love you,” she sang in a breathy mumble, smooching the corner of his mouth.

Amon hummed his approval, a goofy crooked smile on his face “I love you too.” He kissed her back, still achingly languid and filled with affection. “You look mesmerizing Essie. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, inside and out.”

Her face felt flush under his hands and soft-spoken compliment. She kissed his cheek, his nose, all the way up to his eyelids.

“And I haven’t even done my hair yet,” the Yuan-Ti joked.

“You haven’t finished mine, either,” he reminded her.

“I’m getting there,” she teased, giggling as she bunched a handful of his locks towards the back of his neck. Her fingernails scrapped against the base of his hairline, down his neck, along his spine, and he shivered involuntarily.

Amon’s lashes brushed against her cheek as he kissed her jawline. His mouth trailed along it; skimming her skin so she broke out in goosebumps as he left open-mouth kisses against her chin, and the side of her neck. Laughter bubbled up in her chest as his beard tickled the sensitive skin of her throat, and she pushed herself lazily against his chest while stroking her fingers through his hair.

Planting her lips against cheek, Essätha appreciated the rounded shape of his features with his smile. Slowly, she skimmed her fingers along the back of his neck to circle around and rest against the stiff fabric of his coat. The shoulders had a little padding in them to give structure, and give the garment the snazzy professional look for their excursion. She plucked at the jacket, and flattened her hands to smooth out the wrinkles. Her eyelids fluttered slowly down to a half-mast, lost in the feeling of his lips on her delicate skin.

Lightly, her nobleman peppered kisses up to her mouth. She giggled, giving him trouble in bestowing her an actual kiss through her smile. It didn’t matter. He broke into a beaming smirk of his own, making it all that much harder for him to actually initiate canoodling.

Kissing his cheek, she sighed dreamily while stroking his dress-coat flat. “This color looks very regal on you, m’lord Amon.”

“You’ve seen me wear this shade of blue before,” he snorted with disbelief.

“Then you are always quite regal.”

He rolled his eyes playfully. Pressing a finger beneath her chin, he tilted her head back to kiss her once more.

Three solid thumps echoed from the doorway just as she parted her lips.

Muffling her gasp against Amon’s mouth, Essätha tore herself away from him as swiftly as she could. She turned to look at the threshold just as the door opened, her fingers running over the front of her gown to straighten it out.

“Good evening you two-”

Abernathy blinked, his sing-song voice stalling out.

The edges of his toothy grin turned up. “Am I interrupting?”

“No,” Amon responded a little too quickly, and a bit too gruffly.

Smooth, Essie thought to herself. It was bad enough they’d nearly been caught making out, but his guilty answer hadn’t done them any justice at all. Their lips were probably a bit swollen from kissing, and certainly the sorceress’ knew that she was still blushing as bright as her lipstain color…

Wait.

Her lipstick.

Daring herself, she looked sideways over to her nobleman.

Yes, he looked flushed pink. Yes, his pupils were still dilated. Yes, his mouth was a bit bright in color and puffy.

And yes, his face was covered in pale pink impressions of her lips. Her lipstick marks were on his mouth, on his cheeks, on his nose, his eyelids, his throat. She’d even left a few faded traces on the pure white collar of his undershirt, and along his hairline.

Essätha swallowed loudly, horrified to see her smudged makeup all over her Illiad. Her hand shook as she reached up to touch the corner of her mouth, where only a bit of residual pink still remained and came off on her fingertip.

Her blush deepened immensely.

She needed to buy a more expensive lipstick; one less likely to come off with such ease.

The half-orc’s gaze twinkled, and he puffed out his chest broadly. “I only came to say that we’ll be meeting within the next thirty minutes for the jamboree downstairs.”

“Fantastic, we’ll be there,” Amon wheezed. He appeared as sweaty and clammy as a kid caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar.

Dadbernathy nodded in response. He began to back out of the door again, his thousand-watt smile baring his tusks.

“Oh, and Amon? Wash up before you come downstairs.”

The door was shut gently, with the sound of stifled laughter on the other side.

“… Wash up?” the nobleman echoed, looking down at himself. “But I did, a few hours ago. What…”

Essie reached for him, trying to get his attention. As he stared into her eyes, baffled, she offered him a sideways sloppy smile, and reached for the handkerchief hanging from his pocket. Her other hand reached, pawing for her silver hand-mirror she kept with her cosmetics to offer to him silently as she began gently wiping at his face.

Accepting the mirror, Amon turned it on himself.

“Oh gods,” he groaned, immediately turning it away.

“Sorry,” she whispered sheepishly. Her cheeks began to burn a darker shade of red as she blotted the lipstick marks, trying desperately to remove them. “You’re going to need to change your button-up, too.”

Amon exhaled heavily, covering his eyes with his arm. Taking a breath back in slowly, he lowered it to peer back at her ashamed expression.

“… Thirty minutes?”

“What?”

“Abe said we had thirty minutes,” Amon verified.

“Yes, why?” Essie muttered, focusing on removing her cosmetics from his face.

Taking hold of her arms gently, he tugged her closer. “I can swap shirts in probably five.”

“M’lord, what are you-”

Her whole body trembled as his lips met hers. She succumbed to the bliss of the moment once more, folding her arms around his neck and sighing as they locked into an embrace.

Thirty minutes was plenty of time.

[psychadelicrose]

Day 1: Carefree

Written for @mastar-week 2020.

A self indulgent modern zombie!au for day one.

“The world is ending, but he just wants to keep her safe.”

Death is a presence. His friend had always admired Their tranquility. She believed that you could leave this world silently, but not lonely— that Death breathed with you. It spoke of comfort, that the balance of order is absolute. 

But death walked, and Maka had said to him, “It’s wrong.”

He called them deadheads. Others said zombies, or walkers, or wraiths (Maka had always shivered at that last one), but he preferred his own personal choice. The streets are littered with them, and humans have been pushed out of the cities and into the wild. Sick of breathing rotten air, he thought.

He knew of camps in the forest (they burn). He’s been told of the plains, where walls guard a stronghold (they fall). They hear about the government, with safe houses in Washington (they don’t exist).

For now, they’re holed up in some garage. It used to be a repair shop, but it's long been stripped bare. Black Star held his shotgun loosely in his lap, though always listened closely to whatever walked at night. With his legs stretched out, he sat with his back against the most secure wall. It wasn’t a restful position, but it wasn’t time for him to sleep, anyway.

Beside him, Maka slept lightly. She laid out on her side, victim to the hard floor, but grateful for any shelter. Her back was pressed to his right leg. Always touching, always together. He insisted they sleep in shifts to keep each other safe. He knew that Maka disliked the setup, but lately he’s been hard to sway.

Black Star stared at his best friend, thinking of how he hasn’t seen her carefree in months. The harsh lines disappear when she’s sleeping, however, and for this he’s grateful. All he can do is remember her lopsided smile, the one that comes out when she’s truly happy. Only one dimple would appear, and she often chided that it was uneven, but he wouldn’t change it for anything.

Something thumped outside the shop and Black Star stiffened. His shotgun must have made a sound, because Maka was stirring a second later.

“What’s wrong?” Her voice was immediately quick, but he wished it was groggy and soft, unbothered.

He listened for more, dreading the possibility of a break in. The thought of a horde passing through had his stomach going up in roils, but when nothing followed, he relaxed against the wall.

“Nothin’. Go back to sleep.” Maka kept her head twisted to look at him, a new expression he can’t quite pin, but one that makes him uncomfortable nonetheless.

“Don’t do that,” she whispered to him.

“Do what?” he asked innocently, closing his eyes as though to fake nonchalance.

“Lie to me just so you can feel like you’re protecting me.”

He sucked in a breath, his thought process halted by her words. Instinctively, his jaw locked and he felt himself closing off. It clawed at something raw in his chest, a forbidden secret that didn’t want to come out. The silence of their shelter was perfect for her insistence because nothing could drown it out.

“You’re imagining things,” he told her. Maka’s stare didn’t waver from her place beside him. He refused to look back, but he knew his comment would only spurn her further.

She didn’t say anything more after that, but she did press her back closer to him, so he was fine with that. She adjusted her backpack to better pillow her head and laid back down. It was a minute or so until she talked again.

“You can lay with me, you know.” She spoke in a low tone, as if she was pouting.

“Yeah. Don’t want to.” He both felt and heard her huff from beside him, a sharp exhale that told him just how displeased she was. She sat up, heated and ready for an outburst, but just as it seemed she would turn to face him, she stopped. Her back was to him and her legs were still splayed on the floor, but now she was sitting up with her palms supporting her on the concrete. He could tell she was hesitating. It was fine, because he wasn’t in the mood to argue.

“I told you to--” Her head swiveled with ease. There was no force, no excessive show. She turned, and he shut up. Twin green bore into him, looking justified in their ire, and he was at a loss with how to handle the sadness in her eyes. Near monotone, she told him,

“Don’t tell me what to do.” With that, she pushed her bag away and turned towards him. Maka didn’t care for his protests when she lifted the gun from his lap and expertly handled it to the floor. With purpose, she swung her right leg over both of his so she could sit in his lap. It was a quiet affair, in which she seated herself silently and didn’t allow for objections. She wanted him to look at her.

When she was comfortable, Black Star could only try his best to deflect. She was staring at him again, no respite in those forest depths, and her shoulders weren’t strong, they were drooped. They caved forward to show how tired she was.

“You’re wearing yourself out,” she told him. It dropped like a stone in the empty shop, and he averted his eyes.

“Still dunno what you mean.”

Like a whip, Maka’s eyes flashed to something fiery and she fisted the front of his shirt. “You do know what I mean, stop acting stupid.” His own bullheaded visage came to the front at her quick words, feeling the sting and challenge they brought. His face twisted up into something stubborn, but he kept quiet.

“You keep…” she started. Her eyebrows bunched up, like she was unsure of how to piece together her thoughts. She struggled to find the words. “You keep putting yourself in the way, like you don’t trust me, or like I’m going to break. I’ve had enough.”

She is not untrustworthy and she is not fragile, this he knew. He knew, and yet he couldn’t go more than a few minutes with her out of his sight. It bothered him to think of sleeping and leaving her— but that’s just it, isn’t it? She could protect herself, but he was at odds with the desperation he felt. Black Star remained silent, and Maka did not budge.

“It’s just like you to take on the brunt and leave me behind.”

Shocked, Black Star looked up only to see the defeat on her face. Her chin was canted up, and she looked so disappointed.

He insisted, “I’m not leaving you behind. I don’t even know how to do that!”

“Yes, you are!” Her voice rose past a comfortable point and he shushed her. Somewhere along the line, his hands found her waist. “Don’t screw with me, you don’t want me doing anything that puts me in the way!”

“I’m just trying to keep us safe, Maks,” he said with composure. But the more he brushed her off, the more determined she became. It didn’t matter, though, because horrors rushed like rain before him. He remembered the river incident, and when he lost her in the apartments, and the time they were boxed in a convenient store. They all flash in front of him like a screaming reminder.

“‘There’s not an ‘us’ when you put it all on your shoulders,” she told him. “See? You’re still thinking of me in danger, but it’s never about you. What, do you not need it?” Her accusatory tone rubbed him wrong, but he couldn’t deny what she was saying.

“We’re alive, aren’t we?” he snapped, pointedly ignoring her question. Immediately, she was affronted, but listened to him speak. “I don’t know why it’s such an issue if we’re both still here.”

Maka took in another breath and fixed him with her steely eyes. In the next moment, she said quieter, “I get that you want to protect us—“ His nostrils flared and before he could interrupt she continued. “—but I’ve survived just as long as you have.”

They were two halves of a whole, equally as fierce as they were stubborn. He couldn’t name a person with whom he was more equally matched. They were deadlocked, both feeling the effects of their feelings, but Maka always had more to say.

“You can rely on me, too,” she told him. Black Star hung his head.

“I can do more than the both of us,” he maintained.

“That’s your ego talking, but what happens when you’re so tired you make the wrong call?” She tugged his shirt for emphasis. “What will you do when you’re so preoccupied with me, that you hurt yourself?”

“That won’t happen,” he tried.

“You don’t know that!” Maka looked at him with a desperate expression that felt shared. Unexpectedly, she started shifting like she was going to rise. “I should have known you weren’t going to listen—“ She pushed at his chest and he felt it too keenly to ignore.

Black Star moved on instinct. Just as Maka was moving back and away, he leaned forward so that he could bring her back to him.

“Stop it,” he chided. She responded with rejecting shoves, though none were particularly convincing. “Stop it,” he finally insisted. He brought her back to his chest and held her securely around the waist.

“Why?” she muffled into his chest. She was breathing a little more heavily now, and so he rubbed an idle hand up and down her back. His own nerves were still sizzling and teeming with words unsaid, worries left unchecked, but he could give her this. He knows she’d hate him if he didn’t listen.

He didn’t answer, and she didn’t press again, only continued to let him hold her. A moment of peace passed between them, ire dying down to something more manageable.

“I forgot how good you were at arguing,” he said after a while. It was an olive branch. She wiggled something impatient against him, but he wasn’t content with letting her go just yet.

“That’s something you forget?” she grumbled into his shoulder. His comforts appeased her, and if one of his hands reached up to soothe the back of her neck, neither of them said anything about it.

“What do you want me to do?” he finally asked. He sighed heavily, feeling a mountain’s worth of exhaustion weigh on him in the aftermath.

Maka sniffed once, and insisted, “Stop leaving me to sleep alone. I don’t like it, and you always lie when you say you’re going to wake me up.” Her own hands fiddled with his clothes, worrying the fabric between her fingers and picking at stray threads.

Black Star’s hand drifted father up her neck until it reached the hair on the back of her neck. Twin tails still adorned her head, and the hair ties she had left were treasures she guarded closely. He made a mental note to find her more the next time they hit up a store.

“I guess I can do that,” he conceded. Gently, Maka picked her head back up and lended him her vulnerable expression.

“Really?” she asked. His only answer was to lean his head back against the wall and nod, eyes closed in defeat. Maka’s own head rolled forward in relief, slowly coming to lay on his chest again.

“I’m so tired,” she told him. He knew that she meant in more ways than one. His quiet, “Yeah,” was all the agreement she wanted.

“You need to lean on me so you can be more carefree, dummy,” Maka whispered. Caught off guard by the phrase, he could only huff the smallest laugh. He smiled something small and knowing against the crown of her head.

“I’ll take you up on that, then.”

It was easy to maneuver both of them back down to the floor. They laid on their sides, with him behind her and pillowing her head with his arm. His spare was left to drape warmly over her middle, and she was more than happy to curl into the crook of his body. 

Maka released a grounding sigh. It was full bodied and teeming with respite, an untapped well of rest. “You’re sleeping, right?” she asked. His fingers, ever coaxing, slid under her bangs. Practiced, he lets his hand cover her eyes like a blanket. Her own fingers reached up to grab his wrist. It reminded him of soft toys, things held for security. 

“Yeah,” he promised.

He closed his eyes.

[crownedward]

Her relationship with her mother had always been complicated. The two of them didn’t get along, her mother never gave them a chance to. The second her father wanted out of their marriage when she was five Tabatha Cole took her chance and ran. Amelia had been so angry at that originally, the older she’s grown the more she could understand why. The one thing that pulled at her heart was why leave her? What had she done to deserve her mother’s lack of attention? She worked hard to get it, thought she hadn’t earned it enough and needed to work harder. Nothing she did was enough. She hadn’t been around much while she was growing up. The odd visit every now and again when it was convenient or needed to pull on the heart strings of an investor “I’m building an empire for my daughter” she would tell them before leaving Amelia back with her father and his wife, ignoring her until she needed her as a pawn once more. 

She hadn’t attending her wedding. Amelia hadn’t been surprised, it wasn’t like she had attended much of her other events. Even her father had the guts walk her down the isle to the man he wanted her to marry. 

It wasn’t the only life event of Amelia’s she had missed, there were many events a mother should have been apart of that she wasn’t. Amelia found this difficult, most people in her circle had parents that were distant but at least they could contact them to tell them important things. Tabatha arrived in Amelia’s life when it seemed convenient for her.

She relied heavily on Thomas’s mother when she fell pregnant with her first child. It was the only time she had ever had a decent relationship with her. She had been afraid becoming attached, not wanting to go through the pain of abandonment a second time around. She had been terrified of becoming a mother, her fear of being just like her ran deep. What if she wasn’t good enough? What if she couldn’t love her children the way she wanted to? She didn’t how to be a mother.

The second Regina was placed into her arms all understanding as to why her mother was distant towards her disappeared. She couldn’t understand how someone could bring a child into the world, their own flesh and blood and not love them with everything they had. How could they not want to give them everything? 

Tabatha didn’t meet her Granddaughter until she was nearly a year old, she had been left in the care of a nanny while Amelia attended an important meeting that couldn’t have a screaming colic baby interrupting (as much as it broke her heart to leave her there). She returned home to her daughter cradled in her mother’s arms. Every part of her wanted her to be back, wanted her to say that she was going to hang around but she wasn’t going to. “She looks like her father, that’s a shame” the first words she had heard her mother speak in years. Her words sat horribly in her chest, feeling like she failed as a mother because her daughter didn’t look like her. “The nightclubs are going under” were her next words. She hadn’t stayed long after Amelia handed her a check.

As she and her children grew older the contact became more frequent but only whenever she needed money or to criticise her. “You can’t let that bastard take your spot as CEO” “If you were better at your job he’d have given it to you” “You couldn’t even bring yourself to love him.”  This only pushed Amelia to work harder, be better but not just to prove her mother wrong. For her children. The company was theirs, rightfully theirs. Everything she had done since their birth had been for them and everything she ever would do would be for them as well

 In 2013 it became public news exactly what Tabatha Cole was like. She had been arrested on multiple counts of tax evasion, contempt of court, money laundering and drug offences. Amelia hadn’t been surprised to read it in the paper and had been even less surprised when investigators tore apart her office. Her mother had tried to shift the blame to her, tried to drag her name through the mud. She had been prepared for this, it didn’t take too much digging to realise her mother wasn’t where she got her skills in business from. Her day in court came and her skill as an negotiator and lawyer were on full display. Any question about her involvement were removed and Amelia began the process of cleaning up what parts of her image had been dragged through the mud in the public eye.

Her mother was scum, it wasn’t news to her. To her children it might have been a little confronting but she knew they were smart enough to know their grandmother wasn’t exactly an angel. There was a reason she shielded them from her. The text message from her father “Good girl” told her everything she needed to know. 

August 10th 2015

The phone call sunk right into her chest. “We need you to identify her” She felt sick. Her death was under investigation. She got herself a plea deal. Every single one of her associates were going under. So many answers were needed but Amelia couldn’t bring herself to care enough to pursue them

TABATHA COLE FOUND DEAD. MURDER? DRUGS? 

partying was the answer. a deadly concoction of too many things. Possibly by her own doing, maybe not. Her lifestyle finally caught up with her. It was in the news for days, no matter where she looked it seemed to be in her face. She attended the funeral but did little else.

2020

Her mother had been on her mind often recently. Her fight with Royce brought back many memories and painful truths. Ignoring her son, not giving him the basic decency of trusting him and his opinion of his girlfriend. Ignoring him because she was only thinking about herself. The distance between them that had only been growing terrified her. Maybe she really was her mother, hell, she even cheated on the one woman she ever truly loved all because she was selfish.

August 10th 2020

she knew it had been coming, everything had been piling up on her and her mind. The distance from her children, her fling, the stress of everything settling on her shoulders, it wasn’t like her mother to be out done. A reporter tweeted it at her. An article titled “Five years on. Was Tabatha Cole’s death truly accidental?” along with a request for comment. A quick check of the date and Amelia was pouring herself a glass of wine and moving to the window looking over the city. She resisted the urge to throw her phone. Instead slipping it gently into her pocket and staring out over the city. Not even in death could her mother let her be. Deep down she wanted to know, did someone finally have enough of her? Maybe her father? It was all questions she doubted she’d ever have the answer to. Her mother’s “empire” was gone, the clubs she had left the government took. The only thing that remained of her mother’s legacy was her and her children but they never mattered in Tabatha’s eyes. They could have sought justice for her, looked into what happened but she abandoned them, now they will carry the legacy of a man she hated. 

Tabatha Cole wouldn’t be remembered as a good mother, grandmother or business woman. She’d be remembered for her crimes and her failures. That was her Legacy, the only thing left for her daughter. No empire, no money, no happy memories. Just a constant reminder of just how shit of a person she really was. 

The only thing she had ever given her was her constant fear of failing as a mother and right now, she was feeling every bit of that fear.

[namjoonchronicles]

beautiful, tragic | yoongi

✿ pairing: yoongi x you ✿ genre: domestic, yoongi as a husband, fluff, suggestive content, slight smut ✿ words: 4k ✿ summary: it’s hard sharing your musically talented husband with the world, and this is your story.

Stay home. He says. Watch the house. He says.

You’re stuck, scrolling idly on your phone with your drama on Netflix long abandoned on your 85” Sony LED Screen, equipped with the sound system that would surpass Dolby Surround System if it ever went on competition with each other.

Apart from the boring international celeb news, who broke up and who got divorced, the politic scene is too awry for you to read and you were not prepared for that headache so early in the day. One particular headline caught your attention, though.

Billboard Judge, Music Producer Min Yoongi Purchases USD$3M UN Village Villa In Cash.

Excuse me, what?

Screenshot. Clicking the home button on your phone, you tapped on Kakao Talk app next and ignored the messages from your ex-classmates group that has mounted to 120 unread texts and straight to ‘Fish’ ID.

You had sent him the screenshot of the news clipping, and proceed to multi-text him the following:

????????? Why wasn’t I informed?? Yoongi. What did I tell you about purchasing things without a proper discussion? Behind my back?? The nerve?? Bitch, square up when you get home. I also have watched five episodes without you. Fuck you.

Delivered. The anger had made you toss your phone to the side on the couch. This stupid huge ass house he is never in. You grind your jaws, glaring at your wedding picture on the top corner of your wall. And he dares to buy another one. You can hear him whispering a silent fuck from the distant. Fuck--is quite right, Yoongi. Your phone dings a new message in less than twenty minutes. He had machine-gunned you with replies that your phone had trouble keeping up with. You crossed your arm, scoffing at the sight of his name blinking on your screen. Oh, now you want to call me.

Volume : 70%, 75%, 85%. Netflix show has dimmed the sound of his calls and desperate texts.

He just never learns, does he? You’re starting to feel like he feeds on these little arguments like ginseng soup--has to have it when he’s unwell or deprived of something. Now that’s something you didn’t share with him. Yoongi’s work prevents him to be home as often as he’d like, requires him to befriend sketchy men and women with hidden agendas, they also constantly separate you and him--all this, you know and understood from the beginning. But like flying kites, when kites with strings tend to stray too far, and stretched too long, it snaps. Especially when you’re the one at the end of the string, holding him down to earth with a promise of a golden ring, always the one waiting for his return. When the blizzards come, the storm arrives, you gripped tighter, but there’s no guarantee that he felt the tug even if he should.

Here lies his expertise on words. Here lies the test of loyalty. Here lie your trust and his devotion. Love is a gamble, isn’t it?

It was supposed to be a surprise :( I wanted to take you there when I come home, but the news spoiled it :( :( Good news is, it’s not fully furnished and we can go furniture shopping… I know you love decorating the house :) I’ll forgive you if you watch the same 5 episodes with me later Babe? :( :( You’re still fetching me at the airport right? Right, sweetie?

He sends a screenshot of his expected arrival time, and you skimmed pass the message with a blank look. You tap the camera icon and took a selfie of your middle finger.

Fish was immediately typing…

OK, but it’s difficult with jeans on.

You gawked as you realized that he was talking about fingering you. You snarled against the screen and tapped video call button.

But it was declined. And he replied immediately.

Can’t. In a crash meeting with the staff.

You put your phone close to your lips and tapped voice recording icon. And Yoongi knows better than to play it in the midst of a meeting. You’re roasting him and for that, he’ll keep for his lullaby on the way to the airport later with his good headphones on. He gave a goofy smile on the screen when you replied with middle-finger emoticons. “God, I love her…” he stares fondly at your ID.

Flight JN1741 from Amsterdam arrives at Incheon International Airport on 2:00 PM. Passengers begin to rise from their seat before the ‘fasten-your-seatbelt’ sign was turned off. Already, Yoongi’s massive entourage are receiving calls within the moving but landed airplane. His staff is dependable but workaholics, like he is. He was just worried that his wife won’t show up because she’s mad. But he’s also certain that she will be there at the arrival. He likes that you make him nervous this way. He likes that he could mean everything to the world, and has his words as law to others, but won’t necessarily have the same effect on you. He loves the fact that you keep him on his toes and make him chase. He also loves the fact that he knows you’ll be waiting at home where he left you as he works.

Loving and having are different things.

Yoongi of all people knows the constraints of having a serious relationship in his hectic life will be hard to manage. When he couldn’t meet his lady love, he relies heavily on her profound loyalty and his blinded trust. God knows that both of you tried. Both of you really tried to keep the passion alive, never to fizzle out. But distance could make or break a relationship--and Yoongi really wanted this. This battleground he chose to live in. He was lucky to have the best of both worlds. Most couldn’t experience that. To him, the game is only over when the other stops playing.

A conversation is a conversation, even if its a fight.

He refastens his black facemask, his black hoodie and stood up as the manager asks him whether he needs a ride home or not. The 40-year-old man walks away once Yoongi said that his wife is fetching him.

“Also, hyung...can you bring the iKey to the Apple Store I bought it in? It had malfunctioned again. I left the warranty card inside the pack,” Yoongi politely asked. “Every single time we leave Amsterdam… Yoongi what did you do with it?” The manager pulls the bag out the compartment above the head. “Work I guess…” Yoongi shrugged and fiddled with the straps of his black backpack.

Most of the passengers had left the airplane. But before Yoongi leaves with his manager, something metallic clinked on his sneakers. His manager crouched down before he did and picked the object up.

“Can’t forget the ring when you’re meeting the wife...take it from me,” his manager returns Yoongi’s ring to him. “It keeps slipping out my finger, I think I’m losing too much weight,” Yoongi chuckled short and put them back on with a small wiggle. “VIP arrivals that way…” His manager pointed the way out, “Tell her we missed her around.”

Yoongi nodded, feeling rather bashful and shy. That’s right. You used to work in his entourage as medical staff. Until he had you hitched and away from the stressful job that costs you your mental health. Now, you review staffs’ health records from home and frequently, his. You fell sick prior to the world tour he led, so that’s why he had you staying home. Not that you tailed him often when he works. He just prefers you doing your own thing. His work requires a lot of movement while you had to be static in one place to finish your writing or reading. You were that hot white coat bearer with a sexy full-rimmed glasses and spoke medicine parseltongue. Every time you share a piece of medical knowledge with him or explain a medical condition, Yoongi drools like a lovesick puppy dog inwardly. He can’t wait to have you explain liver cirrhosis everytime he brings up how much he drank when he was away. That was his version of dirty talk.

But where’s my lady love? Yoongi hums. Scanning the room for any glimpse of you. Could you be standing nearby a coffee vending machine, or would you be in convenient stores searching for a mint? Or are you strolling idly in the expanse of the airport in slow, relaxed strides?

No, you’re walking straight towards him with your arms crossed from the entrance, your hair flew back at every trudge you make to close the distance between him and you. He fumbles with the strap of his bag, and a bit slouched to the side. Having to push his head back to see your face from the beak of his black cap and hoodie, while you draw in, closer and closer.

Your hand came in contact with his at the handle of his roller bag first, before you leaned up to his ear and he lowered himself down, “You and I have a lot of things to talk about.” You snatched the roller bag from his grip roughly and Yoongi watched your back getting smaller and smaller as you stormed away. He pouts at the sight and gripping his bag strap tighter, firmer. You passed an acid glance once and expect him to follow closely with a glare. Yoongi’s pouty lips slowly form a smirk and a naughty cock of his eyebrow. He really enjoys it when you’re angry.

The trunk opens with a hydraulic rise, and he helped you carry his own bag inside. It slammed shut and you dashed to the driver seat, knowing that he is often exhausted after a long flight. Engine purrs on, and your focus was interrupted by the sound of his seatbelt clicking. He’s here. He’s really home.

“Do you want to eat anything? Some fast food or anything like that?” You asked. “Yeah, but she’s driving…” He glanced outside the car window like he had said nothing explicit.

“Ha, very funny…” the car reversed and exited the parking lot with no hiccups, but the situation isn’t going to be smooth on the inside, “Don’t think that snarky remarks will get you anywhere near this coochie.”

Yoongi let out a tiny scoff to the window, shifting in his seat as the view of the city he calls home, come to sight. Miraculously, he has made it home within a month. Although the reunion was bittersweet and that he landed on soil knowing that you’re mad at him, he is well-informed by your passive behavior when you missed him the most. That much is true. And it needs no extra explanation.

How was Amsterdam?

“Cold. Great sound system… decent steak,” he answered. You smiled to yourself, noticing how much you missed his aloof response. Few words, big heart. That’s Min Yoongi for you.

“I think I made a great steak a few days ago…” you took the chance to brag on yourself and Yoongi switches to the side where you sat driving. Hands between his knees, eyes doe and soft.

“Tell me more about what you did…” he said, in a gentle voice.

“Nothing much. I proofread a medical article, cooked for myself, write a bit, stare at the 2 selfies you took last two years. Sniff your hoodie, organize your shoe collection, vacuum GeniusLab2, visit Holly at your parents. I made him this cute ass leash that I knitted on my own. He had stomach flu, so I took him to the vets. He’s okay now, though.”

“I wanted to video call more, but I didn’t have the time…” Yoongi complaints.

“You don’t remember?” You crumpled your face at the road before glancing briefly at him. You could see Yoongi’s confused expression. Head tilted to the side, his mouth opens and closes several times without a word uttered out. He really didn’t remember.

“Baby bear, you called me twice in a drowsy state…” you offered a line of explanation but the contortion on his face suggests that he requires more, “You drunk video call me to tell me you had a sandwich and fell asleep before you could tell me what was inside… Three days after that, you called me again but you were already snoring when I answered.”

“I don’t recall…” he hums.

“Anyways, whatever… that’s cute though. Also, this 3 million villa you bought, what’s the story?” you snapped, at the same time, you turn at the corner of the city smoothly.

“It’s not a penthouse like you said I shouldn’t get, so technically, I didn’t go against your words,” he sang. “How on earth did you carry 3 million in cash?” You scowled. “With many briefcases,” he retorted with a thin smile.

You pressed your lips together to stop yourself from laughing because you wanted to be focused on being serious and mature. But the quick reply had you snickering. Such a matter-of-fact answer. His face lights up at your response.

“You said that we’re going to furniture shopping. Do you even have time to do that?” you stopped at the security cottage and flashed your residence card on the pad the divider retracts open.

“I knew you were going to make a dispute out of it. So I made sure Namjoon allows it,” Yoongi laced his fingers together, and made a dark chuckling sound.

“What did you do to him this time…” you felt uneasy already. The last time he wanted a day off, Yoongi hid Namjoon’s passport so the trip could be delayed for a day or two. He purchased a movie on Netflix and wanted to watch it with you.

He simply gave you that creepy smile and you already know.

“You put laxatives in his drinks, my god.” “It is my most brilliant plan of all.” “Yoongi!” “What...he said he was constipating. I am doing him a favor.”

Why wouldn’t he constipate from the amount of caffeine he had been consuming. You thought.

Everyone’s definition of success is different. Everyone’s definition of married life is also different. The married life you shared with Yoongi was entirely on a different level. There are no guidelines for marrying a music producer this world famous. So you focused on being a wife. If everything else in his life isn’t normal, then being married is.

The moment he steps inside the home he shared with you, you noticed he stifled a yawn. His eyes falling droopy at the sight of his long sought after nest.

“I’m going to get a late lunch going, and you can go lay down on the bed in your indoor clothes…” “No, I want to help in the kitchen…” “Look at your eyes, they’re barely open… go rest.”

But he wanted to unpack because he got you something.

“It’s a cross-stitch table runner…” he lays his head on his palm, curled on his side, watching your big grin as you unravel the precious gift. He remembered that you wanted to buy this the last time you were there. He got the correct design and correct color too.

“You got them custom-made,” you gasped excitedly, and then shrink your voice at him, “Thank you...it’s so pretty.” Pulling the runner into a hug while Yoongi chuckles sleepily.

Yoongi was less interested in his stories and more engaged in yours. All his relatives that he can call strangers because they rarely meet, his family members that have seen you more than they’ve seen him. He silently is grateful for you being here, being the glue between his family and close friends, an invincible knot that keeps him grounded and gave him the sense of belonging.

He drifts mid-through your stories and latest gossip. As you sat on the floor next to the bed, unpacking his luggage one-by-one, you no longer hear his response. You glanced to the side and saw him sleeping soundly. You could only imagine how many hours he could when he’s away in a foreign country. Yoongi somehow can appear to be sleeping but is in fact, listening to all the conversations surrounding him. You and he share that talent. But this time, he slept for real--the energy replenishing, body rejuvenating sleep. There’s soft snorings and little shudders from time to time. Your gaze fell from his fringes to his brows, down the slope of his nose and his doll-like lips.

Last clothing to be unpack looked familiar. It was yours. That’s endearing. He always packs one clothing that belonged to you. You know, for when he ‘misses his wife so much he could die’ moments. You don’t know when he snuck them in, but it’s probably when you’re busy at the living room, or the bathroom, making sure he didn’t forget anything. The luggage is taken away from the bedroom and into his home studio, where it stays until its service is required again--which you suspect, won’t be long.

You slid the blanket above his shoulder, and tuck him in like you would a child. He looks so tired and it breaks your heart that he has to leave again. It’s like a cycle. At least you can see him eat today, with your own eyes, so let’s get started with the lunch.

Nothing extravagant. Just broiled spinach, fermented white baby radish from last week, and warm chicken soup with ginseng to help him re-energized. But he isn’t awake yet. That’s alright, you can reheat everything when he’s up. He still needs his much-acquired sleep. With that thought, you disappear into the bathroom and undressed. Sweating from cooking, body sticky with remnants of watery expels urged you to shower before the sun is completely down. You don’t usually shower this early, but with Yoongi around, you felt self-conscious. He doesn’t know this, but you will always want to smell nice for him. Isn’t that the very core of being a wife? Being extra hygienic for the hubby? To keep him interested? Especially Yoongi, because he is constantly away and accompanied by many attractive females?

You discarded the dampened shirt outside the door of the bathroom and swung it shut as gently as you can. Off goes the bra, then the panties. The shower head expels drizzling liquid, the steam floats up to the ceiling and the glass door get fogged up from the heat. Water pools at your feet as you readied your face underneath the shower to come into contact with the sprinkles. The pleasure of a simple shower after a good sweat is ultimately unmatched.

So endorsed in your time alone, Yoongi pushes the door wider. He had come awake when he heard you turned the knob shut. He discarded his pants on the way, and pulled his black shirt over his head, charging forward like a soldier on his way to a battleground he intends to win. Then he discarded his last piece of clothing, his boxers. Afterward, he trudges into the shower cubicle where you were standing, facing away from him. “You thought I was too tired for a shower session with you?” His voice deeps lower than usual, as he snakes one arm around your naked waist, skin to skin, Yoongi sunk his teeth on your shoulder and you turned around wearing a big smile to greet him. “No I thought you wouldn’t be able to handle any sessions with me…” you smartly replied. Yoongi smiled into the kiss that began innocently enough and gradually increase in intensity and power as the seconds passed. Your arms slick against his shoulder as he held on palm flat on the walls of the shower, he stands directly underneath the shower head now--refusing to let go of your lips even when you tap out for a breath. A seasoned rapper’s lung capacity isn’t a shy away from a Navy diver. Provided with the long abstinence and accumulating want, Yoongi isn’t just going to stop here in the shower, best believe, he is going to continue making love to you in all the rooms available in this house until he’s finally sated.

His handprints on the fogged glass door is significantly larger than yours. The slippery sound of sliding skin filled your ears, and your strangled moans could only suggest an impending euphoric sensation you had longed for, since the last time he’s here. And Yoongi is a determined soul. The thrusts are languid and deep. From the way he buried his face in the crook of your neck, eliciting heavy desperate pants implies that he had been imagining this on his lonely nights for too long. His touches were too precise and calculated, coming from a veteran lover who knows his wife’s body like the back of his hand. Yoongi’s glazed orbs that greeted you in the midst of the steamy love-making, felt foreign yet familiar. But his lips that conquered yours right after the heaty glance was definitely, without a doubt, Yoongi’s. The time apart had made him a stranger to your body, and the passion that almost fizzled out from the distance had reignited to another degree.

“Fuck I miss you,” he breathlessly says against your ear. You didn’t stutter or faltered back into the lust like you used to when you first dated him. Instead, you smiled into his confessions and bit your grin--no longer shy to show how much you love having these moments with him. More, you encouraged him with your touches and sweet mewls.

I like the whispers you added at the end. She says.

No matter what the public critic might say, Yoongi’s only verdict comes from his wife. His true achievements and outcomes of his work rely heavily on what you may say. But your words can be sarcastic and Yoongi doesn’t like having to guess what you truly meant.

“You always say something like that…” “I don’t know what you want me to say,” you shrugged as you scooped out a bowl of rice for him, “I like the whisper part and that’s the truth.” “How many times did you listen to it… be honest,” Yoongi took his bowl from you.

You tipped your eyes up to the ceiling and clicked your tongue. Somehow Yoongi caught the expression.

“Are you serious…” he began, eyes following you as you pulled the chair next to him out, “Okay, fine. Do you listen more of Jimin’s Promise or my collab song?”

You added a long hum, not intending to give him the answer he wants to hear. “Technically, Jimin’s Promise came out first--”

“--don’t talk to me,” he darted.

Instinctively, you covered his knee with one palm, to soothe him. But of course, Yoongi wouldn’t let you console him that quickly.

“I spent nights writing that song while touring… Am I asking too much of you, to just listen to me more than you do Jimin’s, but no. Ultimately, I’m always the second choice for the industry AND my wife. Fine, I don’t care...I don’t want to care anymore. I worked so hard to earn money for you to spend, and all I’m requesting is that you be my harsh critic but you’re apparently too busy to listen to my songs. Hmm, I see how it is.”

“To even things out, you never told me you’re releasing a song…” you shrugged.

Yoongi set his chopstick down, clinking while you continued eating.

“To top it all, you watched dramas without me,” he tipped a glass of water into his mouth like he would a cup of soju, “Our drama.”

You knew he is just picking fights with you because to him, a fight is also a conversation.

“Gosh Alexa, this is so sad, play Seesaw,” you exclaimed with a forlorn sigh, “What do you propose I do? Wait for you until you come back? The second season would have begun by the time you returned, Yoongi… You have cities to tour, fans to meet and stages to check, and what about me? I have this house, Netflix and the chili plant outside. You’re being a little mean to me right now… my priorities aren’t always you, you know.”

Yoongi was deafened by the last sentence you said, that he couldn’t hear the rest of the off-topic conversations you promptly added after it. You didn’t seem to notice that you’ve hurt him. That’s the inspiration behind his rap verse ‘my razor tongue wife with a stone in her hand’. He likes that you’re honest and has trained you to be tougher, but the blade he sharpens strikes him once in a while when needed. He doesn’t apologize, he makes amends with his actions. He tries to be ultimately present when he’s here. When he’s home.

Like now, he sat on the floor, with a writing pad while you washed dishes.

“Turmeric powder. Can you check if it’s on the grocery list?” You raised your voice a little so he could hear from the living room. He puffed his cheeks with his cap turned backward, scanning down the awfully long list of things you needed to get for the family dinner this weekend.

“Nope,” he writes them scraggly underneath your neat writing. Then he heard you listed a number of things and gifts you planned to get before the weekend comes. Presents for your parents, and his; his nephews, his older brother’s birthday that he himself didn’t remember, a flower bouquet for his aunt who just opened a restaurant. He made a mental note to transfer a large amount of money into your account later.

“Is the villa far from here?” you asked him, wiping your kitchen stove down, spotless. “Not very… you’ll see when you drive there later,” Yoongi murmured to his chest, filling colors on the heart he drew on the grocery list, next to “Yoongi’s wife grocery list”.

“Also, I wanted to get grilled beef slices in that restaurant…” Yoongi promised to take you to the restaurant you had been wanting to go to, in two days time. Until a message from his manager came.

“...it would taste so damn good…” your mouth waters at the thought of it but when you looked across the counter at Yoongi perplexed gaze sitting on the floor there in the living room, you somehow caught what he didn’t, or rather--couldn’t say. That look could only mean one thing.

That the luggage you pushed into his studio is going to get another traveling sticker. That the restaurant trip is not going to happen. That you will be strolling aimlessly in this huge house. That you will be visiting the villa he bought alone. That your wedding picture and ring will be the only proof that you’re somehow married.

To the worldly loved, worldly known...the beautiful tragic, Min Yoongi.

Because he couldn’t keep his promise, you had him doing something similar to it. Peeking at his bobbing head, through your iPad playing Candy Crush, you smiled to yourself.

“Make sure you get all my toenails trimmed and neatened,” Yoongi lifts his head up short, sitting on the floor, with your heel digging onto his thigh as he nodded. “What color do you want for the polish?” He asked, getting cross-eyed as he hones the sharp edges of your nail, shorter.

“Your hair color right now…” “Babe, this is out of context…but” he dragged, “remember the voice note you sent me during the crash meeting with the staff?”

“The one I cursed at you? Yeah...why?” “It turns me on,” He hides his smile by lowering his face from you. What a strange yet tantalizing thought.

[keeroo92]

Savior, Bloodstain, Hellfire, Shadow Ch 5

~~~Previous Chapter~~~

Chapter Five - The Silence of Subtlety Part 2

---Reader---

Black shards exploded from V without a sound and you crossed your fingers that Griffon would, for once, stay quiet. It was stressful, not being able to do anything to change what happened next, but you tried to stay calm. The mouthy demon formed from the cloud of particles as silent as an owl and landed on the poet’s outstretched arm. The two whispered for a moment and you kept watch on the horde below until V waved you over.

“I’m going first. If I fall, do not come after me. I will come back for you,” he murmured.

Your skin prickled and your mouth went dry at the idea of waiting there alone, but you nodded anyway with a nervous swallow. The poet rested his hand on yours, a gesture of reassurance before he stepped away. Griffon lifted off with silent wing beats, circling the rooftop and getting into the perfect position.

V raised his left arm high and Griffon surged forward, a blur of blue feathers. Talons grasped flesh and the poet rose, his legs dangling as the demonic bird swooped over the gap. You couldn’t breathe, eyes glued to the man in black as he began to descend. It was a challenge to withhold a shout of triumph as V’s sandaled feet crossed the edge to hover over the next rooftop. The drop wasn’t far, and Griffon released the man’s arm to let him tumble the last few feet.

Right. Now it’s my turn.

It was disorienting to not be able to hear Griffon flapping past you, but you tracked his path well enough with your eyes. He paused and you lifted both arms high, crossing your fingers for good luck. The blue demon darted toward you and grasped your biceps with his powerful claws, lifting you several feet into the air and making your stomach flip.

You kept your eyes closed as you made the crossing, waiting until it felt right to open them again. V was waiting for you, arms outstretched to cushion the last few feet should you fall. As much as being in his arms appealed to you, you tried to land on your own and staggered, barely able to maintain your balance as you returned to being bound by gravity.

The urge to howl your victory was powerful, replacing the all-encompassing fear of the last few moments and leaving you lightheaded. A wide smile was all you dared as you tiptoed over to join V and Griffon. The lean man smirked at the look on your face, a knowing twinkle in his emerald eyes. You shot a grateful nod at the mouthy demon and he dissolved into a cloud of black shards, drifting to the poet and sinking back into his flesh.

He pointed to a doorway and you frowned, risking a few quiet words. “Do we really want to go down after seeing what Griffon can do?”

“He cannot ferry us the whole way, unfortunately. It would exhaust us both,” he replied, his tone as low as your own as he opened the door. You nodded, heart sinking in disappointment as you followed him through.

The second building was virtually identical to the first, save for a few key differences. First, the front entrance was blocked by massive hunks of rubble. Second, it was pitch black. A tense few minutes passed as you and V shuffled around, feeling the walls in hopes of finding a way out.

I hope I don’t find a demon instead!

Fortunately for your nerves, you wrapped your hands around a cold knob a heartbeat later. V wasn’t far and easily heard your stage whisper, joining you a moment later.

You held your breath and opened the door, praying it wouldn’t squeak. This time, you were lucky and it opened soundlessly onto a cramped alley, stuffed with trash bins and bits of detritus. With a final glance back, you left the Empusa horde and the Behemoth to their foraging.

That wasn’t so bad!

The next several blocks passed in much the same manner of sneaking and choosing the right moment when your foes were looking elsewhere. It was draining, to be in such a constant state of high alert, but necessary.

The lack of conversation wore on you, too. Normally you’d banter with V and Griffon to keep your mind fresh, keep it focused on something other than the dire situation, but not today. You missed chatting and joking with them, but now was not the time.

You sighed under your breath. What you wouldn’t give for ten minutes without demons…

An angry snarl interrupted your musings and you stepped back hastily to hide behind a convenient dumpster. The poet joined you a heartbeat later and peeked over the metal container, his expression turning grim at the sight that met his gaze.

“Empusa Queen, and a group of hatchlings. They’re feeding, so we may be able to sneak past unnoticed.”

You nodded and waited for him to signal when to move, squatting with coiled and ready muscles for what felt like an age. You counted the seconds to pass the time, hitting over one thousand before losing your patience. Would that damned thing ever turn around?

V’s hand sliced through the air near your head; almost ready. You tensed you body and waited, eyes locked on his tattooed fingers. At last, he closed his digits into a fist – time to move!

Though the alley was only twenty feet across, it seemed to stretch on for miles as you scurried by. The poet was a few steps behind you, barely able to keep up. The instant you reached cover, you turned back to tug him beside you. The two of you battled your panting into quiet rasps, listening for any signs the Queen heard you.

Nothing. All was still.

You grinned at the man in black and helped him rise, already focused on crossing the next block. Ahead, a used car lot stretched out, many of the vehicles damaged already. Good cover, at least. You shook the weariness away and ventured forth, hiding behind a new car every few feet alongside the poet. Halfway through, you found trouble.

Two Caina, prowling the aisle less than ten feet away. You were just about to duck behind the next car when one of them turned, spotting you instantly and growling.

Fuck!

You dodged to the left as its scythe came down, drawing your dagger. It snarled and prepared to strike again, heaving its weapon high. Nero’s training flashed in your mind and you crouched, performing a small and unskilled somersault to cross between its widely spread legs. With its back to you, it was slightly less terrifying to stand and thrust the blade deep into the base of its head.  Its flesh turned gray and it dissolved into nothingness as you ripped your blade free.

A few feet away, V held the other Caina against the ground, its weapon lying a dozen feet away as he strangled it with his cane. You darted over to help and sank your dagger into its eye socket with a disgusting squelch.

He grunted, relying heavily on his cane as he stood tall once more, disdain on his features as he watched the last few flakes of the Caina float away in the breeze.  Dark circles lied under his emerald eyes, a dull sheen of exhaustion tinting the normally expressive orbs. You imagined you looked just as bad, judging by how heavy your skull felt.

I’d kill for a nap…

Yet you shoved aside the exhaustion and pressed on. It was clear you couldn’t keep up this pace much longer by the way your eyes slid over more and more details, but you forced your flagging steps to continue anyway.

Thankfully, the rest of the car lot passed uneventfully, and you entered a small office park. It was rather plain, grey stone buildings and a few courtyards sprinkled between them. The line of sight was decent enough and your lips twitched into a half-hearted smile at the lack of possible sneak attacks. The sun was setting now, just starting to dip below the top floors of the buildings nearby.

We have to find shelter soon. We can’t stop here, it isn’t safe.

As if to emphasize your thoughts, an echoing clatter sent a surge of adrenaline through you and your eyes scanned the area for whatever was on its way to murder you. Your hands were shaking, bracing for the worst as you found nothing. An invisibly demon? Was that a thing?

Then you saw V.

He had collapsed in a heap on the pavement. His eyes were closed, the movement of his chest shallow. You darted to his side and checked his pulse, grasping his slim wrist and counting. A bit fast, but not likely to have caused his fall.

“V? Can you hear me?” you whispered near his ear.

His weary eyes found yours slowly, blinking to focus. He nodded and let out a grunt, relying on his cane to help him rise. You took his free hand and lifted, so mentally wiped out you didn’t even notice when he stroked your palm before letting go.

---V---

We must keep going. There’s too much demon activity to stop here. Keep moving.

V’s mind was in a fog. His limbs were heavy, as if weights were tied on and he had to drag them on top of his own body weight. Whenever he moved his head, his vision spun and it took precious seconds for coherence to return. He demanded another ten steps from his weary legs, then another ten, and now another. All he needed to do was keep moving, that’s all.

He wasn’t unfamiliar with battle fatigue; the ache of exhaustion that came immediately after an adrenaline rush was a regular occurrence in his past. He knew how to set it aside and keep going when necessary. How to reason his body into wakefulness.

But this was different. Never had he felt it so strongly. He knew it was partially because of the sheer number of instances that flushed his system with the fight-or-flight instinct, but could it also be related to his lack of a complete soul?

It didn’t matter. All that mattered was reaching a place to rest. Both of you needed a chance to sleep and reset. Only determination and fear remained in the tank, and it wouldn’t last forever.

He closed his eyes, indulging in a moments respite and he tumbled to the ground as his foot caught on a tiny piece of brickwork.

Again? Pathetic. Get up.

Warm fingers pressed against his wrist and he grimaced. How embarrassing, to need help just to stand. He should be stronger than this, should be able to withstand the exhaustion. What a disgrace he was.

Your voice echoed by his ear, asking if he could hear you. He managed a nod and put all his weight on his cane, grunting as he tried to stand. Your hand took his and heaved and his mind registered gratitude.

Not once had you complained or asked to stop. You understood how dangerous it would be to tarry here, when the two of you were surrounded by demons on all sides. If you drew too much attention, the horde would close in like a tightening noose. You knew it may cost you your life to be here, but still you stayed.

I’m glad she’s with me.

Thinking of your courage and resilience gave him a much-needed boost of energy. He sent a filament of energy to Griffon and twitched his fingers, calling the mouthy bird forth from his body in a swirl of black shards.

“How much farther?” he rasped.

The bird gave him a sympathetic look and flapped, rising until he had a decent view. He circled for a moment before diving down to rejoin you, hovering near his elbow.

“Maybe another ten minutes? It’s close,” the normally jovial bird said.

“Any demons?”

“Yeah, tons. Take the first right, then a left at a bookstore. Should be clear from there.”

The poet nodded and released his hold on Griffon, letting the swirling cloud settle back into his skin. He sighed in resignation and stepped forward, only to stumble yet again and fall to his knees. A frustrated grunt escaped his lips and you came to his side with an outstretched hand. It pained him to admit his weakness, but he had no choice.

Instead of simply pulling him to his feet, you hauled his left arm over your shoulder, taking most of his weight. You wrapped your right arm around his waist for added support and together, the two of you closed the final quarter mile to find the way up Griffon spotted hours ago – a firetruck, ladder extended in a sixty degree angle as if someone used it to ascend the cliff already. V groaned, struggling to imagine himself making it up the ladder in his pathetic state.

---Reader---

Your thoughts mirrored the poet’s, easily realizing the same fact the moment you saw the truck. He was going to need all the help you could offer. Also, maybe a miracle. When you reached the bumper, you gently set V down and handed him a bottle of water, joining him on the ground with one of your own a beat later. You guzzled the fluid greedily, slurping like it was the nectar of the gods.

“We’re so close. I can see a place to rest up there, all we have to do is climb this damned thing. We’ve made it this far, we can’t stop now,” you urged him.

You had no clue if there was a safe spot above to rest, but staying there wasn’t an option. Demons were everywhere, hordes searching for more human blood. If you rested there, they would find you and you would die. You knew it in the depths of your soul.

V took another sip of his water and nodded. He rubbed his eyes and looked at you, grim resolve etched into every feature on his face.

“I’ll make it,” he said. There was a long moment of silence as you both tried to find the energy to stand, preparing for the final leg of the day’s journey.

“You’re going first,” you said. If you went first and he fell, you’d only have to go back to get him anyway. “Can you carry your cane?”

He smirked and reached for his belt, unbuckling it and looping it through the handle you added to the sheathe. In seconds, he had the thin leather strap cinched again and looked back to find you staring at his waist, thoughts locked on how nimbly his elegant fingers released it. You couldn’t even summon the energy to care that he caught you staring and instead shook yourself, standing up to help him to his feet.

You pulled him up with both hands, using your body weight as leverage and leading him to a set of steps you spotted on the way over. With a white-knuckled grip, he ascended to grasp the lowest rung of the ladder itself.

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered.

Every movement he made was careful, deliberate. As if he had to think about it beforehand. Once he was high enough, you began your own ascent. If he did slip, hopefully you’d be able to catch him before it was too late.

The angle of the ladder was brutal, barely enough for you two to rest your weight upon it as you climbed. The poet only lost his footing once about halfway up, but he clung on long enough to recover and narrowly avoid disaster. You pushed your own exhaustion aside, focused solely on ensuring he made it to the top.

“We’re almost there, just a little bit further,” you called out wearily.

Even though you couldn’t see around the black-clad man above, you knew you were nearing the top based on how far below you the ground was. You were so close, after such a tiring day…

“It doesn’t reach the top.”

What? I must’ve misheard him.

“There’s another ten feet and I’m on the last rung.”

You almost started crying, but your despair turned to anger in a flash like a lit match in a puddle of gasoline.

Are you fucking kidding me? Are you FUCKING kidding me?!

A deep growl vibrated in your throat, overcome by rage that after everything you dealt with already you were stopped by ten… goddamn… FEET.

“No. No, no, no, don’t you fucking give up on me! Not after the day we’ve had. I don’t care if I have to carry you to Urizen after tonight; you get Griffon out here right now or I’ll tickle the bottom of your feet until you cry!”

You didn’t even know if the man was ticklish, but it was the only thing you could think of to do. From that angle, you couldn’t reach any other part of his body; you couldn’t carry him, and he couldn’t do anything to stop you from reaching up and brushing your hand over his heel in warning. His foot jerked away in response and he made a sound of surprise.

Wait. Is he actually ticklish?!

You dragged a single fingernail against the arch of his other foot and heard him laughing as he retreated again.

Oh my gosh, he’s ticklish!

That’s adorable!

“Mercy, have mercy!” he gasped, extending one arm overhead. A black cloud lifted from his skin and reformed into a familiar avian shape.

“What fresh Hell have you two gotten us into now?”

“Can you carry us the last few feet? Please?” you begged the mouthy demon.

He sighed and glanced around, taking in the scene. Hordes of Empusa and Caina were foraging less than a block away, closing in fast. In the state you and V were in, you wouldn’t last the night if you didn’t make it over the cliff. You were out of options and Griffon knew it.

“Fine, but you owe me!”

He flapped into position and wrapped his lethal talons around the poet’s arm, grunting as he took on the extra weight. It proved too much and they began to fall, dipping down several feet as Griffon struggled.

“Ya gotta give me a hand, here!”

The poet reached out in desperation, searching for something, anything to pull himself up by. His fingers scrabbled against dirt for a beat as the bird grunted, but finally he grabbed hold of a length of rebar and steadied himself on the sturdy metal. The reduced weight allowed Griffon to rise by several feet, and just as he reached his limit V pushed against the bar with all his might.

The momentum from his efforts brought them a yard higher to the lip of the ridge. Your companion reached out again, finding a chunk of asphalt protruding from the cracked earth and lifting once more. Blue wings flapped hard enough to dislodge a wave of granules and you turned away to protect your eyes from the ensuing downpour.

Come on, just a little higher!

When it was safe to look, you saw V’s hips level with the cliff. Griffon dragged him forward and let go, leaving the poet’s legs to dangle of the edge for a terrifying moment. The beat of your heart stopped in its tracks as he hung, only daring to resume once he pulled himself forward to safety. You released a sigh of relief and looked for Griffon, expecting him to be on his way to bring you up as well.

The bird was nowhere to be seen.

You waited, hopeful that he’d return, but after twenty minutes you were forced to admit the poet must have passed out. The bottom half of his calves still hung over the edge and you knew he was completely exposed. Vulnerable.

Helpless.

Fuck. I HAVE to find a way up there. There’s only one option – I have to climb.

You scrambled to the top of the ladder, taking the same position V held for so long and stared at the cliffside. The shadows were growing by the minute as the sun set; you needed to hurry or you’d have no chance at all. A few bits of rebar caught your eye, along with a root and a pair of pipes. A well-positioned rock and an internet cable rounded out your route. You didn’t spot any sparks, so it looked safe enough to use.

With a deep breath you reached for the first handhold – the same piece of rebar V used. You gave it a sharp tug to test its stability and as you expected, it didn’t budge a millimeter. A broken pipe to your left was the next step; it must’ve been cracked somewhere down the line; it was dry as a bone. Another tug to test it and you swallowed nervously.

If I fuck this up, I’m dead. If I do nothing, I’m dead, and so is V. I have no choice.

There was no point putting it off. You lifted your feet to rest on the next rung one by one, hand clenched on the improvised holds. Sweat saturated your palms and you paused to calm your racing heart before reaching for the next hold, a rock sticking partially out from the dirt.

It lacked any dips or ridges for you to utilize, but you had no other options. You gritted your teeth and pressed your palm against the top of the damned thing, checking its ability to take your weight before continuing. It held, and you took a deep breath as you brought your left leg to the final rung, right leg a beat behind.

For a moment your balance faltered. You gripped the pipe in your left hand with everything you had, barely able to hold on as your stomach dropped in terror. Death was watching you, waiting for his moment to strike, but you refused to let him take you without a fight and tenaciously found your balance. Once you were stable again, you dragged each palm over the dirt in turn, using the earth to soak up the sweat and oils to help aid your grip.

That was too close. Got to be careful.

The lengthening shadows reminded you there was no time to waste and you focused on the next hold – the tree root. You checked your balance, moving your core from its slightly curved position as you extended your left hand toward the root. Your right hand heaved against the rock, legs pushing on the ladder and you grasped the root, giving it a forceful tug before you dared to relax.

Now for the legs.

You looked down to remind yourself where the first hunk of rebar was, shifting your body to see in the low light. It was right where you needed it; you planned your route well. With a smug smile you lifted your right leg to the metal that served both you and the poet so well, repositioning your foot in preparation for the next motion.

Your left leg left the safety of the ladder and moved to the first pipe, easily sliding inside. In the rhythm now, you shifted again to extend your right hand, moving from the damnable rock to another pipe. You cursed as you felt the fluid within, holding tight to the root and scooping some fresh dirt into the gap to absorb what water it was able. On the second try, you found a decent grip and checked your stance before moving again.

 Your right foot lifted off the faithful rebar and came to rest on the same smooth rock from before. It was less difficult to use as a foothold, since you were pushing it to lift your body instead of pulling yourself up on its smooth surface.

Only a few more moves to go…

You released the root and extended your left side as far as it could go to reach another piece of rebar, this one slightly shorter than the first. It held when you tested it.

The next would be a difficult move – you had no idea if your left foot would find friction on the root. You thought of V, up there by himself, exposed and alone. It motivated you to push through your fear and lift your leg, eyes locked on the root through your left armpit. Your foot slid right off.

Fuck!

Blinking back tears, you reset your grip. The pipe and rebar in your hands were strong; good holds. You swung your left leg back and kicked the earthen wall above the root, desperate to give yourself more to work with. Clods of dirt fell, but not enough. You kicked again, but still your foot slid away.

Again, you kicked, this time with all your might. Your hand on the pipe slipped off and for a moment you were suspended by your left hand on rebar and right foot on that goddamn rock. The pounding of your heart was thunder on your ribs as you struggled to regain your grip, holding the rebar with all the strength you could muster.

The pipe was too slippery; your right hand found nothing else as you scraped the dirt. Instead, you shifted it to join your left on the rebar, barely finding room alongside your other hand. You gripped the metal harder than ever, tears spilling free after the close call. You looked up, checking how much farther you had to go.

Two more feet. Just two more feet! You can do this, Y/N. You HAVE to do this.

You glanced down, trying to find a steady grip on the root by your left foot yet again. It finally cooperated and you nearly sagged in relief. Both of your hands rested on the same length of rebar, your right foot on that thrice damned rock and your left on the stubborn root. You took a moment to refresh the layer of dirt on each palm, having sweat through it during your panic moments before.

With a deep exhale, you pulled your right foot up, almost flush with your chest as you wedged it within the wet pipe. The slip resistant shoes from work helped you find a good angle for your toes and you thanked your lucky stars that you hadn’t yet abandoned them.

The cord was next, and you reached for it with your right arm, tugging it harshly to ensure its strength. It held and you let out a deep sigh, looking down to bring your left leg to join your left hand on the slim rebar. You shifted your left hand aside so it was easy to move and pushed with your right leg, extending your left arm to search for a grip on the pavement.

It took a few tries, but you discovered a jagged crack that didn’t shift when you pulled at it. You brought your right hand to join the left, slightly apart so if the asphalt failed you had at least one hand left. The edge of the street cut into your forearms, but you ignored it.

So close now…

Your right left vacated the wet pipe and joined your left on the rebar, hips turning to ease the transition. This was it, the moment of truth.

Final move.

You took one last deep breath and murmured a prayer to any deity kind enough to listen, then pushed your legs down while pulling with your arms, sending every ounce of desperate strength and adrenaline into the motion. As your feet lifted off the rebar you turned to pull your hips against the lip of the road, handing suspended with all your weight resting on your locked elbows.

With a heavy grunt, you lifted your right leg as high as it could go, leaning left and swinging to follow the momentum. Eight of your nails broke as you tightened your hands, digging against the hard surface as you wedged your leg over the edge and rolled forward.

I made it! Holy shit, I made it!

For a long moment, you didn’t move. You were bloody and bruised, sobbing grateful tears as you gathered what little was left of your wits. The treacherous climb was over, you’d done it. How you managed, you might never know for sure, but what did it matter? Only the results counted. The stars above were just blinking into view as you pulled yourself to your hands and knees and crawled to the poet. Sure enough, he was unconscious.

“V? Hey, wake up. Please…” you begged, kneeling next to his face. You stroked his cheekbone with trembling fingers, touched his hair and tugged at his hands, anything to get him to wake up. Yet he didn’t stir.

Damnit, V… you owe me.

You stood and sighed, leaning over his still form and hefting him into a fireman’s carry. Even his light body was almost too much for your weary body and you came close to collapsing but found your footing. You carried him to the nearest structure, not bothering to look for anything more suitable than the library. There was no way you’d make it.

A solid kick revealed the doors were locked and you cursed, stepping back to set the poet down with one hand wrapped around his skull protectively. The nearest window shattered with little effort and you stepped through to unlock the doors. Every fiber of your body was aching as you tried to lift V again, but your strength failed at last.

Another few tears leaked past your lashes and you gripped his wrists, exhausted beyond all reason as you dragged him inside with a loud grunt. You closed the door and arranged his limbs so he’d be more comfortable, then lied beside him and closed your eyes. Within seconds, you sank into the blessed peace of oblivion.

~~~Next Chapter~~~

[kob131]

https://wingzeroalchemist.tumblr.com/post/184531425201/common-misconceptions-in-the-rwby-fandom

*rolls eyes* yes, the Yang stan is gonna try to talk about this subject. As if he isn’t biased at all.

Point 1: Your statements about Taiyang leaving the house don’t work.

- This is because while Yang is a small child, she was able to wait for her father to leave, sneak off without anyone noticing her, find out where her mother could be and avoided Grimm. Clearly, Yang is old enough to think critically. And if she can do that, she can understand ‘Don’t leave the house because you’ll die.’

- Your link leads to a post where you effectively ignore the CRWBY’s comments on Taiyang (including Barbara, Yang’s VA) instead of accepting the fact that Yang has flaws. (ACTUAL flaws).

Point 2: Taiyang was right when he criticized Yang.

- You try citing sources to yourself. Someone who is shown to be biased heavily in this discussion (to the point of accusing everyone you disagree with ‘armchair critics’ while technically being an armchair critic in regards to being a parent yourself. I’m sorry but that doesn’t work.I point this out as you only cite yourself here.

- You bring up how Yang’s strength being a ‘Temper Tantrum’ doesn’t work, citing it as ‘a part of Yang’s soul.’ To counter this, how about I bring on myself as a counter example? I am incredibly determined, having lived through Aspergers, bullying, a high pressure household, constant berating by my mom, constant mental pressure from my mom, a volatile parent and much more. I have had suicidal thoughts more times than I can count and I have survived with minimal therapy and no prescription. I have done so through sheer force of will.

And yet would you call my explosive temper good? Would you call my anger good? Would you call what is clearly a negative trait good? You would do so for Yang.

- You bring up fandom talking points and yet try to claim they retconned Yang when Yang being overly angry and over relying on her Semblance has been a part of the FNDM’s discussion since after Volume 2. And you cite FNKI fight from Volume 3 so you consider the ‘retcon’ to be after Volume3. So how do you explain the fact that the FNDM has agreed on this talking point before the ‘retcon’?

- Speaking of the FNKI fight, you say she did not use her Semblance to beat Flynt and Neon and yet you only talk about the final moments of the fight, rather than the entire fight. This is an issue because Yang immediately activates her Semblance in these moments and her impact beforehand amounted to her attacking Neon ineffectively. Meaning her victory was only achieved after using her Semblance and thus perfectly reasonable to assume she won because of it (seeing as the feats she used to defeat both members are reliant on brute force, which is what Yang’s semblance provides.)

-- Furthermore, the FNKI in fact acts as PROOF of Yang’s anger issues. Yang spends most of the fight attacking Neon without effect as she is repeatedly shown to be enraged, attack the skater and then her attack is dodged. This would also lead to Weiss’ defeat as if her Semblance is not why she won then she would have been able to defeat Flynt and Neon earlier, especially Flynt as she defeated him first and his Semblance needing him to stand still would make him easy to gang up on (doubly so considering Yang’s mobility.) And once again, how Yang defeated Flynt and Neon (Flynt: blasting her way to his trumpet. Neon: blasting at Neon until the debris conveniently tripped her up) are examples of brute force unlike later examples (Bandits: Prioritize the ranged enemies and keep moving) which show strategic thinking. So that’s 3/3 for Taiyang.

- You point out why no one else should use their Semblance but this completely ignores how Ruby’s Semblance is shown to be ineffective (Mercury reacting quick enough to knock her back in V3 E9), Weiss’ semblance being ineffective (her Knight summon being interrupted and stopped by Vernal in V5 E11), Jaune’s Semblance being ineffective (getting shot out of the sky despite empowering Ren’s Semblance in the V6 finale) and Ren’s Semblence being ineffective (see previous example). The show has shown the flaws in the others semblances, you simply seem to ignore them.

-- There is also the fact that none of the other character’s semblance require them to be damaged to use, thus focusing on them being even risker than normal if a fighter is aware of it and works around it (Neo) or they are too stronger for Yang’s aura to absorb the hit (Adam).

- ‘On a related note, “It’s a great fallback, but you can’t rely on it” is also an incredibly stupid line, as the purpose of a fallback is something you rely on when your initial attempt doesn’t work. Which it is apparently great at. But she shouldn’t fallback on it. Despite it being great.‘

… 

‘Fallback. Noun. ‘an alternative plan that may be used in an emergency.‘ ‘

Emergency. AKA something you shouldn’t rely on.

… This is willful misinterpretation.

Point 3: Hypocrisy

- You talk of others being arm chair critics and yet as you mention Yang being depressed and having PTSD, you act as though Taiyang helping her when she decides to move on is bad. Even though forcing someone to do so could just result in them closing themselves off even further.

- You also talk of removing context and yet you do not consider how at that point, Yang has been depressed for months without any apparent progress nor how Taiyang tried to get her to put her arm back on and yet she denied it. Showing that Yang was refusing and not seeking help.

The correlation: Yang has no agency in any of these arguments.

- “Yang’s not at fault, her dad shouldn’t have left.”

- “yang’s not at fault, her dad was just wrong!”

- “Yang’s not at fault, the writer’s just retconned her.”

- “Yang’s not at fault, her dad should have made her get better.”

Yang is never at fault in any of these situations, thus she should have no reason to change. It is never her fault, it is the fault of others. A mindset universally derided in the real world.

In conclusion: You seem more concerned with removing fault and flaws from Yang, attacking the one character to criticize her, with either extremely failed or even contradictory arguments.

I doubt you see Yang as a character with agency but rather a self insert to be idolized.

[houseofzoey]

Plot

This is a rare example of a House of Night book actually having a clearly defined plot. I know that the central conflict is Zoey’s soul shattering and the possible disastrous fate that invited upon the world at large, I know that the ultimate goal is to bring Zoey’s soul back together so she can return to her body, and I know that the resolution is Zoey doing exactly that.

That doesn’t mean the plot is well executed, though.

The biggest problem with this book and most other books in this series is that it relies so heavily on dialogue. Don’t get me wrong – dialogue is important and can accomplish a lot, and there are definitely some excellent dialogue-driven books out there. The problem is that this particular conflict shouldn’t be solved just by talking about it. This is a group of teenagers trying to figure out how to get one of them to a different realm in order to save the Chosen One’s soul and bring them back from eventual death. You don’t just talk that out.

Because it relies so heavily on dialogue and not characters actually doing things to find a resolution to this problem, a lot of the breakthroughs characters have are really contrived and way, way too convenient. Aphrodite suddenly discovers an entirely new use for her affinity. Thanatos and Darius conveniently know about an ancient and mostly forgotten religion. Stark is conveniently related to the one family that serves as Sgiach’s Warriors on the Isle of Skye.

Even the Stevie Rae chapters have this problem. It doesn’t help that her chapters are also wrapped up in the Rephaim subplot and her entirely unnecessary love triangle, as well as lip service to the idea that she’s trying to figure out how to deal with the rogue fledglings. Once again, she doesn’t actually do very much, but instead spend most of the book talking about her problems and the things she should do to solve them.

Stevie Rae’s entire character arc in this book is reactive, and she learns nothing. She still refuses to tell a single person about Rephaim or seek help with her situation – she doesn’t even really tell anyone about what happened with Dallas turning to Darkness! Where her story concludes is basically no different from where it began in this book. It doesn’t really feel like there’s a conclusion or resolution to her section of this book.

If Stevie Rae’s story lacks a proper conclusion, then Stark/Heath/Zoey’s conclusion is deeply disappointing. For one thing, the part of the story that was all about Stark and Aphrodite segues into being about Heath and Stark and Zoey. Aphrodite just kinda… drops out of the book. She leaves a voicemail with Stevie Rae and snarks with Zoey when she wakes up and… that’s it. That’s the end of her contribution to this book. It just makes her part in the story feel even more weird, because she’s just as present and involved in bring Zoey back as Stark, but she has no personal agency or character arc, but it still feels weird that her place in the book just kinda ends.

But that’s honestly not even the most disappointing part. Convincing Heath to leave Zoey so she’ll be willing to pull her soul back together and return to her body is supposed to be extremely difficult, but it takes maybe a page to do so. The book spends so much time building up Zoey pulling together the scattered pieces of her soul, but it also takes less than a page and her soul turns out to only be missing three pieces anyway. And the rest of the ending was… weird. Like, yes, the idea that Kalona was trying to stop Zoey from returning to her body was well-established, and it made sense for Stark to step up as her Warrior/Guardian to fight, but the actual fight was terrible. Not only are these authors not good at writing action scenes – especially ones involving weapons, considering Kalona doesn’t use his spear properly – but it doesn’t feel climactic. It renders Stark’s whole scene where he learns to kill the Warrior to give birth to the Shaman pointless because it doesn’t actually help him, even though he unlocked his weird “geometric strike lines” powers for fighting. Stark literally does nothing in the fight against Kalona – he doesn’t get a single hit in. It’s a complete curb stomp battle. Then, when Zoey finally shows up to intervene, she doesn’t even have the sense to use air to stop the spear when Kalona kills Stark.

The timeline between all the perspective chapters is really hard to piece together, too. Let’s roughly outline Stark and Aphrodite’s timeline, then Stevie Rae and Rephaim’s and discuss why it doesn’t make sense.

Stark and Aphrodite: Day One: (January 5th, Wednesday) Chapter 4, 8-10 Stark, Aphrodite, and the rest of Zoey’s friends are still in Venice trying to make sense of what happened and where to go from here. They discover that Kalona’s soul is also shattered and Neferet wants to be able to take him back to the Island of Capri. Thanatos ends up befriending Stark, Aphrodite, et al and they tell her of Neferet’s true evil. She tells them about the old religion and the bulls, suggesting that might help them find a way to save Zoey, but warns them that the Isle of Skye is closed off with a protective magic circle and no one has entered the island for centuries. Aphrodite talks to Stevie Rae over the phone in chapter eight. This is important.

Day Two: (January 6th, Thursday) Chapter 15 Stark, Aphrodite, et al sit in the palace library researching. The talk about Barbies unnecessarily. They learn that Stark is of the MacUallis clan and thus can be a Guardian, meaning he can be let on to the Isle of Skye.

Day Three: (January 7th, Friday) Chapter 19-20, 24-26, 28-31 Stark, Aphrodite, and Darius reach the Isle of Skye. Somehow all of them are granted entry onto the island because the definition of queen is really loose in vampyre society. They travel to Sgiach’s castle, where they talk for a while about what Stark is trying to accomplish and what he needs to do to accomplish it. Stark eventually gets cut up and disconnects with his body enough to enter the Otherworld, where he begins a test to defeat his Other self. Meanwhile, Aphrodite meditates into a vision, sees what’s happening with Zoey and Stark in the Otherworld, learns what must be done to ensure Zoey will actually return to her body once her soul is back together, and sees a grim version of the future should they fail. This is communicated to Stark, who develops magic geometric strike line powers and defeats his mirror image in a sequence that doesn’t make much sense. He gets to the Otherworld, convinces Heath to move on so Zoey will return to her body, and the convinces Zoey she needs to pull herself back together by confronting Kalona. The final showdown happens, Stark dies momentarily, and there’s a magical feeding scene wherein Zoey’s tattoos return. Zoey then wakes up in the physical world and stops the cutting ritual on Stark.

Stevie Rae and Rephaim Day One: (January 6th, Thursday) Chapter 2-3, 6-7, 11-14 Rephaim wakes up in the abandoned Gilcrease Museum. He’s still recovering from his injuries and tries to draw on Darkness to heal, but is interrupted when he feels Stevie Rae’s grief. He sends his powers to comfort her and also draw her to him. We cut to Stevie Rae, who has woken up in the infirmary to discover that she slept for more than a day since burning on the rooftop. She learns what happened to Zoey, has some romantic drama with Dallas, and grieves a little before being interrupted by Rephaim’s red mist. She seeks him out (after more conversation with Dallas about the rogue fledglings) with the intention of forcing him to tell her everything he knows, but no such confrontation happens and they calmly talk about what has happened and what they will do for the next two chapters. Stevie Rae has a brief confrontation with the professors on the school High Council. Later, prompted by a phone call from Aphrodite, Stevie Rae sets out to call on the bulls for knowledge about how Stark can reach the Otherworld. She’s stopped by Kramisha, who gives her a poem, and Dallas, who joins her. The ritual goes wrong and she accidentally calls the white bull of Darkness. While the bull collects its blood debt, she calls out for Rephaim, who feels her need through their Imprint, heals himself with Darkness, and flies to her aid. He takes the debt on himself, Stevie Rae calls the black bull to fight the white bull and thus pays its debt, binding herself to Rephaim’s humanity. Rephaim flies off and Dallas drags Stevie Rae back to the House of Night, where she argues with him and the professors about what really happened. Stevie Rae then goes to sleep.

Day Two: (January 7th, Friday) Chapter 16-18, 21-23 Stevie Rae is talking with the school High Council. Dragon doesn’t want her going outside after what everyone believes was a Raven Mocker attack. She insists she can take care of herself. She and Dallas have relationship drama. Stevie Rae plans to go to the abbey to speak to Grandma Redbird about what happened to Zoey (because everyone forget to inform her family, I guess), and stresses over how to get to Rephaim with everyone watching her so closely. Kramisha reshares an old poem with her that might help Stark with Zoey in the Otherworld, and they discuss boy troubles again. They talk to Grandma Redbird and receive Cherokee wisdom. Then Stevie Rae separates from Kramisha to go see Rephaim, who she calls on earth to heal and has more boy drama with. When Stevie Rae gets back to school, the rogue fledglings have made the news and she finally intervenes. This, of course, goes disastrously, resulting in multiple people dying. After cleaning up the aftermath, she and Dallas start making out and she decides she wants to have sex. Rephaim, meanwhile, has been flying aimlessly and moping that Stevie Rae will never love him, but then senses Stevie Rae being intimate with Dallas and, in a jealous rage, tracks her through their Imprint to confront her. This goes horribly, Dallas embraces Darkness, and the secret of Stevie Rae’s involvement with Rephaim is kinda sort of out, except that no one will believe Dallas’ word over Stevie Rae’s. Stevie Rae and Rephaim return to Gilcrease to sleep.

Day Three: (January 8th, Saturday) Chapter 31 Stevie Rae wakes up to find Rephaim has been watching over her and she has a foreboding voicemail from Aphrodite. They go outside and talk by a fountain, where Nyx reveals an image of Rephaim as a human reflected in the water. Then they sense Kalona and Zoey returning from the Otherworld and realize they can no longer be together when they’re goals/alliances are so counter to each other.

That’s the whole timeline. Did you catch on to the problems yet? Yeah – Stevie Rae’s first phone call to Aphrodite is technically about a day before she would have actually wake up in the infirmary. And no, time zones do not account for this. Stevie Rae called Zoey shortly before she went in to speak with the High Council, which wasn’t long before she shattered. There were probably less than two hours between that phone call and the one Stevie Rae made to Aphrodite in chapter eight of this book, but Stevie Rae passed out right after she got off the phone with Zoey and didn’t wake up for a full day. So Stevie Rae’s entire timeline is a full day ahead of Aphrodite’s, but this is never addressed.

[devittprinces]

slow burn

/sləʊ bəːn/

US, informal

1. Used especially to define works of fiction, it refers to stories featuring events or relationships that develop naturally and gradually, requiring an extensive amount of time to get to a conclusion. The emphasis is usually on the slow evolution of the relationship or the event rather than a quick conflagration into sudden resolution.

What is a slow burn? Specifically, what is a slow burn when applied to a story? The answer is right at the beginning but each story has its own path and each story is different. And yet, analyzing the evolution of what Seth Rollins and Finn Bálor started to create since the first time they crossed paths in the ring, it seems like the best definition to describe their journey.

What happened on Raw two Mondays ago, and the ramifications that the event entailed, truly felt like a cosmic intervention that once again pulled these two together.

Thanks to also the incredible dedication Seth and Finn bring on the table when telling a story, we witnessed yet another chapter in one of the slowest burns in WWE history.

Granted that usually a quick resolution is what the audience prefers, sometimes a certain story requires this type of narrative. And this one, with its stops and ups and downs, is a perfect example.

Because slow burns can work both as a main or as a subplot. They can happen in the background at first, playing up details and small moments since they are heavily character oriented.

Seth and Finn began their journey a few weeks before Summerslam 2016. Their feud was quick paced and all played on a game of smoke and mirrors where both guys taunted each other without realizing how similar they were.

Their Summerslam match, albeit the crowd, was incredible and proved what an amazing chemistry they both had in the ring. Proved how they reach another state completely when squaring off.

And then, the injury. A brutal stop. A stunt in their story. A pause.

Between Summerslam and Finn’s comeback, things changed. This story faded to the background, aside a few comments in some of Seth’s promos and a reference or two from commentary. This story became a subplot.

Seth turned face in the meanwhile, had his feud with Triple H and told ESPN that part of the reason why he turned face was because of what happened with Finn.

A detail, there, to remember everyone that the story is still happening.

Now, from a writing perspective, for a slow burn to actually work you have to create enough chemistry between two characters for them to fall naturally in place within the events you wanna tell. Things can’t go too slow or too fast or else you’ll lose your audience.

And that’s why, when Finn comes back from his injury, his great return is in a tag team match. With Seth.

The actual event is amazing, Finn shines on his own, and him and Seth fall back into the natural chemistry they always had. Only, this time, it’s put in a different angle. They work together, they aren’t rivals anymore but not exactly best friends either and yet they are in sync to the point that for a second or two you truly believe they’ve done this for a lot longer.

From this point on, they start to tag team both at house shows and during Raw and tentatively building up a relation. Finn’s documentary comes out a while later, and the audience is made aware that the reason why Seth and Finn are now working together is because something happened during their rehab. They spent 20 days at the rehab center together, bonding, working out their issues - both physical and emotional ones - learning to rely on each other and falling in a routine that saw them together for most of the time.

Slow burn is achieved through realism; two character need a certain type of chemistry for everything to work out and in order to do so you must create a balance. The characters at play must be compatible but not flat, they can’t only have traits that fit well together, but they also can’t have traits that constantly conflict with each other.

So when the opportunity to challenge for the Universal Title comes again, of course both Seth and Finn - highly competitive individuals - jump on the train and banter with each other about their accomplishments, cutting promos about that infamous Summerslam night and proving that yes, they are friends, but that doesn’t stop them from feuding for what they ultimately want to achieve.

They both like a challenge, and usually in real life this tends to be true too. Having someone who constantly agrees can flatten out a relation but having someone who constantly argues can also become a problem.

So having both Seth and Finn ready to fight each other - during the awesome triple threat between them and the Miz or during the fatal 5-way at Extreme Rules - as much as they are ready to fight together was the perfect way to develop another part of their shared story.

Then, another stop. They part ways again following their own stories, Seth trying to mend his past with the Shield and Finn navigating life in the main roster, finding his way back to the Club after several feuds.

Their story is not happening in the moment, but it’s still there.

And of course it couldn’t be in any other way. A slow burn, in fact, doesn’t just happen. There are details and events that happened at the start, things that will have an impact on what is developing currently.

Seth and Finn’ storyline have those too, which is why it is perfect when they both collide again, now with a renewed drive given by the events that shaped them while they were apart.

Finn has the Club now, Seth has part of the Shield and Jason. And when these two forces collide on a 3 on 3 match, it’s Seth and Finn yet again for the most part of it. They haven’t fought in so long - 6 months - and yet the magic is still there. They counter each other moves with ease, losing themselves in a dance of mirrors. Slingblades, jumps, old indie moves coming back. They fall back into their natural rhythm.

The ending is messy but Finn gets the win, pinning Seth. This leads to another match. This time it’s just the two of them, in the ring, no others. At it again like two years prior. Finn mentions it, in the promo before the match. Seth does it too. It’s the first time and it’s huge.

It doesn’t take long for them to fall into that mind space where nothing counts but the other. They aren’t fighting for the crowd but for themselves. To prove to the other who’s better. They bring the best out of each other and it’s visible. The crowd feels it.

Seth brings back the curb stomp, just with Finn. Just for Finn. It’s unexpected and Finn sells it like death. Seth is surprised too. Their bodies tell a story here, their facial expressions too. The camera lingers on both their faces and there’s a moment where Seth almost looks regretful, and Finn looks like something happened inside him.

Jason is involved too but it’s in the peripheral vision because this is about them.

But then again, the story is put on hold. Right before the Rumble.

It could’ve been a weird interruption, not following back in any way. And yet, it doesn’t. Because at the Rumble, the moment Seth steps in the ring, he goes for Finn. And Finn retaliates.

There are several guys in the match, and yet they focus on each other. Try to bring each other out but also work together to try and survive longer in the ring. Yet again it feels natural, like they are supposed to do this because there’s no other way. For them, and for us, the audience.

It’s a thin line between fight forever and please team up already.

And for how frustrating sometimes it might be, it is also perfect.

This is how a slow burn works, it makes you want things to get solved in the end, it makes you crave for a resolution and freak out over small details.

So when WWE decides to make Seth and Finn team up again at house shows, posting their pictures and hyping up this tag, it just feels right. It falls straight into the narrative quality of their story.

And then we get to the fatal 5-way. It’s a second chance. It’s the last chance actually, for both of them. Although on different routes both of them cross their destinies again. Both of them fluctuated on Raw without any real direction, both of them are frustrated with the constant overlooking and the bad booking and the unattainable possibility to get a shot at the title.

But it’s mania season now, and the Chamber is their last occasion to try and achieve that goal both of them are working towards. They both have to prove to their GM that he was wrong in managing them the way he did in the past year, that they are worthy of that shot. If that means taking each other, and any of the other valid opponents in the match, down so be it. It’s once again one versus the other. Like it’s been so many other times. The golden boys of NXT back at it in again.

When the match actually start they naturally gravitate to each other, like they are in their own magnetic field.

It’s hard not to compete, for them. It’s hard to not always get back into that plane of existence where it’s just them in the ring.

They put up one hell of a show for the entirety of the main event, showcasing their best moves and truly selling with their bodies and expressions just how vital is it for them to win.

And teaming up its as easy as it is squaring up. So when the occasion presents itself in the convenient form of a tower of doom, they both team up to bring down Bray and Apollo.

But immediately after, they switch on back on being solo competitors and they both are so blinded by their own drive that they do not notice the other pinning Bray too.

They go as far as celebrating by their own devices at the opposite of the ring mat, before realizing, in a moment high in pathos, that they both won. They both pinned Bray.

And the emotions showing up on their faces alone are worthy a thousand years of story. Seth’s shock that morphs into concern. Finn’s confusion and then realization.

It’s you again. It’s always been you.

This is such a pivotal moment in their story, a turning point in the never ending slow burn. They are on the same wave, they both won. They are again tied together in a game of mirrors that destiny likes to play with them particularly. If this was a book, it would probably be the end of part one. The last few lines of the final chapter that ends in a cliffhanger.

But this isn’t a book, this is wrestling, “a spectacle in tights” to quote Roland Barthes. And the spectacle must go on.

Which is why Kurt Angle announced, soon after Raw ended, that both of them would go into the Elimination Chamber in an historic 7 men match.

And even though they are rivals once again, WWE social media don’t play off their team ups at house shows either. Pointing out that yes, they are going to be opponents in the Chamber, but that doesn’t stop them trusting each other enough to work together.

So when the go home Raw before the PPV happens and Seth puts out an amazing performance during the gauntlet match, it’s no surprise seeing Finn applauding him, when they meet on the ramp.

Finn who knows Seth’s passion, Finn who’s been at the receiving hand of Seth’s fire. Finn, who has shared Seth’s pain in rehab.

There’s an exchange of looks between them, recognition, sportsmanship. Real recognizes real.

And it’s another beautiful little detail to add to the myriads of others in this story.

We’re hours away from Elimination Chamber now. Seth and Finn teamed up again two other times at house shows. WWE talked about “unanswered questions” about them, and Seth cut a promo yesterday saying that yes, him and Finn are going to be rivals tonight but when they team up they “burn the house down.”

Finn offered a too sweet, and Seth happily obliged.

We don’t know what is going to happen tonight. We don’t know what storylines are going to start and what the narrative will be.

If they will come off this Chamber tied together or on divergent paths. What I know for sure, is that there’s a story here. A long story that has started in 2016 and that hasn’t yet come to an end. A story made of details and glimpses and derailing paths and a fate that ties them so strongly it is impossible to not notice.

The options tonight are many, the variables even more so. And yet, there’s a meaning to all of this. We just have to wait.

Like in every good slow burn, the outcome is gonna be worth all this time.

[aion-rsa]

Manifest Season 3 Episode 1 Review: Tailfin

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This Manifest review contains spoilers.

Manifest Season 3 Episode 1

To no one’s surprise, Manifest jumped right back into the action in the season 3 premiere, “Tailfin,” and to its credit, it didn’t spend a lot of time explaining changes that were made to the dynamic of the investigation into Flight 828, opting instead to just show us. Despite continuing to rely a bit too heavily on the narrative conveniences the callings provide, the action continues to move forward, and this opening episode in particular sets up several compelling storylines in very solid fashion.

One arc that holds a lot of promise is the more subtly presented one involving the Major’s daughter, who seeks police help to find her missing mother. Although we in the audience know that Saanvi killed Kathryn Fitz in a misguided attempt to extract information, Jared has no clue how dark things have gotten in the far corners of the Calling Club. It seems likely he will begin to investigate the disappearance even if doing so works against Michaela and her band of psychics and mystics. The possibilities there are intriguing.

Read more

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Manifest Season 3 Presents a ‘Fundamental Shift’

By Michael Ahr

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Surprisingly, the titular tailfin gets less screen time than the passenger rescue in Costa Rica, but the mystery has certainly taken a Lost-like turn by introducing the paradox of a alternate version of Flight 828. Ben’s speculation about a so-called plane resurrection doesn’t really feel substantial or meaningful quite yet, but the oddity of his whitened palm upon touching the wreckage is more than enough to raise a few eyebrows.

Honestly, it was just nice to be dropped into the middle of Ben’s search for the San Antonio with no explanation; Manifest admirably trusts its audience to figure things out. The sudden realization that he was operating under Vance’s direction was a fun twist, as was seeing Saanvi drop off a lollipop for the analyst in the clandestine spy office situated in the middle of the hospital. It was a little upsetting to see Vance hand off his wedding ring to Ben before blocking the Cuban authorities given the lack of explanation of why they’d even care or why a sacrifice is necessary, but Vance has survived much worse than this.

And as much as we might sympathize with Michaela and Zeke for having their honeymoon interrupted, there was something very refreshing about seeing Zeke so calm and confident in his post-death date existence. Despite leaving the callings behind, Zeke is shown to be a solid contributor while supporting Michaela. Was his fake faint to help Michaela find the imprisoned Angelina was intuition, or was it something even deeper than the callings that is now innate to Zeke’s nature? It feels like there’s something there…

But what’s really remarkable is how much new story Manifest is able to introduce in a single episode. Besides the story arcs previously mentioned, there’s the foreboding nature of Cal’s mental unease, even though the shadow visions are gone and the death dates have an apparent solution. And then there’s the overwhelming guilt that Saanvi is feeling, torturing herself with the recordings of her time with the Major. As Grace says while constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop with Ben in the field, “You’d think we’d have run out of shoes by now.”

Which is why the final moments of the episode are so spine-tinglingly good. As predicted in our Manifest Season 2 Ending Explained, the criminals who disappeared beneath the ice during the black lightning storm of last year’s finale have resurfaced in warmer times, and the twist was brilliantly executed. Even though we have no idea how their reappearance will play out, just the fact that they’re back reminds us of the time travel origins of the callings and what powers might await Jace, Kory, and Pete.

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In the meantime, it’s exciting to welcome Holly Taylor of The Americans as a series regular on Manifest. Her story of abuse and parental persecution for her callings is sure to be an interesting tale, as are so many other intriguing elements that have been set up skillfully in this premiere episode. Other than the weirdly intense political difficulties in Cuba, the season 3 opener has a lot to be proud of. If the rest of the season performs this well, we’re in for a thrillingly turbulent ride.

The post Manifest Season 3 Episode 1 Review: Tailfin appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[wslstrategic]

After nearly a decade of pushing back, not wanting to be tempted, consumers are ready to spend more time shopping – a good sign because it means they’re willing to spend more money again. But converting their time into your money means helping them do what they have to do so they’re free to spend time (and money) on what they want to do. Achieving this means recognizing the difference between when they want to get the trip done quickly and when they want to browse. Here’s how to know.

Call it the post-cautionary conundrum. Shoppers are finally willing to spend more money, but because of their continuing time pressures, they’re not always able.

They have increased the amount of time they use for shopping by more than any other activities, including eating (in and out), entertainment, working or socializing, according to our How America Shops® report, “Shopping Boom Time.” Helping shoppers manage their time is now the essence of your future growth. 

Nearly four-in-ten of shoppers told us they spend more time shopping and browsing today than two or three years ago.  One-third said online browsing is now a habit and one quarter that they’re checking out interesting stores. 

The trick to turning those visits into spending is in knowing when shoppers are on a mission and want to cross items off their lists, and when they want to browse.  Brands and retailers that deliver on both will capture their spending. 

Turning Opportunities Into Sales

How to turn those “mission” trips and browsing journeys into shopping splurges? By knowing the difference between the two. Here are some hints:  

While 36% are spending more time shopping/browsing, it’s concentrated in fewer channels, and chiefly the Internet

More than half, spend more time shopping online. In fact, they are spending an additional one hour a week, on average, than two or three years ago, according to our “Future Shop 2019-2022” report. 

Mass merchandisers and supermarkets follow, particularly among younger shoppers.

Financial security is a big motivator – 7/10 are feeling more financially secure, our “Future Shop 2019-2022” report shows.  

Still, one third ask themselves before shopping, “Is this a smart use of my time?”

Sounding the Boom

Becoming a good use of shopper time then means mastering a simple formula: Help them be more efficient – from research to fulfillment – and they’re likely to spend more money.

For example, the chains that gained the greatest increase in shopper time over the past two to three years are those that added the most value in terms of efficiency, convenience and savings: 

Here’s how to do it:

Make good on your time value equation. Learn how shoppers want to spend time in your category and then calculate whether you are delivering a good return on that investment. If it is a quick-hit item, is it near the door and adjacent to complementary items that will save them a few minutes?

Fascinate them.  Capture the shopper’s imagination, especially online, by interrupting the moment with ingenuity. It is online where shoppers become fans, even among brick-and-mortar chains. Think: Is this moment Instagram-able, but also functional? The shopper is more likely to spend time with, and therefore buy, items that capture their attention and are easy to understand. These are among the reasons shoppers spend more time on Ulta and CVS’s websites and apps.

Make price a bonus, not the lure. Price is a critical component of value, but brands that rely too heavily on it risk wallowing in mediocre-ville. Note that as many as 40% of shoppers choose specific chains, such as Trader Joe’s, because they feel good about spending their money with them.

It’s not merely that price and time have competing value with shoppers; their value fluctuates across categories and times of day. The answer to cracking the code is how will you spend their time and make their lives easier. Their time is now your money, but you have to earn it.