#they both have very strong flavours that i find unpleasant

[transgender-catboy]

I'm so happy tastes change when you get older

[writefightandflightclub]

All out of smokes: Javier Peña x fem!reader

A story about coping mechanisms, and the things we hold on to when we can’t let go.

Summary: their denial can only last as long as the pack of cigarettes.

Author’s note:

I had a strong vision for this one, and I have no idea if I pulled it off. 😬

The POV follows the cigarette. (I really wanted to try something new and push myself!) 🤔

This is my first time (properly) writing Javi. 🤯

It’s a slow burn story, so not a lot “happens”. Think of it as chain smoking a whole pack with your fave DEA agent. 😁

This took a long time, so I will extra appreciate any RBs, comments, and feedback. TIA 🧡

I’m not 100% happy with this and know it could be improved, but if I don’t post it now I never will, so here goes. If it tanks, so be it. Sometimes we gotta take a risk + be vulnerable. 😅

Warnings: smoking (lots); alcohol; law / drug enforcement; blood / death mentions (off camera but harked back to); canon typical mentions of violence; canon typical mentions of sex work; unhealthy coping mechanisms; mild sexual themes / innuendos etc.; please correct me if any of my time period / location / character references are bullshit – I did my best but it’s possible I fucked up.

Word count: 7k(ish)

Rating: MATURE. (No smut.)

GIF: @barnesdjarin​ Moodboard: me Tagging: @pedrostories

We find them nestled at a corner table for two in the dingy yet characterful bar.

The bar is quite obviously positioned as a local date stop – a fact the man and woman have neglected to notice, even as their own table is cast adrift in a sea of dreamy-eyed couples. The man – whose liquid brown eyes are settled unerringly on the woman in a manner far from romantic - is not paying sufficient attention to his surroundings to clock it.

He’s usually paying very close attention – to everything; but not tonight.

The woman in question is -a little too deliberately- preoccupied with the drained glass of guaro atop her palm, idly tinkling the ice cubes and watching the pattern of their rotation intently. Her nostrils flare as the faint whiff of anise filters up to her with the motion.

The scent usually calms her; but not tonight.

Together, they are sharp angles and knitted brows. Jaded looks and tense limbs. They are concealed weapons and scuffed leather jackets and shirts with fresh sweat stains amidst a sea of carefully chosen dresses and smart shirts. They are barricades in a sea of falling walls. They are silence in a cacophony of amiable chatter.

Suffice to say, the pair’s presence is at starks odds with the ambience.

This is not a date.

This is not a couple in love, nor is this a pair about to embark on it.

No. These two don’t even look like they’re in the market to fuck. Hell, right now, they don’t even look friendly.

So, a casual observer may wonder, in fact, what they are doing here at all. Regardless though of how they got here, here they are, and both of them are too stubborn to back out now.

“You shouldn’t come in tomorrow,” the man states abruptly as he concludes his study of the woman, his body settled back into the sling of his wooden chair, his arms folded behind his head, taking up space.

There’s something there. Something, tying them together. A reason they are here. Something familiar and habitual even in the way they insist on remaining strangers.

The woman sighs and discards her emptied glass on the table, and suddenly the man is leaning in, pushing his own half-filled glass towards her with the back of his hand as if it’s a peace offering. Ironic, perhaps, given their daily lives are filled with nothing of the sort.

The woman scowls at him even as she accepts the drink, swilling the whiskey around her mouth and screwing her face up as it boils down her throat, smoky and peaty and unpleasant.

“You should take a day. I’ll cover for you.” His voice is deep and and rich - the flavour of cask-strength whiskey, and the gravelly sound amidst the sickly, lilting hubbub of her environs is rough enough to pervade her stupor, scraping her and making her raw. She reacts only with her eyes, lifting her gaze without moving her head until she fixes a half-moon stare on him, irises the shape of sliced limes beneath her lashes and every bit as bitter, pith readied on her tongue.

She fixes her study on the man, lifting her chin and titling her shoulders squarely toward him. And, as she does so, she dismisses the haunted expression from her face with an authority her ghosts appear to obey, and lands a steely gaze on her living counterpart instead.

“A day to make everything alright? Is that about to cut it, Peña?”

He appears unphased, his deep brown eyes sparkling gently, like ice cubes awash in a glass of decanted rich dark spirit.

Another sigh. Another grimace. The woman’s eyes narrow, and her denim-clad knee begins an incessant, restless bounce beneath the table, sending faint tremors into its surface; glasses clinking as they vibrate closer to one another, the upheaval drawing them together.

Trauma drawing them together.

Ah.

She huffs out a held breath in frustration and reaches -as if it is a compulsion- to fish the carton of smokes from her jacket pocket. She looks perturbed as she does so, perhaps by the tell-tale tremor in her hand. It is borne of residual adrenaline, no doubt, and yet it risks vindicating the man by revealing that, indeed; she shouldn’t. Shouldn’t come in tomorrow.

By the time the cigarette finds its way between her fingers, her eyes are haunted all over again, by things she would clearly rather forget.

A drink would usually be enough to forget; but not tonight.

***

You always did think better with a cigarette in your hand, ever since you picked-up the habit. The distraction - the familiar, somatic nature of it, offers you a certain ability to ground yourself.

And now, as soon as you pinch the smoke in between your fingertips, throwing the carton into the centre of the table, you realise.

You realise why Javi drove you here, to this bar. Why he swerved left instead of the usual right to your shared apartment block.

Javier Peña wants something.

Why else would he do you a favour?

That he does – want, that is- is not unusual, per se. The man is forever working an angle, after all. Forever chasing his wants. You therefore can’t help but wonder what purpose his offer – that he’ll cover for you - is intended to serve. Can’t help but wonder what ploy his favour is precursor to this time.

Yes, you are all too familiar with Javi’s favours. In fact, you’re keeping a thorough scoresheet, and you’re certainly not about to go into debt just because you’re… rattled.

Sometimes, it’s a little thing, sure - he wants to bum a cigarette, or wants to beg forgiveness for the carnal noises filtering through the thin walls from his apartment to yours, often keeping you awake through his most amorous nights. Sometimes, it’s a big thing - the man seeking the kind of favour that could shake a whole damn nation if shit happened to go sideways. 

You huff out a small chuckle. It is rather bizarre, you muse, that no matter the scale of the favour, the upshot is usually the same; Javi’s favours, whether big or small, typically involve you conveniently “forgetting” something you heard, and -more often than not- satisfying his nicotine craving into the bargain.

Speaking of nicotine: you bring the cigarette to your lips, that unfortunate tremor still present in your hand as you do so.

Well - there was a lot of blood.

Your eyes dart around the interior of the bar as a cold sweat shivers up your neck and a gulp simultaneously trails down it. You try and fail to swallow your heart, attempting to push it from your mouth and back into the cavity of your chest where it belongs, along with those gratifying lungfuls of smoke.

You’re spooked. You’re fucking spooked and you’re annoyed at yourself for it. This tremble is an all too visible display of weakness; one that you are loathe for Javi to be privy to. Equally, though, it is evidence you know this practised agent will not miss, as the man coolly watches you fumble the cigarette to your lips, your thumb raking over the rough metal wheel of your cheap-ass plastic lighter.

Christ. Why does he choose this moment to pay me some fucking attention?

“You could use my tub if you’d like,” he says idly -even as you’ve half-forgotten what he’s prattling about already.

His brown eyes are glinting and lit, even in the dark ambience of this bar, the air hazy - all rosy reddened light and seedy smoke swirls. The background croon of boleros over the speakers sucks you deep into their sorrow like you are drowning. “Have a soak while I’m on base?”

You scoff. A sad chuck of smoke through your teeth.

What the shit is this? Sympathy? You fumble for any other goddamn motive for Javi’s sudden interest in your personal hygiene and you come-up empty handed. Fuck. You think you’d even rather have him hit on you than this.

He looks at you from beneath his lashes, his expression unreadable. Neutral, even. “Your apartment just has that shitty little shower - right?”

“Would you cut the small talk, Peña,” you complain, with the cigarette now bobbing between your lips. “It doesn’t suit you.” Your tone is as harsh as bitters, but, you suppose, Javi is like a fine whiskey, and is therefore capable of mixing well with someone who cultivates a disagreeable edge.  That doesn’t mean he’s going to roll over though. His own flavour is plenty full-bodied. He knows how to handle you.

He grunts. “I bet you’d love to finally shut me up, wouldn’t you?”  

“Yes. Shut up,” you request. “That would be perfect.” Meanwhile, the skin under your collar suddenly spikes hotter than you might care to admit as you contemplate a few ways of how you might shut him up.

When your smoke finally catches after a few urgent scuffs of the lighter with your thumb and you suck that tiny, ashen sun to life, you take a long, deep drag, your eyes poring over Javi, your mouth forming a plush “o” as smoke bellows out of you.

It’s not lost on you that Javi fails to hold your gaze right then - the man looking briefly down at his lap and away from your steely stare. You’ve come to learn this much about him, over your months with the DEA so far - Javi is fearless in the face of danger, and he’s hardly shy; but occasionally, you catch him shrinking back from you.

Usually, when that happens, you understand why. Can read his hand before he’s played it; but not tonight. Tonight, you’re off your game. You don’t quite know what he wants. What he hopes to gain from this exchange.

So, instead of wondering, you ignore him, ripping your eyes away to gaze out of the window, and you continue to lose yourself in your habits and your vices - the only coping strategy you have left. Your eyes close in relief as you puff on your smoke, the spot of orange like a tiny sun behind clouds as the smoke eddies between you, tendrils of ghost grey winding around your bodies.

The shroud of smoke gives a grey pallor to Javi’s lightly-lined brown skin, and it makes him look as haunted as you feel. Despite the differences between you, it’s not a leap to guess that you share many of the same ghosts. And, this time, when your eyes inevitably meet his again, it is your turn to tear your gaze away – to retreat from the recognition you find dwelling there.

You consider it then – how much he knows of your pain. You wonder how many nights he’s had like this. Feeling… rattled.

Did he curl himself into the bathtub, trying to wash away horrors that permeated deeper than the water could? Did it help? Is that why he wishes the same for you? Did it fail? Is that why he pities you?

Take a day, huh, Peña?

Is a day all it takes? A day, to try to forget things you’ll never get over given a lifetime? 

As you ponder this, meanwhile, Javi sits there quietly. He sits there until -it looks like- his tongue burns in his mouth from staying silent. Eventually, his jaw saws to the side, causing his lower lip to jut forward. Still, you don’t feel much remorse for the fact he’s put out, if you’re honest. Being rude to a colleague is hardly the worst thing you’ve done today, is it? Why pretend?

So, instead, you remain stony faced and sour. As if you hadn’t just been working this case together for months. As if he hadn’t been by your side for the bust. As if he hadn’t picked you up off the floor and held you while your chest wracked with gentle sobs. Hadn’t drawn you to one side and had Carrillo’s men vacate the room so that you didn’t have to show that weakness to anyone else but him.

As though he hadn’t dragged you to a bar you don’t even want to be in rather than leaving you to your vices alone.

So, this time, when his gaze trails softly over the shiner of a bruise developing on your cheekbone, with the empathy of someone who you know has felt exactly what you’re feeling, you soften.

You soften, almost all the way, and so naturally you lash out to compensate. “Had a good look, huh? Christ, Peña. Can I help you with something?”

Javi shuffles aggravatedly and kicks back into the sling of his chair, folding his arms behind his head once more. His brown eyes look you up and down without giving anything much away as he fumbles for a cigarette – which he hopes is nestled behind his ear - and comes up lacking.

“A smoke would be fucking A.”

That’s it then? That’s all? He dragged you here to smoke and chat shit?

Plausible, almost. But it doesn’t quite check out. See, to Javi, words are tools. Mechanisms he can use to get what he needs out of people, and he uses them precisely. He has lots of mechanisms for that. His charm, his smarts, and his looks too.

You’ve seen the agent in action often enough to know this; if he’s charming you, he’s undoubtedly either angling to fuck you or fuck you over, and you might not even know which is coming. You trust him - near enough. It’s true that Javi is a man of his word, in many ways. About as moral as it gets – at least, as moral as it gets after a slew of compromises and concessions. After any number of bad things good men end up having to do.

You can count on his word, for sure though. It’s just his words, plural, that you have to watch out for - and you are on guard.

Contemplating this, you take another drawn-out drag on your smoke, just to spite him. Revelling deliberately in your silence.  

Javi is silent too, simply flexing his arms agitatedly behind his head. His red shirt is riding up over his stomach and you feign disinterest in the slow inch and reveal of his skin, of a subtle display of dark brown hair peeking above his belted jeans. However - you note reluctantly- that your heart is very much back in your chest rather than your throat, pounding away against your rib cage as he stretches out in front of you.

Javi looks you up and down again, as if mulling over what on earth to do with you. You half expect him to throw in the towel now and drive you home rightaway. Decide you’re not worth the hassle. That would be less cruel than his pity, at least. His pity, you want least of all.

Picking up on your agitation - your bouncing leg and the flare of your nostrils, the quickened succession of breaths as you puff on your cigarette, Javi dips his chin and raises his eyebrows at you until they meet his brown mop of hair, swept asymmetrically over his forehead. The ends of odd strands are still clinging to his skin, plastered down and damp with sweat. 

Looking at him like that sends your blood fleeting through your veins like a series of darts, your pulse sudden and sharp and intrusive even in your own body.

It’s no good.

You’re still far too fresh from the kill. The adrenalin still turning to vapour on your bodies.

The crash will inevitably come later; but you’re not there yet, and there’s a hell of a way to go. 

Beneath his veneer of lightness and his measured sips of whiskey and his banal conversation about anything except what happened, you can tell Javi is just as tightly wound. And you’d venture that you’re not exactly helping.

You’re surprised he’s even stuck it out this long.

Honestl? You would have expected him to be elsewhere, fucking the residual energy out of him, like usual.

Well. Maybe he’s on to something with that.

“For real. Why are we here? What do you want, hmm?” you venture, with an uptick of your chin in his direction, your expression hardening as you provoke him further, and fuck the consequences. “You want me to fucking monologue?”

In response though, Javi shuffles in his chair, leaning forward again. His leather jacket creaks as his elbow bends, thumb lifting to skim slowly along his plush bottom lip.

His brown eyes are pooling with intensity, and you feel suddenly as if his silence might be as dangerous as his words. There is something about his silence. Something about the deep darkness of his eyes that swallows you. Something that compels you to share yourself with him, as if he is a bottomless pit for all of your secrets, and all of a sudden, you wish he would have kept talking.

You don’t share. As a rule. That’s why Javi is so dangerous to you. Like a vice. Compelling you to tip over into dissecting and sharing and divulging. Fuck, it’s almost no wonder that the man walks around the city to find people throwing secrets at his feet before he has to ask. Javi is the sort of man who can make you feel like your secrets would be safe with him.

However, Javi doesn’t keep secrets. Not really. He uses them. Uses them for leverage.

You don’t want anyone to have that much leverage over you.

Not ever again.

Especially not him.

“Come on, Javier,” you bite, losing patience. “Why the pity party, hmm? We all know you open your mouth and your wallet for precisely one reason. To get what you want out of people. So, out with it. What are you angling for from me?”

It’s harsh, but not because it’s far from the truth; rather, because it is vanishingly close to it.

Still, despite your attack, Javi leans forwards, his brows knitting together as he ponders your barbed assessment, resting his forearms on the table and watching you take another sweet drag. “There are some other things I use my mouth for, cariño, quite expertly. But that’s between me and the fine ladies of my local brothel.”

You have to give it to the man, but his comment and his lack of cruelty both catch you off-guard.

He’s a funny fucker, this one. A kind one, deep down, despite all the shit you give him. You forget that sometimes, amidst everything. Kindness feels rare here. Your own laugh feels alien out of your mouth on occasion. Sometimes, Javi is the only one who can remind you of the sound.

You’d never admit it to him, but Javi feels like safety to you sometimes. A cocoon. A sanctuary. A place to hide from all of... this. True, he’s not much of a shelter, and he’s certainly not yours exclusively, but he’s all you’ve got besides booze and smokes out here. In fact, the soothing sound of the rain outside and the double whiskey and the nicotine and him are almost enough to dull the edge – to blunt your edges. When you bring the tip of your smoke to your lips for another drag, your hand has almost entirely stopped tremoring. Almost.

Javi’s eyes burn like tiny suns as he watches you fill your lungs, with envy.

“Bumming a smoke,” he finally announces, since he’s tired of waiting for you to offer, and he flips open the carton you discarded on the table, only to find it empty. He’s growing visibly twitchy without his hit, and you’re not entirely heartless yet; so, in an act of pure selflessness, you release your vice from your lips, presenting the butt to him, pressed between your forefingers like a peace offering.

Ironic, really, given that in any other circumstance, you doubt you and Javi would be at war at all. In fact, you think, in another life, it could have been so easy.

You’re not sure what he wants, but for now, you’ll happily oblige him with a small favour.

You usually keep score of what you he owes you; but not tonight.

***

Javi pauses in surprise before accepting your offering.

He searches your eyes for any kind of play, but finds none.

Your eyes are usually as fiery and alive as the tip of your cigarette and just as addictive to him, even if you don’t realise it. But right now, they are ashen. They are obscured by a veil of smoke, and by another veil of settled ash which he doubts could be so easily ushered aside.

Obligingly, and because he needs to calm his stress levels, Javi takes a grateful drag on the cigarette as its offered, his moustache and his lips brushing the pads of your fingers as his mouth settles around the tip. You watch him with interest as he inhales a few quick puffs in succession until you nod for him to take it, and he nimbly replaces your fingers on the shaft with his own, the momentary contact of your skin on his sending a sizzle through his veins.

Javi’s eyes close in unfiltered relief as he suckles more deeply on the death stick, the smoke billowing from his hawkish nose moments later as he releases his full breath.

That’s better. A little, at least.

Sure; you both know it’s bad for you, but it’s hardly any worse than the bullets which whizz within inches of you on the daily. Besides, if you’re destined for a quick, thankless death you may as well smoke your way to a slow one.

Javi fills his lungs again. Studies you. Briefly wonders whether this excursion was a mistake. You’re both covered in sweat and blood still. He should have driven right back to your shared apartment complex, and yet, he had taken a swift left instead of right.

He had brought you here, but you both had stayed. Now, here the two of you are, looking and sounding and acting like you want to leave but, curiously, neither of you making any move to go. In Javi’s mind, that speaks volumes. 

There’s something here. Something drawing you together. Whether it is something more than the trauma remains to be seen.

Even so, Javi could easily regret this whole deal. He has a nice bourbon in his apartment which would be much better company than a spiky colleague. In fact, he looks at you through the pillar of smoke – pissed off and shaken up and closed off, and his thigh muscles twitch as he considers standing, drawing this failed attempt at comfort to a close. In the next moment though, a rowdy bunch enter the bar and with the sudden bang from a flung door you flinch, your head whipping towards the noise and your eyes wet with fear and he just…. can’t. He just can’t leave you.

But, he does at least stand.

You look back at him as he does so, your eyes soft for the first time this evening as they fall on him. Your eyes tell him something. Something he recognises. That, maybe, as much as you may wish to hide your emotions behind a closed door, you maybe don’t wish to be alone when it shuts.

Usually, that’s how you might prefer to handle things - alone; but seemingly, not tonight.

You hug your arms around yourself and look up at him with a silent yet deafening plea, and, Javi is entirely sure that he’s about to suggest driving you home, but then the words out of his mouth aren’t that at all. “Can I get you another drink?”

He waits for some ire but that doesn’t come either. Instead, you nod in resignation, and he takes one more steadying drag of that cigarette before passing it back to you.

He’d usually be fucking away his own problems; but not tonight.

Tonight he will attend to yours - even if you’re not all the way happy about it.

***

The cigarette travels back to your mouth, and even as you dip your wrist to flick ash into the tray, Javi’s gaze lingers on your lips as you tip your chin up, making another “o” for your smoky exhale. This obvious attention sends another kind of tremor through you. A faint pulse you think you could recognise given a little more time and a little more whiskey.

You tick up an eyebrow, the way he’s looking at you feeling revelatory, and you search his face brazenly. Watch the tip of his tongue fleeting out over that dip in his lower lip you definitely shouldn’t know about. Shouldn’t have paid so much attention to these past months. 

With no real motive, your eyes skim over Javi’s long and lean form too, over the shape his body makes in that fucking offensive pink shirt, slinky slim hips and tapered waist leading up to broad shoulders and down to long denim-clad legs.

His shirt is still damp with sweat. If you peeled it off him it would cling to his skin, you imagine. He would feel clammy beneath your touch.

There would be worse things, for sure.

Worse things than losing yourself in him. Worse things you could do.

Hell, you’ve done worse things already. Worse things today.

“Okay,” you answer. “I’ll have one more drink.”

You bounce your leg under the table, and you lean forward in your seat, unconsciously chasing him as he nods once and retreats towards the bar. The sudden distance from him makes you feel decidedly anxious – a rolling wave in the pit of your belly- and your eyes skim the bar for threats as you rub out your smoke, the tiny sun finally eclipsed.

***

When Javier returns to the table the cigarette is extinguished, and the light in the woman’s eyes has gone out too. He sets a tinkling glass of whisky down before her, and she downs it without tasting it, replacing one fire with another, shuddering as it burns down into her middle.

Javier is a little more measured than her, however, and takes a long, slow, savouring sip before setting his glass down, condensation pooling against his unmoving fingers.

He inhales a breath. He’s about to open his fucking mouth, and evidently, the woman doesn’t like that one bit.

“Fuck, Javi. Don’t talk,” she bristles, a palm raised in the air. “Just... don’t, okay? Save it for someone who gets paid to listen. I don’t want to hear it.”

Despite everything, despite her barbs, Javier can’t help but smile now. He knows the familiar weight of her blows and, by now, he knows he can take the beating. “Are you this charming with your informants, sugar?”

The woman doesn’t hear Javier poke fun, however. Instead, she is very suddenly staring down at her shirt cuff, poking out from beneath her leather jacket, eyes transfixed and nails suddenly scratching at a stubborn speck of blood there, eyes instantly as wet and glassy as his drink.

It’s not her blood.

His voice drops into his throat, and softens to a whisper. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

Wrong move, Javier.

It is a pattern by now.

When he becomes soft, she doubles-down on being hard. Triples down on it.

“For fuck’s sake, Javi. What are we gonna talk about, huh?” the woman hisses, loud enough for the patrons at the table over the way to turn and look. “About what happened today? About what I did? How none of this is making a damned bit of difference?” Her voice is cracking like shocked ice, creaking under the weight of her own vitriol.

She is turbulent and spiralling, as though he swirls her in a glass atop his palm – excites her as he remains still. Indeed, the man swallows and licks his lips, stoic in the face of the woman’s impassioned questioning. He does not respond, but instead, he fiddles a fresh cigarette from his shirt pocket, somehow bartered, evidently, on his short trip between the table and the bar and back again. “Alright,” he soothes, his voice a low, slow rumble. “Catch me shutting up.”

And, as good as his word, the man remains quiet as he places the cigarette between his lips, the round barrel of it perfectly settled in the dip in his lower lip and his eyes never leaving her. His hands primed for… something, as if he might need to catch her somehow, even as she folds her arms and beds down more adamantly into her chair with a concessionary huff.

Javier remains wordless, and he lights his cigarette and sucks to stoke the embers with quick, frenzied puffs - followed by one long, sizzling drag.

Then, returning the favour, he flips his hand and offers the filter-end to the woman.

She scowls.

***

As you dip forward to take a hit, thanking your lucky stars that your colleague can charm the last smoke out of any poor bastard’s packet, he calls you out – that silence, as ever, short-lived. “You only open your mouth to smoke and cuss me out, or have your lips got other uses too?”

You watch his lips curl into a tentative smile.

Evidently he’s given up on whatever he was attempting before, and has reverted to his natural state. Flirtatious. Snarky. Javi usually is - flirty with you - but without any true intent behind it. Besides, you’re hardly the type to blow hot air up his ass, so it’s not as though he’d have gotten very far with you, even if he’d wanted to. However, there’s seemingly a little more behind it tonight. There’s enough intention, at least, that a heat sears into the centre of you. Enough for you to have the passing thought that Javi is the kind of guy you’d pick-up in a bar and fuck all night long, all being normal. 

But - you remind yourself – things aren’t normal. Here, things are pretty exceptional.

This place makes exceptional the fucking rule.

Maybe that shouldn’t stop you though. Maybe the fact that things are blowing up in your face – that they’re totally fucked - is the perfect reason to let off a little steam.

Javi even says himself that you work too hard -  and that’s coming from the man who never stops.

Still, it’s not as though Javi can be relied upon for objective assessments of work/life boundaries now, is it? He most definitely brings his work home with him. After all, you kinda have to when you fuck informants for your job; unlike paperwork, that’s an assignment which is much less easily completed in the office. 

I bet he’s copulated on someone’s desk though. All those late nights and a rotation of pretty, fawning typists? No doubt about it at all.  

“I don’t want to talk, Javi. I don’t want to talk and I don’t want to flirt. I just want to smoke.”

There are still ghosts surrounding you, reaching for you with cold hands.

The cigarette becomes near lifeless in your hands, burning down to a long pillar of ash, but still, Javi stays.

***

You relinquish the smoke before it burns down to a butt, and Javi takes an absent-minded puff, smoke curling around his hawkish nose and sculpted face.

He wants to make you talk, but more than that, he wants to make you forget. He could, he thinks, even if only for a moment, if he let his ill-advised instincts take over. There are ways he could take your mind off of things – all tongue and wet slide and spilling salt.

As he counts the ways he could cleanse your mind of any thought but him, his hands feel primed again, as if readying to touch you, and he is more than grateful that he has a smoke to keep his hands busy in other ways instead.

He knows not to go there with you. He knows, somehow, that you’re not a one time deal. That if he got a taste he’d want to chain smoke you- would come out of it addicted. Javi’s pretty sure he doesn’t need any more vices to add to his collection. So, he pushes those kinda thoughts aside – the kind that he’d have to pray about on Sundays, and focusses on what you really need to help you forget. On the ways that aren’t for his benefit too, because contrary to what you seem to think he doesn’t always want something from you. Sometimes he only wants to give. 

He wants to give you peace of mind. He would, if only he could.

He wants to tell you it wasn’t your fault. That shit happens. That you didn’t make any mistakes – but that would only be half true, and Javi refuses to patronise you. And so, he wants to tell you that you made a call, and that it wasn’t right - but it was the right one out of the hand you were dealt today.

The best of a shitty situation.

He wants to tell you that he understands… but Javi doesn’t exactly talk about his feelings either. He simply fucks them deeper, into dark places. Shit – he likes to feel like he has some control over something. A man would lose it here, without that.

Most of all though, Javi wants to forget too.

Wants to forget that look on your face when your hands were bathed in red.

There was so much blood.

He puts his hand on top of yours and its cold from the glass, his grasp like a ghost, and so, you whip your arm away from his, eyes sunken and sinking further like hollow graves.

No more.

Enough. Enough of this.

“Come on,” Javi says, tapping your arm with the back of his hand, prematurely stubbing out his cigarette with a pinch of his fingers, staining his tips ashy, and pocketing the half-length for later as he stands. “We’re getting out of here.”

***

“Come on where?” the woman asks, even as she’s already in motion, already moving towards his side.

“For a drive.”

“I’ve had too many whiskeys,” she says, shaking her head and massaging her temples with the pads of her forefingers.

“Yeah, I know,” Javier says, bumping his shoulder against hers amiably. “You drank most of mine.” Then, he scoops up the keys up from the table. “I’ll be good to drive. Come on, let’s go,” Javier says with finality, and, pressing his hand to the space in-between her shoulder blades he guides her on ahead of him.

This is still not a date. That much is obvious.

But the way Javier’s arm loops around her protectively, and the way his eyes do a careful sweep of the bar and its exterior to check no harm is about to befall her, hints at the fact there is something here.

These two may not be in the market to fuck, and they may not even be friendly, but there is something keeping them together. The sad thing is, whatever is bringing them together might just be the very same thing which is keeping them far apart.

All the same, Javier’s hand stays at the woman’s back until she is safely slotted into the passenger side of the car, rain from the heavens beating down onto them and quickening their journey to the parked vehicle.

Once inside, Javi leans across and fishes a crumpled, flattened packet of cigarettes from the glovebox, just one stick remaining inside and all bent out of shape. He smooths it and fiddles it in-between his lips, unlit, before he hastens the car away from its spot, trundling around the narrow streets – a clear direction in mind.

The woman, meanwhile, folds her arms and tips her face towards the window, watching the city streets slip by.

She doesn’t think to ask where they are going, and so Javier does not think to say.

Therefore, the drive passes in silence, and when Javier reaches the place he has in mind, he pulls up and parks.

He has driven them up in elevation, and now they sit above the city, looking down on it, with hazy, bedraggled views for miles. This far from the cacophony and bustle, and amidst the soothing churn of rain against the dirt ground, for once, the city even looks peaceful.

For once, the woman’s face even has a look of peace too as she looks over it.

Javier seemingly discounts the views, in favour of looking at his passenger.

As he looks longer, his throat bobs around a hard swallow, and without the need for steering any longer, his hands twitch restlessly on the wheel. And so, as if it is more than habit, he fishes the lighter from his pocket and scuffs the cigarette bobbing between his lips to life.

***

“I know you like the rain,” Jav says, winding the window down to let the curtain of smoke escape, watching it be sucked out into the cool night as rain drums soporifically all around.

When he looks back at you, he can’t help but smile, as he observes that you look pissed off all over again.

Figures.

You don’t like anyone knowing anything about you. Not even your predilection for a downpour; but, Javi’s good - a little too good - at getting secrets out of people, after all. It’s what he does. True, that the details of your idiosyncrasies, classified as they are, can’t bring governments to their knees; but sometimes they could sink him, he thinks.

He expects you to bite back at him for daring to know you, but your fire is all burned out. You are settled ash now.

And, therefore, you finally give a little.

“It makes me feel safe,” you say, folding your arms and looking straight ahead, out through the windscreen and across the expanse of flickering city lights below you, visible through the mire of rain. “Everyone rushes to get inside,” you say softly, and as much as Javi likes your bite – fuck, he is altogether captivated by your softness. You laugh sadly and shake your head. “You know. It’s my favourite time to walk around the city? Because I think, how can anything bad be happening now? Doesn’t everyone just want to get inside and stay dry? Who would kill someone while it’s raining.” It breaks Javi’s heart that your voice cracks in two then.

It breaks his heart that it’s bullshit. That when it’s raining, the violence doesn’t stop. That the blood will simply be washed away a little faster. That the bad things will happen a little more undercover.

Javi had wanted to talk. He’d wanted to make you talk, but now that he faces the very real possibility of conversation, he very suddenly has nothing to say.

Nothing seems like it will be enough.

Greeted by his silence once again you loll your head, rolling it on the seat headrest until you look Javi in the eyes, your own lighting like a struck match as your faces turn toward each other.

It is all he can do to keep breathing as you look at him like that. To nod and to take a deep, desperate drag of the cigarette, a flutter of ash drifting down on to his jeans.

Your gaze drops with it, to his thigh, where his right palm rests atop the taut blue denim. Where his hands are primed and ready. To catch you, if you need it. To touch you, if you want it.

Truthfully?

Javi always chain smokes around you. Could be the stress of the job, sure; but another part of him thinks it’s the only way he can keep his hands and his lips busy, otherwise they’d be on you. His hands would find your skin – every bit as moreish and addicting as this vice.

And finally he gives a little too. 

“I honestly don’t know,” Javi begins, his voice deep and scuffed like unpolished leather, the onset of his voice causing you to turn your stare swiftly back to the horizon. “I don’t know if we’re making a fucking difference. But trying has to count for something, right?” 

You hum, thoughtfully.

Maybe.

You shrug with one shoulder, without dropping your gaze from the city below. But you do suck in a sharp breath for courage and reach for Javi’s hand -where it is settled on his thigh - and you give it a squeeze. In return, Javi closes his fingers around you tightly, and the action squeezes his chest just as tightly.

Then, with a sigh – wordlessly - he passes the burning cigarette to you. 

This time, you don’t scowl.

*** 

You hum in gratitude and fumble the cigarette from his fingers, and as soon as Javi’s hands are once again without an occupation, he fishes in his jacket for the half-stick he’d pocketed for later back at the bar.

He lights it from your own, your faces dipping together until your heat catches against his, and you each sit, smoking your tiny suns in the car side by side, like a mirror image of the lit headlights before you, which shine outward into the dull night. Together, you listen to the rain and pretend like there is no death in the city before you. That there is no blood on your hands.

It is a lie, but sometimes the truth can become too much - especially when your profession is to relentlessly seek it.

Eventually, after a succession of drawn out moments and even longer drawn out drags, you scrub the last cigarette out with a roll of your fingers into the foil tray on the dash.

Javi swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his corded neck. 

“Oh oh. We’re all out of smokes,” you say as you stub the tiny fire out, looking at Javi like he’s suddenly see through. Your words feel loaded. As though the inevitability of the next most obvious vice to partake in is positively glaring.

You’re not wrong, perhaps.

Javi’s gaze becomes heavy, and drops to your lips as if suddenly burdened.

Your voice suddenly becomes heavier too. Laden with something else you crave. “Well? What are we still doing here, Peña? What is it that you want?” 

Why, in the midst of all the shit is he dealing with shit from you? What does he hope to gain?

Then, Javi looks at you. Really looks at you. He drags his tongue along his lower lip, and his eyes flit all over your face, drinking you in like you’re a measure of whiskey.

But then, with a smile which only reaches his eyes, he surprises you. “Not a damn thing, sweetheart.”

Perhaps he doesn’t want to take anything from you. Perhaps he thinks you’ve given enough.

You chew on your lower lip, trying to hide your disappointment. After all - it’s a shame, if he doesn’t want anything. Because, if you’re honest? Tonight, you want something from him.

Fortunately, despite your best efforts to achieve the contrary, Javi knows you a little better than you might care to admit. You’re far from strangers. And, your partner asks you levelly: “You still keeping count of favours?”

You huff out air. “Hmm. Something like that.”

“Alright,” Javi nods, mulling things over quickly in that solid tactical head of his. Thinking how best to negotiate this one. Luckily, he has a flair for that sort of thing. He thinks you may even agree to his proposition. “Well. How about we make a deal - don’t owe each other anything? How about from now on we just take care of each other, and then call it even?”

Despite everything, you can’t help but smile.

Now there’s one hell of a peace offering. You hum softly, in apparent consideration.

“Okay, Javi,” you breathe, a soft, grateful smile finally claiming your plush lips. “Now. Would you take me the fuck home?”

And so, Javi starts up the car, and steers you back through the sleepy, rain-shined streets, yellowed lights glancing off quivering pools of water and making the whole city appear as though it is carpeted with stars.

Then, with a broad, protective hand at your back, Javi walks you to your apartment door. Gets you home safe.

You stand and face him as he languishes against the frame, all long and lean and a quick goodnight and long goodbye readied on his lips.

But for once, you opt not to shut him out.

Yes - you’d usually be alone when your door closes behind you.

But not tonight.

THE END

(Hope you enjoyed this! If you liked it and want more, I’ve written a small, self-indulgent epilogue to this. So, if you liked this story please do pester me as I could maybe be convinced to post it! For now, I wanted to leave it to the reader’s imagination what happens after that door shuts. I’d love to hear your thoughts about that and what you thought of this fic in general. Any feedback and shares will be HUGELY appreciated as this is different to what I would usually write. Thanks so much for reading!)

[mello-jello]

Levihan domestic au! - Hange was ill and cutie little Udo being so protective over his mom. Levi watched every his son overprotective behavior and smiled. In the end Levi said to Udo, something like, 'I understand why you're like this'.

The man and little boy just love Hange so much

Thank you anon, domestic Levihan is my favourite <3

I immediately thought of this and ran with it.

--

Udo was 4 and had never seen his mother like this. His Mama was always excited to play with him, but when he asked to play trains today, she barely smiled when she said, “No thank you, baby. I just don’t feel very good”.

It started with a cough. Over the next few days though, Hange developed a fever and nausea. All she wanted to do was sleep, but the chills and constant trips to the bathroom prevented that. It wasn’t a serious illness, but that didn’t make it any less unpleasant.

One time Hange came out to the kitchen to get a glass of water. She was sluggish, pale, puffy eyed, and just all around drained. She made eye contact with Udo, who was supposed to be watching cartoons, but he was staring at her with a terrified look. Hange gave him a small wave with the tiniest hint of a smile to assure him she was alright, but it didn’t help much.

Udo was very worried. This was like seeing a whole new person. Where was his Mama? The one who made everything exciting? The one who played with him and read him bedtime stories? Now he had to entertain himself. He often walked by his parent’s bedroom, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was going on.

He could hear Hange retching through the door.

“Levi, please talk to your son,” she says from the toilet bowl. “He thinks I’m dying.”

“Well, you do look like death,” Levi replied, gently rubbing her back and holding her hair out of the way.

She glares at him, but before she can respond, she vomits again. She flushed the toilet and Levi helped her to her feet. “Or, maybe he isn’t yours. He’s too nice to have taken after you”. She joked halfheartedly.

“He just worries about you - something he did inherit from me.”

Hange leaned over the sink to splash cool water on her face and brush her teeth. “He shouldn’t have to worry,” she said, loading her toothbrush with toothpaste.

Levi grabbed the thermometer from the medicine cabinet and stuck it in Hange’s ear. After the beep, he looked at the small monitor.

“Your fever has been broken for a whole day now, I think it’s safe if he comes in.”

--

Levi opened the bedroom door to find Udo curled up on the floor across the hallway.

“What are you doing?”

Udo looked up with tears in his eyes. “Is Mama going to be okay?”

Levi bent down to pick him up. “Ofcourse. Your Mama is strong,” He wiped a tear from Udo's cheek. “I was about to make her some tea to make her stomach feel better. Would you like to to help me?”

Udo nodded.

“Her eyes look like your eyes,” Udo says, and pokes the dark circles under Levi’s eyes. He scowled, but made a mental note to tell Hange later. She’d laugh.

Levi set Udo down on the kitchen counter and turned the kettle on. He opened the cupboard with the vast collection of tea flavours and reached for a green box.

“Do you know what this is called?” He asks his son. Udo shook his head.

“Peppermint. It’s good for relaxing the tissues of the stomach and will suppress nausea. It helps with indigestion too.” Levi turned to look at Udo’s confused expression and suddenly remembered he was talking to a 4 year old. “Ah. It will make her tummy feel better.” Levi cringed at his own use of the word “tummy”, but Udo was fascinated.

“How?” he asks.

“I’m not sure, I just know it works. When your mother is feeling better, you should ask her. Here, smell it.”

Udo held the box up to his nose and took a whiff. “MMM… “ he said enthusiastically. “Will she be better soon?”

“Yes, soon, I promise”.

Levi taught Udo how to steep the tea and strain the leaves. They poured it into a cup that was too big and only filled about halfway, so that Udo could be the one to bring it to Hange. Levi wasn’t about to watch Udo spill on their bedroom carpet.

Udo grasps the mug with both hands, careful not to spill. Levi leans against the door frame, watching with endearment as Udo takes slow and cautious steps to bring the tea to her bedside table.

“Dad and I made you tea to make you better! It fixes tissues!”

Hange peels her eyes open just a crack and smiles. “Thank you so much,” she saids with a sigh. “You boys take such good care of me.”

Udo’s smile disappeared when Hange just closed her eyes again, not taking the tea right away. He lets out a small huff of frustration and leans against the bed.

“Mama, when I don’t feel good, you read me a story. Would you like me to read you a story?”

“No thank you, Udo. I just need to rest.”

Udo stares at his feet and chews his lip. “It’s hard to be a mom for a mom”.

Hange’s eyes shot open as her heart melted for her little boy. Despite the pain, she sat up and grabbed him in a tight embrace.

“Oh my dear, you’re doing just fine.”

“WOAH WOAH! ARE YOU CONTAGIOUS?! LET ME GO!” Udo squirms in her arms.

Levi smiled and thought to himself, ‘that is definitely my kid’.

[theodora3022]

Bloody Rose(Sebastian Michaelis x Vampire F!reader)

Request: Sabastian with a female vampire s/o? Can be yandere or not! You choose.

Notes: I made this in headcanons form and I’m typing on mobile during witching hours, so bear with me dear anon-

I decided to go with fluff since I am in a soft mood today~~

Warnings: Fluff, mentions of blood

To others, you were a tailor owning a small haute couture shop, a spinster who make her living by making outfits. But they won’t know you been doing this since the Georgian times.

You move from county to county, around England every decade or so, to avoid suspension. Luckily no vampire hunters has ever been on your tail: you consider yourself as a good subject to the crown despite being a blood drinker. You only consume animal blood, which made you a harmless vegetarian. Being a forever maiden is not unpleasant by any means, apart from being banished from sunlight. You miss being able to run around in the sun freely. When you do go out during a sunny day you cover yourself in fabric as much as possible, resulting you with overly pale skin.

Contrary to common belief, you slept until the afternoon, opening up the store even during the day. You had forced yourself to change your biological routine to fit in the human society. Although your bed resembles a traditional coffin in shape, it is never an actual one. The mirrors in your shop were not backed by silver, so you can still see your reflections.

You happened to be at late Victorian London when a mysterious murderer decides to drain the blood of thier victims like a vampire would, how unfortunate.

You were one of the suspects, so Sabastian and his lord were obligated to pay you a visit. Although they did not put you as priority to begin with: you never done things like this. 

You welcomed them to your store with a polite smile and warm greetings, as any good saleswoman would. 

Ever since transforming, you had not drank a drop of human blood. However, you can still smell the scent of their blood even through skin. It feels like...a natural perfume to you, to describe it at best. Some are sweeter then others, like tempting sweet delights, and you had to make sure you are well fed before going near them. 

That little lord’s blood is sweet and tempting. The butler, however, his blood just...is that even blood? You thought to yourself. It reminds you of the mighnight, danger lurking underneath the peaceful surface.This man is no ordinary human, you can sense that much. You had never delt with a demon before, therefor your knowledge is rather limited, only from books and theaters. 

Vampires are demons are cut from the same cloth, in a way right? Both can only venture in the shadows for eternity, trying to get by without being slain by those self righteous dastards. Sebastian had met some of your kind over the centuries, albiet none of them are as lovely as you are. You still act like a young human woman, if not for your overly pale skin you would be considered as normal. He wonders what made you this way, as all vampires, save a selected few, are humans before something happened. You seem like a kind lady, not one of those blood-hungry lowlifes he had seen before. 

You showed Ciel your collection, took his measurements when he demanded, never flinching away from the young lord’s cold attitude. When you went into the inner chamber to retrive more material choice, Ciel decided you are most likely not the murderer they are looking for, and Sebastian agrees. There is not a single scent of human blood on you or anywhere in sight, as demons can smell such things even one uses the finest soap to cover the traces.  Even though you are a vampire, if you are harmless to others Ciel is not intersted in fighting you(he has a demon for butler, so?).

“But she is a fine tailor, right milord? Maybe you can just make this a normal shopping trip.” What an unsual person you are, thought Sebastian. He might just take a little more time to observe you. It has been forever since he met another immortal being that does not irritates him.

“Very well. This would not be a complete waste of time then. I need a new suit for the social season anyway.” The young man tsked.

When they asks you to deliver the order yourself, you were hesitant about going outside. Your ususal customers send their servents to collect their orders, as you insisted so. You know what sunburns can do to you, but they offered you a down payment you cannot refuse. It is a risk you are willing to take. Even vampires needs gold to survive, if you do not wish to massacre humans for food.

The moment you stepped onto the estate, covered in a long hooded cloak and gloves, you can sense great calamity has occured in this location rather recently. But that is none of your concerns, the customer’s private life is nothing to pry about.

The servents...they are an odd flock, to say the least. They might seem clumsy or even impotent, but you know that butler knows better then to hire three imbeciles.  

After you made your delivery, Sebastian insists on you staying for the afternoon tea. You wanted to decline, since normal food has been tasting like wet paper ever since that awful day, but you find it hard to say keep saying no to such a comely man. He is the most goregous male you ever seen, and you say that as an immortal. The term “devilishly handsome” is like a tailor made suit for him. 

To your surprise, you can faintly taste the refreshement’s fruity flavours. When you were human yourself you have always loved food, missing it much when all you can taste is blood. So you helped yourself to quite a few tarts and biscuits, not knowing the demon had added special ingredients just for your vampire taste buds. You were so focused on your plate that you missed Sebastian’s calculating smile. 

That esclated rather quickly, soon you found yourself promising to tailor more clothes for Earl Phantomhive, therefore being on their premise more. 

Sebastian would always treat you to a plate of mouth-watering refreshments before you depart. Soon you find yourself answering his somewhat intrusive questions, as it is only fair to give him some compensation for those delicious treats.

The questions are surfaces ones at first. What is your favorite color or your preferred weather. Then to more personal territory, such as the reason behind your spinsterhood or what in a man that attracts you the most. You would blush madly, a feeling you have not felt in years fills your empty soul, and tell him your little answers.

How endearing. Compare to werewolves who behaves like canines, vampire leans closer to the feline side. You reminds Sebastian greatly of the black cat he encountered last spring. Your nonchalant and cheerful attitude are identical to the lovely creature. Oh and how he loves petting her soft fur. He wonders how your hair would feel under his hands. He initially might just be curious of how an odd vampire you are, but now the demon had found you to be quite an entertaining presence.

It has been so long since you had any friends, so you opened up to him quickly, disregarding the risks. You even revealed your identity to the man in black after he swears on his heart to not tell a soul. 

“My entire family was slaughtered by venegeful vampires. My father used to work as a vampire hunter for the mad King, therefore he made enemies of many. Ironically I survived, only to found out I turned into this. A creature who can only hide in the shadows forever. I swore I would never be like those blood suckers, I would never kill someone just to saitate my blood lust. Thank you Sabastian, for all those delicious cakes. They made me feel human agian once more. Also thank you for listening to my rambles, it has been so many years I confided in someone.” So you where a noble lady once. That is where your fine but antiquated manners originates from.

What a calamity you had suffered, yet you remain strong and lighthearted nonetheless. Moving from place to place, afraid to be burnt for your youthful appearance.You deserve to be cherished as the treasure you cleary are. No more hiding and running, not if he can help it.

You gladly accepted Lord Phantomhive’s offer to serve as the household’s tailor, the pay is generous and working for one person greatly reduce the risk of being discovered. Plus you get to spend more time with your new friend Sebastian! It is an offer you cannot turn down.

Sebastain is in a contract right now, but Ciel could only live so long. Prior to meeting you, he never thought about the future after his contract is completed. He imagined the two of you traveling across the European contient as friends, or something more, for the rest of your infinate lives. He has always been alone whenever he was not in a contract with humans, but the idea of being with someone forever is rather appealling to the demon. 

Even though he does not let his emotions discract him from his duties, you can still feel how he smiles whenever you enter the room. You would curl up your lips jovially in return, sometimes even teases him for having a charming smile. 

For now, Sebastian would be your good friend, always lend an ear to you for anything, or offer his shoudler should you need it, as long it does not get in the way of his duties to his liege. But who knows what would happen after the contract is completed? The world is yours to explore, with infinate amount of time, with him by your side.

[soveryanon]

Reviewing time for MAG176!

- The statement felt so short! Well, it was, admittedly, very short, and not much was technically happening (someone is being hunted by what used to be their pack, is got, is torn to shreds, and someone else from the pack is arbitrarily designated as the next victim).

It’s very funny how I had felt that The Stranger’s statement had a biiiig Hunt-vibe, and these elements also appeared here but were definitely more Hunt-y… while also displaying the poetry aspect of The Stranger:

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: “So dance. Dance to the beat of the thump of the chase of the still and plastic horse hooves, which cannot break from where they are secured by bolts and glue and eggshell-thin reality that paints a visage of sense almost enough to tell you that the nausea that swells and pushes at the limits of your mind is incorrect. […] Just – keep – running…! Your feet – or are they just the shoes with emptiness within? – will pound upon the creaking wood of carousel top, or perhaps the only ground there’s ever been, so struggle not to look behind […] You tire of the chase of course, the fire of an all-relentless pace of competition, reaching for a name, identity and face that has long since worn through all reserves of hard, enduring vigour in you.”

(MAG176) ARCHIVIST: “Feet pound, silent whisper, silent blood on lips, blood on teeth, blood-scent of hated prey flows through veins and into feet pound silent in pursuit. […] The prey turns and runs, all grace of The Hunt forgotten as they stumble, crashing through undergrowth and dirt. Behind them, feet pound silent.”

Very fitting for a neverending chase that the statement opened and closed with the same words, just as the chase began anew.

  - Small things in the dynamic of the episode: the fact that the people trapped in the chase were often not treated as identified subjects nor even grammatical subjects. The pack was first described as “teeth smile” and through various threatening elements of their bodies (“The spaces between the trees are filled with eyes that hate and hands that hold the promise of a life ended on the rotting leaves of the forest floor”), the people of the pack were “the pack”, “the killers”, there were “no names amongst the pack”; their victim was “the one who deserves to be hunted”, “their quarry”, “the prey”.

The absolute absence of name or detail allowing to give one of them an identifying detail was already a big red flag when Trevor appeared as Trevor: he had a name, he was singled-out… but in the statement, even the prey didn’t have a name. So, as Jon pointed out: he was lower than that (and bait).

  - The pack’s logic was really reminiscent of Hunters that we knew, uh? It being motivated by “the need to tear and rend and coat their faces slick with the blood of the guilty” was already something we witnessed with Daisy, Julia and Trevor. They had felt, at first, maybe less bad than other avatars because they were targeting monsters/avatars/manifestations of the Fears… but were fundamentally just ruled by the will to hurt others, as Daisy acknowledged. We saw Trevor fall deeper into The Hunt through his statements, but here, we directly saw how the hunters are absolutely monsters (needing a victim only to serve their own purposes, regardless of facts or rationality). It’s interesting that in this domain, the Fear was both of being the prey and chased by the others, and of potentially becoming the next one? Nobody could ever win.  Interesting, also, that this Hunt-domain felt a bit Slaughter-flavoured: it reminds me of MAG112, with the same ambiguity, the purpose being the chase, the friends turning against you… but also with the revelling in the butchery.

(As usual with the Fears twisting something that could have been positive, but taken to another extreme: the feeling of a “pack”, of individuals sharing a cause and being united by it. But here, this “unity” is intrinsically linked to the desire and the need to exclude, to punish, to hurt someone (“it is the need to tear and rend and coat their faces slick with the blood of the guilty that pulses through every fibre of them”), and that motivator turns the whole situation into the monstrosity that we witness. Really reminiscent of cult-like organisations, uh?)

  (- I’m aware that the statement was apparently a reference/homage to Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery”, but since I’m not familiar with it, I don’t have anything to add about that except that it joined my to-read list!)

  - Jooon, CHILL OUT:

(MAG176) ARCHIVIST: “They can each smell it wafting from the others, but who will it be…? Who is the most afraid? Which of them held back? Which of them… [CRACK] There. You. [GRASS RUSTLING] Blood on your hands, no doubt; blood on your lips; but not much.”

I feared for a moment that he was pointing at MARTIN in that moment.

  - It’s not the first time that we heard sounds related to the statements while it happened, but it’s been pushed through the roof in this episode, sounding as though we were running with the prey:

(MAG176) ARCHIVIST: “Feet pound, silent whisper, silent blood on lips, blood on teeth, blood-scent of hated prey flows through veins and into feet pound silent in pursuit. [IN THE BACKGROUND, CONSTANT SOUND OF A CHASE IN THE FOREST: FEET RUNNING, PANTING, SHUFFLING OF LEAVES AND BRANCHES] Teeth smile. Ready to kill. [SHUFFLING OF BRANCHES] The lashing branches reach and claw and try to hold back the charging vengeance of the pack.”

And. I wonder what these sound effects are. Jonny had said, back in the season 1 Q&A, that all the sounds we were hearing were canon in-universe (background atmospheric music excluded). How come we’re hearing these sounds of pursuit as if we were participants in the chase (while Jon was staying where he is)? Could Martin hear them too? Are they somehow “created” on the tapes through dream-logic?

  - A super nice touch was the two different kind of birds that we could hear during Jon&Martin’s exchanges, the trill and the squawk – as if already announcing that there were two people following them. And Basira arrived right after another squawk!

(MAG176) MARTIN: What aren’t you telling me? [LONG TRILL OF A BIRD] ARCHIVIST: Martin, please. I’m trying to find our way to Basira. MARTIN: Talk to me, Jon. ARCHIVIST: I’m fine! [SILENCE] MARTIN: … Glad to hear. [TRILL OF A BIRD] And the fact that we’re hunting our friend, in a domain of The Hunt isn’t getting to you at all? Not even a little bit? [TRILL OF A BIRD] Hm? ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] I don’t like betraying someone’s trust like this. […] Besides, the chase isn’t… really the point of this particular place. [SQUAWKING OF A BIRD] MARTIN: Oh, no?

(Which also helped to prepare myself to the gunshot at the end of the episode: I had tensed up a bit at the squawk shortly before, since it was a disruption, so the gunshot wasn’t as violent and surprising as it could have been.)

  - Jon was walking slowly, and later mentioned that he had hoped to be the one targeted by Trevor:

(MAG176) ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] Hold on. Take it easy. MARTIN: … What? I’m going at a normal pace, you’re the one that’s slowing down! ARCHIVIST: I am not. MARTIN: You are! You’re dragging your feet. … What’s up? […] ARCHIVIST: Then, it’s very– Listen, look at me. The next couple of minutes are going to be quite unpleasant for one of us, and I’m sorry. MARTIN: Uh– Wh– Sorry, what? ARCHIVIST: You need to remain very calm, and don’t make any sudden movements. […] For putting us all in this situation. I had hoped you’d go for me, but… Well.

… So was Jon stalling, staying behind Martin in the hope that he would be identified as an easier target to improve the chance of Trevor going after him rather than Martin? ;_;

  - Mmm, it was speculated that Jon might be influenced by the domains he was going through on an emotional level (extremely uneasy in The Dark, chirpier in The Vast), and in this one, the fact that they were hunting Basira (/preparing a trap) in the domain of The Hunt was directly called out by Martin:

(MAG176) MARTIN: Talk to me, Jon. ARCHIVIST: I’m fine! [SILENCE] MARTIN: … Glad to hear. [TRILL OF A BIRD] And the fact that we’re hunting our friend, in a domain of The Hunt isn’t getting to you at all? Not even a little bit? [TRILL OF A BIRD] Hm? ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] I don’t like betraying someone’s trust like this. MARTIN: It’s not a betrayal if you’re doing it to help.

So mmmm. (Big, biiiig worry if it’s the case… for when they’d reach the Panopstitute, which Jon already presented as his domain. Would he get overwhelmed by Beholding’s voyeuristic tendencies…?)

  - … Alright, BigWorryTM about Jon giving us an insight into how this world operates:

(MAG176) ARCHIVIST: I’m glad. [INHALE] Because this place focuses on that worry, that fear of your own pack turning their claws on you. MARTIN: Hm! [TRILL OF A BIRD] Is that… really a Hunt thing? ARCHIVIST: It can be! The old divisions don’t mean as much these days. Maybe they never did. The domains are… smaller, [TRILL OF A BIRD] more… personal than the Powers. They don’t just feed on the worst fears of the people trapped there, they’re… shaped by them too. It’s enough to fear the domain itself – if not the entire Power behind it.

Because, alright, it explains something that Jonny had already explained on twitter – that what is happening to victims this season is mostly tied to their subjectivity, to their own personal fears. But it also doesn’t bode well at all when remembering what Jon said about the faint hope of removing the Fears:

(MAG164) MARTIN: Okay, okay, just one more, but… it’s a big one. ARCHIVIST: [SMALL] Okay. [SILENCE] MARTIN: Can we turn the world back? [STATIC RISES, STRONG] ARCHIVIST: Wow! Hum… I–if the Fears are removed, yes; but they–they can’t be destroyed while there are still… people to fear them; th–then they can’t be banished back to the space where they came from, it’s not… there anymore, I… Oh! Uh… MARTIN: J–J–Jon, what’s wrong? ARCHIVIST: Uh, it’s, uh… I’m sorry, trying to know things about them directly, i–i–it’s like… [STATIC DECREASES] [EXHALE] God, it’s like looking into the Sun…!

It’s not that the Fears are inflicted on people: it’s that, in this new organisation of the world, they’re not only parasitic – humans & Fears, in the domains, live in symbiosis. If the Fears are subjective, how do you remove them without killing the hosts (humans)? Jon has sounded way less optimistic about a chance of making things “better” since they began their journey, and I wonder if he has reached that conclusion, too… (Which doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s the endgame conclusion, but we’ve yet to see other ideas.)

  - We! Want! The! Forbidden! Hunt! Merch!

(MAG176) MARTIN: [HUFF] You should get that on a mug. [SQUAWKING OF A BIRD] “You don’t have to fear The Hunt to be trapped here…” ARCHIVIST: “… but it helps!”

Also, pretty sexy of Jon&Martin to have reached the “we finish each other’s sentences” level in their relationship.

  - Martin is observant!! He noticed twice that something was going after them:

(MAG176) MARTIN: Look, though, so can we just… move on? ARCHIVIST: Soon. MARTIN: Look. Jon, I–I didn’t want to say this, but we either need to move on or you need to tell me what’s going on, because… [PAUSE] I think we’re being followed. ARCHIVIST: We are. MARTIN: Oh. ‘Kay. That’s not what I wanted to actually hear…! ARCHIVIST: I know! That’s why I didn’t mention it before. […] ARCHIVIST: You alright? MARTIN: Just peachy. I don’t, I don’t know, I f–feel like I saw something in the trees… ARCHIVIST: You did. MARTIN: Oh, fantastic! [TRILL OF A BIRD] You’re very reassuring, you know that? Is it that… “pack”-thing you were talking about? ARCHIVIST: No, they’d have… They’d have no interest in us. We’re not one of them. MARTIN: Look, Jon, if, if you know what it is, then why don’t you just tell me– ARCHIVIST: Hold on. MARTIN: –so… ARCHIVIST: Shh.

(And it might doubly sting that Jon was all “Yeah, I know” about it – Martin doesn’t have all-knowing powers to help him.)

(That’s. A lot of “Look” coming from Martin this episode? Very Beholding of him.)

  - I’ve been laughing for six weeks over Martin’s barely audible “Oh-my-god”:

(MAG176) MARTIN: Oh. ‘Kay. That’s not what I wanted to actually hear…! ARCHIVIST: I know! That’s why I didn’t mention it before. MARTIN: [BARELY A WHISPER] Oh-my-god… But we’re safe, right?

Martin was feeling speechless, uh.

I wonder why Jon kept him in the dark like this, though? Was it because he came up with that plan when they were already being followed, and didn’t want to risk Trevor or Basira overhearing? Was it because he needed Martin to reek some fear (but not too much)? Was it because he thought that Martin would try to talk him out of that plan, since it relied on Trevor’s death and on Basira killing someone? Since the Change, Jon has been forgetting or not managing to express what he felt or knew often; there is still a risk that it could backfire if a bigger threat arises…

Jon did need him to remain calm:

(MAG176) MARTIN: [BARELY A WHISPER] Oh-my-god… But we’re safe, right? ARCHIVIST: As long as you remain calm, yes. Absolutely. […] Right. Martin, do you trust me. MARTIN: Uh, what? … Oh, Christ, this can’t be good. “Y–y–yes”? ARCHIVIST: Then, it’s very– Listen, look at me. The next couple of minutes are going to be quite unpleasant for one of us, and I’m sorry. MARTIN: Uh– Wh– Sorry, what? ARCHIVIST: You need to remain very calm, and don’t make any sudden movements. [FOOTSTEPS] MARTIN: Oh, okay, now I’m worried. [SHUFFLING] What d’you– Oh, AH! [METALLIC HISS] […] ARCHIVIST: It’s okay. …Trust me. MARTIN: O~kay. TREVOR: It’s not okay! Stop fucking smiling! [GRUNT] MARTIN: [HIGH-PITCHED AND SLOW] Jon? I know you keep saying we’re safe, and I am feeling very calm. But just so I know, can he… Can he kill me?

Was it because being afraid would feed the Hunters / Basira / Trevor? Because allowing them to fear Trevor would have (through dream-logic) given Trevor his power back, and turn him back into a Hunter? Or was it “just” because Jon needed Martin to act according to his plan? I had felt like MAG167’s statement had erased some of Martin’s doubts regarding Jon’s feelings for him (with Jon admitting that Martin was his “reason” and why Jon was able to keep going, in a situation where Gertrude would have crumbled), but Annabelle had angled her venom at whether Jon needed Martin: it’s a complicated situation overall, but. I worry a bit that Jon knowing what needs to be done and only needing Martin’s participation as a passive tool might directly feed into Martin’s insecurities and lead him to try something reckless in the future…?

  - Cough, Martin’s obsession with knowing about the PLAN? Martin being frustrated to not know about the PLAN?

(MAG176) MARTIN: S–so are you… going to tell me what’s going on? What the plan is? ARCHIVIST: We’re going to find Basira. MARTIN: [HUFF] No, Jon, that’s the goal! What I want is the plan, the steps in-between that need us to be hunted through the woods. [THROUGH GRITTED TEETH] I’m flying blind here! ARCHIVIST: I– [TRILL OF A BIRD] [INHALE, EXHALE] … Yeah. I’m sorry. I do know what I’m doing. MARTIN: How nice for you, but I don’t, unless you tell me! […] [HIGH-PITCHED WHIMPERS] Oh, oh… Oh, Christ, you– This’s– He just… ARCHIVIST: Relax, Martin. MARTIN: I–I–I–I’m, I’m not gonna, I’m not gonna relax! I’m sick of never knowing what’s going on, and then…!

This is how Web!Martin can still w–

  - I’m both ;_; and glad that Jon told Martin that no, their situation has not been as bad as Basira’s:

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: Basira and Daisy. We’re close. MARTIN: Wait, what? Wait, really? B– Th–that’s brilliant! What are we waiting for, let’s go! ARCHIVIST: Uh, y–yeah, i–it’s… It’s not… it’s not going to be easy, things aren’t… good. MARTIN: Oh my goodness, really? And here was me thinking the apocalypse was going oh-so-swimmingly! ARCHIVIST: Yes, alright, I just meant… MARTIN: I–I know what you meant! I can still be keen to see our friends! ARCHIVIST: … True.

(MAG176) ARCHIVIST: It’s tricky. She’s… [INHALE] She’s had a bad time. MARTIN: [HUFF] I mean… Haven’t we all? ARCHIVIST: No. [TRILL OF A BIRD] No, we haven’t. [SILENCE] MARTIN: … Right.

… Because, yeah. Jon never wanted this new world. Jon has to bear the guilt of what Jonah made him do (of what Jonah did through him). But it’s also true that Jon and Martin are not currently stuck in a domain like the other victims, tortured by their worst fears. (… Although the new world is, in some way, Jon’s Personal Hell since he knows he contributed, unwillingly, to birthing it, and has to witness the pain and anguish it causes to everyone and has to deal with the fact that some part of himself is enjoying it.)

I wonder if we’ll get a full statement from Basira, or about what she’s been doing since the Change happened? Was her personal hell to pursue Daisy through domains, not fully sure whether she would kill her or not (and subsequently break the last promise she had made to her), or is there… even worse?

  - I have the mentality of a child, but I’m still snickering so hard that lately, Jon’s need to pour out his statement has been portrayed like needing a bathroom break (down to the little detail of Martin keeping watch around them):

(MAG172) ARCHIVIST: Ah… Hold up, I–I need to, uh… [RUSTLING OF CLOTHES] MARTIN: Now, seriously? We’re almost out of here. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I’m sorry…! Not really up to me…! MARTIN: Fine. [SIGH]

(MAG176) ARCHIVIST: Ah– MARTIN: … What? ARCHIVIST: Uh… [AWKWARD HUMOURLESS AMUSEMENT] Hold on…! MARTIN: Oh my god, are you actually serious? Right now? ARCHIVIST: I’m sorry! MARTIN: [SIGH] Fine, just… I’ll keep a lookout, be quick. ARCHIVIST: I’ll do my best! […] Hold on. MARTIN: –so… ARCHIVIST: Shh. MARTIN: Wh– No! [BAG JOSTLING] No, Jon, you just did a statement, I don’t care if you want another one– ARCHIVIST: Martin! MARTIN:  –we’ve gotta mo–

Jon sounded almost amused at the ridiculousness of the situation, this time! And Martin dealt with it faster, too.

  - I LOVE how we could tell, through Jon’s voice, that he had at least a hand on Martin’s face with his “Listen, look at me”:

(MAG176) ARCHIVIST: … Right. Martin, do you trust me. MARTIN: Uh, what? … Oh, Christ, this can’t be good. “Y–y–yes”? ARCHIVIST: Then, it’s very– Listen, look at me. The next couple of minutes are going to be quite unpleasant for one of us, and I’m sorry. MARTIN: Uh– Wh– Sorry, what? ARCHIVIST: You need to remain very calm, and don’t make any sudden movements.

It was so natural and intimate at the same time ;w;

  - ! There was a bit of a novelty, because Trevor knew about Jon’s compulsion:

(MAG176) TREVOR: And don’t you say a word, or I’ll cut him open! I know what that voice of yours can do, so shut it! ARCHIVIST: Mm-hmm. TREVOR: [HEAVY BREATHING, SLOWLY CALMING DOWN] … Okay. You can talk. But slow-like. You try and do any of that… “word”-magic, and he’s dead! [GROWLS] ARCHIVIST: [UNIMPRESSED] Understood.

Did Jon tell him&Julia off-tape, back in America? Jon hadn’t used it with them (or on Max Mustermann in the exchange we had heard), hadn’t talked about it, and they didn’t reference it in MAG153 either. Or did Trevor&Julia connect the dots after Jon took their statements in MAG109?

  - And that’s two pennies for the swear jar!

(MAG176) TREVOR: [BESTIAL GRUNTS] Don’t move! Don’t you fucking move! […] It’s not okay! Stop fucking smiling! [GRUNT]

(And another example of “‘swears’ means ‘there is also gun violence in this episode’” x”))

  - The scene was altogether aesthetically pleasing, super funny, and heart-breaking with the contrast between Jon, Martin and Trevor:

(MAG176) TREVOR: And don’t you say a word, or I’ll cut him open! I know what that voice of yours can do, so shut it! ARCHIVIST: Mm-hmm. TREVOR: [HEAVY BREATHING, SLOWLY CALMING DOWN] … Okay. You can talk. But slow-like. You try and do any of that… “word”-magic, and he’s dead! [GROWLS] ARCHIVIST: [UNIMPRESSED] Understood. MARTIN: [SHAKY BREATHING] ARCHIVIST: Hello, Trevor. MARTIN: … Jon? What’s going on? ARCHIVIST: It’s okay. …Trust me. MARTIN: O~kay. TREVOR: It’s not okay! Stop fucking smiling! [GRUNT] MARTIN: [HIGH-PITCHED AND SLOW] Jon? I know you keep saying we’re safe, and I am feeling very calm. But just so I know, can he… Can he kill me? ARCHIVIST: … He could, yes– MARTIN: Right… ARCHIVIST: –if he were still a Hunter. TREVOR: … Shut it! ‘Course I’m still a Hunter! MARTIN: [GRUNT] Mm-mm-mm! TREVOR: [BESTIAL PANTS] MARTIN: Gotta go with Trevor on that one, Jon! ARCHIVIST: … No. [HUFF] Right now, he’s prey.

Trevor, clearly erratic. Jon, ABSOLUTELY MONSTERY, confident, a bit cocky. Martin, forcing himself to remain slow and calm, but also absolutely losing it and terrified (and Jon barely reacting to his “Jon?”).

  - ;___; I’m sad for Juliaaaaaa!

(MAG176) ARCHIVIST: How long have you been running now, Trevor? [CREAKING SOUNDS] TREVOR: [PANTING] Don’t know… Too long…! ARCHIVIST: And Julia? [SILENCE] TREVOR: Dead. ARCHIVIST: I’m sorry. TREVOR: Shut it! Should’ve been me. [TRILL OF A BIRD] I’m old… slow… It’s not fair, outliving her…! But that dog of yours, that rabid bitch, she…! Killed her first, so she could see me limp away! [PANTS] It’s a game to her. ARCHIVIST: If you’re looking for my pity, I’m afraid you’re too late. MARTIN: Jon…? TREVOR: What I want is to make you feel the same loss!

I wasn’t expecting Trevor&Julia to fare for long after MAG158, given that… they had acted as terrorists, hurting (definitely traumatising, maybe hurting physically) members of Institute staff. They had fallen into The Hunt for real, and it was already so sad, given their lives and experiences? But they were also a duo and a small reconstituted family:

(MAG109) ARCHIVIST: What about you, Julia? Following in your dad’s footsteps? JULIA: Mm, it’s a legacy I’ve learned to be proud of. There are people who’d sell us all out to things you can’t even imagine. […] TREVOR: I just knew then I never had to explain anything to her. She just gave me back the knife, and we left together. Wasn’t any question as to what I was, or whatever I was doing. We just… clicked. JULIA: Hm. And we’ve been hunting together, going on seven years now.

(MAG153) DAISY: … I’d enjoy it. Start with the old bastard – he’s slower, doesn’t guard his neck. And you worry about him too much, don’t you? I go for him, you get sloppy, predictable. JULIA: Sure. Or: I slit your little bookworm’s throat…! DAISY: Do it. That give me a chance to finish off your dad. TREVOR: I’m not her father…! ARCHIVIST: Not by blood, maybe…! JULIA: Shut. it. ARCHIVIST: [GROAN OF PAIN]

So ;_; I was sad that Julia met that end, and that Trevor had to witness this without being able to die at the same time as her. And at the same time… it’s also realising exactly how Julia had mentioned her possible end:

(MAG109) JULIA: You think if you walk out of this cabin, you just keep going? Something gets you, even if it’s just time…! Mostly, though, life on this planet ends violently. It’s the most natural thing in the world. And sometimes, it makes the world a better place. ARCHIVIST: And… when something comes for you? [SILENCE] JULIA: Then I die. ARCHIVIST: That… that–that doesn’t… scare you? JULIA: Every second.

Big aouch for the parallel creeping up between Trevor&Julia and Daisy&Basira as Hunters duos. Given how Julia’s loss clearly impacted Trevor, can Basira even last for long if Daisy were to die-for-real…?

(Personal opinion, but I also prefer that it was this way around, rather than Trevor getting killed first and Julia appearing in this episode? The way Jon dealt with Trevor was awful and humiliating, which he acknowledged (reducing him as “bait”); it evened out the ratios of male vs female characters killed onscreen this season + as Trevor pointed out, it was “unfair” that he had survived longer.)

  - … Technically, Trevor didn’t say outright that Daisy killed Julia. He used a vocabulary usually thrown at Daisy:

(MAG092) ELIAS: You think you’re the only police officer eager to do violence and call it justice? No, there are plenty of other rabid dogs out there, mad with the Hunt.

(MAG118) MARTIN: Oh. That’s it, isn’t it! Martin’s just acting out! I mean, Daisy’s a rabid dog, and Melanie’s a potential killer; Tim’s a… a, a rogue element, but Martin?

(MAG153) TREVOR: What’s this…? You got yourself a watchdog? JULIA: Well, more of a lapdog…! Scrawny, isn’t she?

(MAG176) TREVOR: But that dog of yours, that rabid bitch, she…! Killed her first, so she could see me limp away! [PANTS] It’s a game to her.

And Daisy indeed turned into a beast since MAG158. But since Basira was after him… there is still a possibility that it was actually Basira who butchered Julia.

  - SUPERWORRIEDABOUTJON.JPG because, alright, it’s super pleasing to hear him confident and in control and avatar-y, but. Also. Big big red flag when he sounds like a ruthless Beholding avatar who has a power of life and death over people:

(MAG176) ARCHIVIST: If you’re looking for my pity, I’m afraid you’re too late. […] Maybe I spoke too soon. Perhaps I do have some pity for you…! After all, I know you, Trevor, you’ve had a tough life. Hardship from beginning to… this strange and twisted end. TREVOR: … Never complained. ARCHIVIST: No. You haven’t, have you? And maybe that’s the greatest tragedy of all this…! I’m… sorry, Trevor. TREVOR: [PANTS] For what?! ARCHIVIST: For putting us all in this situation. I had hoped you’d go for me, but… Well. [SQUAWKING OF A BIRD] I’m sorry I’ve reduced you lower even than prey! MARTIN: Jon…? TREVOR: [SNARLS] No! ARCHIVIST: To bait. MARTIN: I don’t kn– [GUNSHOT]

With the additional fact, here, that he refused to give Trevor his pity. It wasn’t that surprising after Trevor&Julia’s attack on the Institute, but he sympathised with Oliver (MAG168: “No. I don’t want to destroy Oliver Banks. It wouldn’t do any good. I know that, and he never asked for this any more than I did.”) despite Oliver’s own actions. Trevor, currently, was already in despair and grieving, and not ruling over his domain – just a “prey” (before being reduced to “bait”). It really felt like kicking a wounded animal…?

(And Jon’s whole spiel felt… very much like taunting and mocking. There is a strong likelihood that Jon was mostly posing, needed Trevor to feel insecure and afraid of him for his plan to work (because the contrary would have allowed Trevor to become a Hunter again), but Jon very easily went into a role, came up with that the-end-justifies-the-means plan in the first place and quickly moved on afterwards… So hum. That level of scheming sounds potentially worrisome?)

  - ;; Worried for Basira, too obviously. Jon had warned that she had been having a rough time, and we indeed met her as quite ruthless:

(MAG176) ARCHIVIST: [DISTINCTLY] Hello, Basira. MARTIN: [INCOHERENT SPUTTERING] Basira?! BASIRA: Don’t move. Either of you. MARTIN: H–hey, whoa! Whoa, Basira, it’s us…! BASIRA: I said don’t move. This place plays tricks. ARCHIVIST: It is us, Basira. BASIRA: Mm–mm, sure. And you just happen to wander into Trevor’s path while I was tracking him. What a fun coincidence for everybody!

She reminded me of how we discovered her at the beginning of season 4, cutting and firm because she thought she was holding everything together (as Melanie had put it in MAG131: “Basira is… hum. Basira deals in ‘intel’, these days, in usable data; assets. Not “feelings”, not… ‘people’.”) She had opened up in undirect ways during the season (staying with Daisy to allow Jon to go after Martin, giving Jon&Martin information about the Institute and sending Jon a few statements… even if that one backfired badly) so I really wonder what will happen between them, now.

(Slight negative point re: audio quality, I could hear veeeery well that Frank’s equipment was not up to the same standards as the others, I hope that RQ has managed to fix that for the following episodes! >w< Technically, in the ep itself, it gave the impression that Basira was not exactly in the same dimension as the others, which could fit if she’s a Hunter in a Hunt domain vs. Martin&Jon being outsiders.)

  - M… Martin…

(MAG176) MARTIN: C… [TRILL OF A BIRD] Can I at least put my hands down? M–my arms are kind of getting tired. […] S–s–so, can I…? BASIRA: Yeah, put them down, Martin. It’s fine. You’re you. MARTIN: Ooooh…! O–o–o–oh…

He sounded on the verge of tears. Did he have his arms raised all through being threatened by Trevor, too? (To be fair, if he was carrying his backpack: keeping your arms raised with heavy shit on your back hurts like fuck.)

  - … Okay, I got worried for Jon, but also he was hilarious in the WORST WAYS:

(MAG176) BASIRA: Prove you’re really Martin Blackwood. MARTIN: How?! ARCHIVIST: You could do a poem! BASIRA: Shut up. MARTIN: [HISSING] Jon, this is serious! […] BASIRA: … What about you? ARCHIVIST: I mean… I can know literally anything, so…! Ask away, I guess. BASIRA: … You understand how unhelpful that is for proving identities. ARCHIVIST: I’m sorry to be an inconvenience!

You little SHIT, Jon! (Was it retaliation at the worst moment ever, for the fact that Martin had tried to make him talk about poetry in MAG165?)

  - OOOOOH MARTIN… I was squinting(/crying) a bit about him being adamant that he had “friends” and qualifying Basira&Daisy as such, but I’m ezifsdjnred that he had to admit that:

(MAG170) MARTIN: I am Martin Blackwood, and I am not lonely anymore, I am not lonely anymore! [SHAKY BREATHING] I want to have friends, I… no, I have friends.

(MAG175) MARTIN: I–I know what you meant! I can still be keen to see our friends! ARCHIVIST: … True. MARTIN: Besides, we can help them now.

(MAG176) BASIRA: What’s something only Martin would know? MARTIN: … What?! I don’t know! BASIRA: Fine! Then… [COCKED GUN] MARTIN: No–no–no–no–no–no, wait–wait, uh, I, God, I don’t know, we’ve never hung out much! I’ve no idea what you know about me!

… Yeah, they don’t have a deep connection, uh. There were blurbs here and there of teamwork and something that could have turned into a friendship (the assistants’ plan to take down Elias in season 3, Basira understanding from afar how the death of Martin’s mother had hit him badly, Martin&Daisy talking about Jon&Basira and Martin rejecting her to protect her from Peter two episodes later), but we didn’t really see much of it.

(I would still be VERY interested in seeing Martin trying to ask if they can consider themselves friends. Totally out of place given the circumstances but, eh, at this point, everything is out of place.)

  - I’m trying to get ready for the tragedy and Daisy’s likely soon death, but also, I’ll be laughing forever at the fact that:

(MAG176) BASIRA: … What about you? ARCHIVIST: I mean… I can know literally anything, so…! Ask away, I guess. BASIRA: … You understand how unhelpful that is for proving identities. ARCHIVIST: I’m sorry to be an inconvenience! BASIRA: Well, you better think of something, or… [COCKED GUN] ARCHIVIST: Basira, I know you’re not going to shoot us. There’s already too much doubt in your mind. [SILENCE] BASIRA: I told you before not to look into my head. ARCHIVIST: So you do believe it’s me, then. [SILENCE] BASIRA: … Know-it-all prick. […] It’s fine. You’re you. MARTIN: Ooooh…! O–o–o–oh… ARCHIVIST: You’re sure? BASIRA: If you were monsters, that would mean I’d get to finally kill something with your smug face. No way am I that lucky. ARCHIVIST: Can’t fault your logic…!

… Jon and Martin ANNOYED Basira into proving that they were really themselves.

And!! It’s dry and mean, but Jon&Basira felt… a bit on the same wavelength, here? Back to sharing a weird, cutting sense of humour without feeling hurt by the other’s comment?

  - Martin didn’t have a great time, at all, and had good reasons for it, with Jon hiding his plans and then not really allowing Martin a moment to calm down:

(MAG176) MARTIN: [HIGH-PITCHED WHIMPERS] Oh, oh… Oh, Christ, you– This’s– He just… ARCHIVIST: Relax, Martin. MARTIN: I–I–I–I’m, I’m not gonna, I’m not gonna relax! I’m sick of never knowing what’s going on, and then…! [FOOTSTEPS] ARCHIVIST: [DISTINCTLY] Hello, Basira. MARTIN: [INCOHERENT SPUTTERING] Basira?! […] Wh… [INCOHERENT SPUTTERING] Hey, wait! BASIRA: I said come on! MARTIN: Wha…! Jon? ARCHIVIST: … After you! MARTIN: C… [SIGH]

… I wonder if he&Jon will talk it over next episode? About the fact that… Martin was put in an extraordinarily unpleasant situation (bait for the bait), without knowing what was happening, without any guarantee that he could come out of it fine? On the one hand, Jon was in control of the situation, he knew what was likely to happen and when, knew that Basira wouldn’t hurt them either; on the other hand, Martin had no clue, and Jon’s chirpiness felt dismissive of Martin’s worries. So, I could picture Martin being still a bit peeved and/or them needing to debrief about it. (They’ve been good at communicating about small issues and misunderstandings so far!)

Also: how long will Martin be covered in Trevor’s gore. Will Jon help him to get cleaned up?

  - I am REALLY curious about Basira’s status. Has she gone full Hunter? Jon said that she was “faster” than them, and that Trevor couldn’t kill Martin since he wasn’t a Hunter anymore… but Basira managed to kill Trevor:

(MAG176) MARTIN: But just so I know, can he… Can he kill me? ARCHIVIST: … He could, yes– MARTIN: Right… ARCHIVIST: –if he were still a Hunter. […] BASIRA: Mm–mm, sure. And you just happen to wander into Trevor’s path while I was tracking him. What a fun coincidence for everybody!

And had been hunting him. Did she become a Hunter while pursuing Daisy? Or by getting touched by this domain? (SOB about the concept that Basira turned into a Hunter while pursuing Daisy: it’s probably the worst thing imaginable for Daisy?)

  - … What is the status of “death” and “dead people” in the domains? Oliver seemed to say that only The End was interested in delivering a true death, and Jon’s ability to kill avatars looked like a special thing. We’ve seen a victim respawn in MAG163, people trapped in a neverending chase in MAG165, Francis’s puppet show going on and on in MAG172… Are Julia and Trevor truly dead-dead, or would they ultimately respawn to feed the domain? If they’re truly dead… once again, it feels like this apocalypse will depopulate extremely fast…

  - ;; for the fact that Basira was reintroduced… by killing someone, and didn’t seem too concerned by it. (I mean. Yes, Trevor wasn’t a pure innocent victim; but he was already “prey” and had lost his Hunter status. Same thing as with Jon, it felt like picking on the weak one?)

I wonder what fundamentally motivated Basira to track Trevor: is it revenge because Julia&Trevor’s attack on the Institute caused Daisy to give in to The Hunt again, and Basira deemed them responsible for her loss? Is it because Daisy was initially chasing him, so Basira was trying to interrupt her hunt by removing him from the equation? What was Basira trying to achieve there…? Jon had warned Martin that Basira had it rough and that things wouldn’t be easy, so I wonder what she did, exactly, before coming here, and what is her current status (is she partially ruling this domain?).

 - Sob about the fact that when Jon explained how the domain operates:

(MAG176) ARCHIVIST: … Have you ever had your friends… turn on you? People you thought you could count on? MARTIN: … [SIGH] I mean… I–I’d worry about it, but… A–actually, no? [TRILL OF A BIRD] Not like a full-blown betrayal or anything. ARCHIVIST: I’m glad. [INHALE] Because this place focuses on that worry, that fear of your own pack turning their claws on you. MARTIN: Hm! [TRILL OF A BIRD] Is that… really a Hunt thing? ARCHIVIST: It can be!

… It worked on various aspects. It’s more or less what Jon experienced (and inflicted on Tim&Martin) in season 2, culminating with the discovery of Elias’s crimes and the overall betrayal of trust. It’s what Jon&Martin were doing to Basira. The break of trust is also… what Jon did to Martin in this episode (by hiding his plan from him and putting him in an unpleasant situation) and also, potentially, what Basira has been doing against Daisy, by not (yet?) honouring her promise to kill her.

  - Where is Basira leading Jon&Martin? To where Daisy is? Does she need Jon’s help to handle (or find) Daisy?

… Is there a tiny tiny tiny chance to get Daisy back for a few episodes, or is her next appearance meant to be her execution…? (I want to hope that Jon’s powers could do something, whether by compelling her into remembering who she is (like he did with Tim during The Unknowing), or making her look at Basira to ground her back (like he did with Martin in The Lonely), or being able to reach her to invite her to “don’t listen to the blood, listen to the quiet”, or using a variation of the Ceaseless Watcher’s powers that he used in season 5… but ;; Very little hope, since Daisy already came back from the Coffin, and she had made her goodbyes in MAG158 ;; The “best” we can hope for her is probably for Basira to fulfil her promise and free her from doing monstrous things ever again…)

  - They’re three now!! Holy shit!! Took them 16 episodes!! Welcome back, Basira!

… And there’s potentially only one domain left (The Spiral) before Jon&Martin would be able to reach the Panopticon…

I wonder how Basira knows/has understood about the apocalypse: unless twist, she didn’t know that Jonah had put his statement in the stash that she had sent to Jon&Martin and I’m… curious about her reaction regarding this.

Alright. So, things ongoing or established after the Change, in Arc I:

- The tapes that Martin had brought back alongside the statements in MAG160 contained exchanges from a distant past: Jon’s first birthday since he was promoted Head Archivist (celebrated by Tim, Martin, Sasha and Elias); Gertrude addressing a small testament and warning to her potential successor, whom she assumed to be Sasha, before trying to burn the Archives down (also starring Jurgen Leitner); Gertrude and Gerry discussing a hypothetical apocalyptic world and whether there would be a chance of turning it back; Tim and Sasha commenting on Jon’s first steps as Head Archivist.

The sender of the tapes is still unknown: Martin suggested that it was Jonah, as “gloating”, but we still don’t know for sure who was behind them (Annabelle?). The four sequences notably shared mentions of fire; Gertrude asked Leitner to redirect a gas main to run directly under the Institute (and it had been spotted by Jon in MAG068 after he had changed route because he had encountered spiders). It tells us that Gertrude might have planned for a big explosion rather than the fire-in-the-Archives-as-a-decoy-while-she-would-have-gone-after-Jonah’s-body that she claimed in MAG158, and that the gas main hasn’t served its purpose (yet?).

 - We learned that The Web had been veeeery close to Gertrude and operating in the Archives themselves, through Emma Harvey, back during Gertrude’s tenure – Emma being the last of her assistants to die.

 - Jon was hit hard by getting manipulated by Jonah to launch his apocalyptic ritual, and has expressed guilt multiple times (about it, and about the fact that his monsterhood is pushing him to enjoy it). Right now, Jon and Martin are on their way towards the Panopticon/Institute. They need to “go through everything in-between” to be able to reach it, experiencing Fear-domains where people are trapped and tortured by their worst fears.

 - Jon told Martin that “[they] all have a domain here”, and that Jon’s own is the Panopstitute. It’s not absolutely clear (or left open to interpretation) whether Martin’s is indeed the Lonely house he was temporarily stuck in in MAG170, or whether another domain is waiting for him, since he managed to shake off this one. We don’t know for sure, either, why Martin is able to travel between the domains alongside Jon (benefitting from Jon’s protection? because he is an Archival Assistant and has his own connection to Beholding?).

 - Beholding wanted Jon to leave the cabin:

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: “This place wishes to be our tomb. But The Eye does not wish that. No. [STATIC INCREASES] The Eye wishes instead that it be my chrysalis. It is time that I emerge…” [STATIC REACHING A PEAK]

We still don’t know whether Beholding seeks something else through Jon.

 - As an avatar, Jon used to feed from the fear contained in written or direct statements for his own survival/maintenance. Season 5 kept the “statement” format, but it now differs slightly, as Jon described in its first manifestations:

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: This cabin. [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] It’s not right. And, when I thought that, I–I felt… It, it all poured out of me down… into the tape.

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: I… I’m sorry, I– There’s just so much! There’s so much, Martin, and I know all of it, I can see all of it, and I– It’s filling me up, I need to let it out! […] I–I’ll use the tape recorder…! [PLASTIC OF A TAPE] I just… [INHALE] You probably want to wait outside.

“Statements” now appear as an excess; Jon has to tell them and is only able to delay the moment he would give them for a little bit; Jon seems to now require an audience, in some shape or form (as Jon offered the tape recorder as an alternative to Martin being forced to listen).

 - Jon has been acknowledged by various avatars and monsters as the bringer of the apocalypse, as “a very important part” of Beholding (Helen), as The Eye’s “Archive, which draws knowledge of this suffering unto itself” (Oliver), “the great and powerful Archivist, harbinger of this new world” (Jude), “the Eye guy” (Callum), “the famous Archivist, Herald of the Ceaseless Watcher, Harbinger of the New Age, etcetera.” (Simon). Aside from Jon and Martin themselves, nobody else has mentioned Jonah nor Elias so far.

 - Jon has the ascendancy over all the monsters and avatars they’ve encountered: in a world divided, as Helen put it, between “the watcher and the watched”, “subject and object”, “those who are feared and those who are afraid”, Jon can “turn the one into the other” – annihilating those whose “very existence relies on being feared”. Jon destroyed the Not!Them, Jude and Jared and sounded… extremely avatar-y while doing so (“Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze upon this wretched thing”), feeding The Eye in the process. He eventually expressed discomfort at the idea of doing it, since it doesn’t change anything for the victims in the domains and is directly affecting him (“I don’t think it makes anything better. I think it just makes me worse.”). We haven’t, so far, seen Jon turn one who is “afraid” into one who is “feared” (unless he has done it to Martin, and that is why Martin is free to roam the world with him?).

Amongst the other avatars/rulers of domains still around, we heard about or met: Helen, Annabelle Cane, Oliver Banks (who avoided Jon on purpose, and whom Jon decided to spare), Arthur Nolan, Callum Brodie, Simon Fairchild. Trevor&Julia were killed, Daisy was mentioned to be running wild.

 - The Extinction probably didn’t even need to be “born” as Peter Lukas was conceiving it: it was already there and potentially strong since people feared it.

 - The domains from the new world tend to be labelable following the Smirke division, but also tend to be a mix of various fears overlapping. As Jon reiterated in MAG176, “the old divisions don’t mean as much these days”; the domains are more personal, more specific than the Smirke categories. However, structurally, Jon&Martin have gone through domains following the Smirke taxonomy (+ The Extinction), even sometimes namedropping the Fear’s name. The Spiral and The Eye being the only ones missing so far. Do Jon&Martin really need to go through the Fourteen Other Fears before reaching the Panopticon, or was it a nice coincidence to meet a domain representing each one of them? Is the new world (and the necessary steps in their journey) influenced by Jon’s own perception of the Fears, based on that 14+1 division?

 - Jon&Martin haven’t travelled through a Spiral-flavoured domain yet, but Helen has been extremely present around them. She tried to encourage Jon to keep carrying on with his killing spree, and expressed disappointment when he made the decision to stop. We don’t know if Helen is just hanging around for fun, if it’s because confusing The Eye’s precious avatar is exceptionally tasty, or if she’s hiding something (someone?) and/or a more coherent agenda.

(Note: she was hanging around a lot in the tunnels, back in season 4, had explained that she had gotten a good understanding of the place, and claimed that she “suspected” what would ultimately happen. It’s possible that, since her Door was in the tunnels around the Panopticon, she got a special treatment during the apocalypse because she was directly tied to the place?)

 - According to Oliver, the apocalyptic world won’t stay eternally frozen in this state of terror: although it’s in the best interest of other Fears to not kill their victims definitely (and we saw some of them “respawn”, such as in MAG163), The End needs to deliver on its promise, and thus will end up draining the victims from its own domain and then go steal the ones from other domains’, thus slowly depopulating the world and draining the Fears (and itself). At least, that’s Oliver’s interpretation; we don’t know if it’s the truth.

 - The goal of Jon&Martin’s quest is to reach the Panopticon. Jon initially wanted to go back to the Archives to confront Elias and to find out whether there was a way to turn the world back (MAG162). He has got a bit more nuanced then, Knowing that they would need to remove the Fears from their world to do so, but that the world they came from doesn’t exist anymore and that they couldn’t be destroyed as long as people feared them (MAG164). Jon has been shown less and less confident about managing to do something good, while Martin is still clinging to the hope that they might find something if they manage to reach the Archives.

 - Nothing about Hill Top Road as of now, although it’s still a Big Thread Left Hanging since MAG147.

 - Jonah’s status is unclear: Jon was able to tell that he was still in the Panopticon, but couldn’t know more about it (“An eye can’t… see inside itself.”). (Personal speculation is that he now is the building, since his powers were a direct illustration of the Panopticon’s purpose: the prison was meant to give a feeling of constant surveillance and allows it, therefore Jonah was blessed with a power of constant surveillance. In dream-logic, it could mean… that he has merged with the building sharing that function.)

 - Melanie&Georgie’s status is unclear: Jon doesn’t think they’re dead, speculated that they could be in London, but can’t really “see” them or know about them. Are they in the Panopticon? At Hill Top Road? In Helen’s corridors? Are they immune to Beholding because Georgie can’t feel fear and Melanie cut her connection to it?

(The Admiral’s status is also unclear, and Jon didn’t try to Know about him ;w;)

 - Jon knew that Daisy was “Bestial. Brutal. Carving her way through the domains of other Powers, following the scent of blood”, with Basira on her trail. He… wasn’t super optimistic about them. They just reunited with Basira, who might have turned into a Hunter herself?, and we might find out what is meant to happen to Daisy… very soon.

 - Amongst the possible Chekhov’s Guns:

* Martin packed tea and a rope when they left the cabin, has yet to use them.

* It was explained that The Distortion could find again anyone who had visited its corridors: which means Jon, Martin, and, although not mentioned, Basira as well, since she used the corridors to return from Ny-Ålesund at the end of MAG143. We learned that Jon is now too powerful to go through The Distortion and that it would not be good for Helen, but that Martin could in theory use the Door – opening up the possibility that Jon&Martin might get separated this way, and/or that Jon might end Helen by going through her Door at some point.

* As usual, Annabelle.

- Martin had risen as a deuteragonist in season 3&4: he was the Assistant reading the most statements, he got episodes focusing solely on him, he even interviewed an avatar to better understand how the Fears functioned (Simon giving him an understanding that paralleled Gerry’s infodumping to Jon a season prior), he got his own plot and quest with Peter. Season 5 went further and elevated him to audience surrogate: the position used to be provided by Jon since season 1… but Jon, in season 5, is almost all-knowing and has stopped sharing every piece of information he’s aware of, every deduction he made. We, as the audience, scramble along with Martin to understand what is happening and how this world works. Interestingly: Martin is also going through the domains, across this journey. He’s not blurting out statements like Jon, but Jon included him when he explained that they needed to “experience” the domains. (So as far as I’m concerned: Martin’s chances of lasting a tiny bit longer than Jon at the end of the series are improving.)

 - We heard Annabelle directly for the first time ever! And she contacted Martin. She offered “help”, which was declined, and tried to play with Martin’s confidence issues (whether Jon needed him), but we still don’t know her intentions, what she’s doing, and whether she’s targeting Martin for himself or to hit Jon through him. Jon, meanwhile, can’t feel her, can’t know where she is, can’t even know whether she’s still alive.

The possibility that Martin is currently influenced by The Web was discussed by Jon and him in MAG172, leading to Martin’s decision (and Jon’s agreement) that Jon would not check whether or not it was the case. But they’re both aware that The Web and Annabelle have been suspicious around Martin specifically.

  Tl;dr WHAT A SUPER FUN AND HOPEFUL SEASON SO FAR, INNIT.

(Personal notes: the thing squicking me the most at the beginning of the season was the intra-personal violence by victims to victims in the domains, because it’s the thing I find the most thematically harsh, and because I had the Big Worry that… the bottom line of the show was meant to be that human nature is fundamentally bad and cowardly etc. etc. The season worked better for me when it sank in that, alright, I’m still in a story I can trust: it’s still an exploration of people reacting over duress, but the story is also extremely clear on the fact that the system, crushing people and putting them in that situation in the first place, is to blame first and foremost. It’s not a story contemptuous of humanity. I’m still crossing fingers, though, that Martin’s “I think our experience of the universe has value. Even if it disappears forever.” won’t just apply to our main characters by the end of Arc III!)

   MAG177’s title feels absolutely appropriate for both Helen and Daisy, so mmmmmmm. It’s amazing how some titles manage to instil a big “Oh No” within the context of the series, while the word(s) used would be perfectly fine (and even positive!) otherwise.

(It might be a bit too coherent for The Distortion to purposely mess up with Jon as retaliation for his disappointing Helen by not providing entertainment back in MAG174, but “I don’t trust The Distortion” feels like the safest bet, and we know that Helen has kept an eye on Jon&Martin throughout the season: Big Fear that Helen would try to make things worse on purpose when it comes to Daisy and/or Basira… ;;)

[greenfieldpromeditationclas-blog]

Meditation - The Gateway to Supernatural Power

Meditation has now spread worldwide. Millions of people are doing it regularly or irregularly irrespective to their religions. Usually they are doing it for mental peace, serenity or tranquility, to increase concentration power, to get rid of unhealable diseases, to make a successful career etc. and etc. That is, Meditation has numerous purposes to do with people and people are doing it and getting benefited.

But, to get super powers, you have to meditate in a systematic way. In Buddhist texts, the fact has been guaranteed a thousand times. The ancient meditators achieved success because they were devoted to meditation only. Even today if anyone follows it intimately and accordingly, he will must gain success.

Preparation for Meditation

1. Check for yourself

The following persons are not suitable for meditation. No matter how hard they try, they will get nothing:

• Killer of parents • Killer of saints • Non-believer in karma and its effect and rebirth • Bisexual persons (having both male and female sex organs) • Nonsexual persons (having no sexual organs)

For this reason, probably you have never heard of such a person being a saint or having super powers!

2. Firm determination

If you don't have a strong urge for super powers, If you don't have a firm determination that I must get it through meditation; then you will probably fail. To get inspiration you should see the page: supernatural phenomena. Here you will see lots of people are doing it for 10, 20, 30 years or more, and they are getting benefits from it. You can also be one of them if you practice it regularly. But if you don't have a strong feeling about your target super powers, I will suggest you not to engage yourself in it.

3. Planning

Start your meditation two times daily: 10 or 15 minutes in the morning and 10 or 15 minutes in the evening at any suitable time. You will usually be accustomed to this meditation practice within two weeks.

After two weeks, increase your sitting time a little, say 20 minutes per sitting. After two following weeks, increase it to 25 minutes per sitting. Often you will want to increase your sitting time readily. Don't make haste, but be diligent. It will take around four months to augment your sitting time to one hour.

Continue meditating daily two times with one hour in the morning and one hour in the evening. After two weeks, increase your sitting time by 10 or 15 minutes depending upon your enthusiasm, expertise and convenience. Practice it for at least two weeks. When you are accustomed to this increased meditation time, increase the time again. Continue it until you are able to meditate four hours per sitting. You may face so many difficulties to maintain your timetable. But, don't step back. Give your meditation the first priority if it becomes a matter of choice because it will give you so much in this very life that you can sacrifice everything to get it.

It takes around one hour to make your mind calm in the meditation. Hence four hours per sitting will be your target. Generally it will take around two years to get used to meditate for four hours in one sitting. Make an arrangement so that within these two years while meditating, the disturbances will be as minimal as possible.

4. Dwelling place

Everything you will do to make your meditation process perfect and as much as undisturbed by external things. Your dwelling place is the first important thing to consider. You must avoid the places with the following disturbances:

1) Where many people gather around for visit or any other purpose; while meditating alone, their noise may distract you. Also you may be disturbed by them. If there is such a possibility, then leave that place immediately.

2) Where there are lots of works to do and you are needed to give a hand, in that place you cannot do your meditation properly. Where you don't have to do anything, noises cannot distract you, in such house you may live for meditation.

3) Where there are lots of repairing or construction continue, if you engage yourself in those works or surrounded by them, probably you will make harm to your meditation. So you should leave that place.

4) Where there are lots of people against your ideas, they may be a problem for you. If it is so, find a friendly place.

5) Where often the place remains unrest and troubled, that will surely affect you. Leave it and find a quiet and safe place.

6) If the place is haunted, you should not live there. Find a quiet place.

7) Where it is difficult to find any guidance to help you about meditation that may be an experienced person, a book or internet; eventually it will be a great problem to continue, because most of the time, so many doubts will arise within you, the solutions of which will be impossible without the intervention of any sort of guidance. So find a place or make an arrangement so that guidance will be available whenever required.

Avoiding those places, a meditator should find a place which is not so far from town; not so near to the town; where all types of communications are available; where very few people live; which is soundless and quiet at night; free of mosquitoes, fleas and other insects; free of too much cold and too much heat; free of dangerous reptiles like snakes; where daily necessary amenities like food, clothings, medical service etc. are easily available and where guidance on meditation is available.

5.Small Obstacles The meditator should uproot all the small obstacles like- to cut his long hair and nail and shave his face. Washing the dirty clothes, Cleaning the living place etc.

6. Purify yourself

Also you must purify yourself in your actions, speech and mind as follows while meditating.

1) Living a simple life

Simple and free life is the first requirement to get such a great power. If one wishes to get it, he must go through some conditions as follows:

• He vows not to kill any living creature. Without attacking anyone, without holding any weapon, shy of hatred, kind to the creatures, wishing always good to the living beings and with compassion, he lives.

• Giving up stealing he lives a pure life.

• Giving up sex, he totally lives a holy life.

• He stops telling lies; he always speaks the truth and becomes trustworthy to the people.

• He stops telling ills of others, doesn't tell anything that he hears somewhere. Thus he makes a bridge among the people, encourages unity and speaks only unifying words.

• He stops speaking in harsh voice, only speaks in a modest way that attracts other people.

• He stops talking anonymously and speaks timely, real, meaningful and concrete words with examples.

• He stops enjoying all types of filthy entertainments like reading for pleasure; watching dance, cinema; listening music; playing games or other types of activities that distract him from concentration to the mediation.

• He stops adoring himself like wearing any type of chain, bracelet or other ornaments; using cream or powder or perfume; wearing fashionable dresses etc. and lives a simple life. • He stops using luxury beds.

• He stops taking grains and meat that is not cooked.

• He stops taking girls, servants, domestic animals, lands or houses.

• He stops carrying the news of others; selling or purchasing anything; deceiving anyone by any means; cutting-killing- tying-destroying-robbing.

• He just keeps himself satisfied with simple dress and food for protecting his body.

Thus being free from all types of worldly responsibilities and burdens and unnecessary stuffs, he feels really light and happy.

2) Purifying the mind

Preparation of mind for meditation is another tough job for one who wants to achieve meditational success. He has to keep his mind controlled and confined so that it can't be polluted by external stuffs. For this preparatory purpose he must follow the following techniques:

He doesn't see people in a sense whether they are men or women or their laughter, gestures. Since who lives without a control in his vision; desires, regret, grief and other ill tendencies arise within him. He engages himself trying to control it; protecting his eyes from the exposure of such ill tendencies.

He doesn't listen to the sounds in a sense whether they are pleasant or unpleasant, since who lives without a control in his listening; desires, regret, grief and other ill tendencies arise within him. He engages himself trying to control it, protecting his ears from the exposure of such ill tendencies.

He doesn't smell anything in a sense that they are pleasant or unpleasant, since who lives without a control in his smell; desires, regret, grief and other ill tendencies arise within him. He engages himself trying to control it, protecting his nose from exposure of such ill tendencies.

He doesn't taste the flavour of foods in a sense whether they are tasty or nasty, since who lives without a control in his taste; desires, regret, grief and other ill tendencies arise within him. He engages himself trying to control it, protecting his tongue from exposure of such ill tendencies. He doesn't touch anything or anybody in a sense whether it feels pleasant or unpleasant, since who lives without a control in his touch; desires, regret, grief and other ill tendencies arise within him. He engages himself trying to control it, protecting his body from exposure of such ill tendencies.

He doesn't realize the matters in a sense whether they are pleasant or unpleasant, since who lives without a control in his mind; desires, regret, grief and other ill tendencies arise within him. He engages himself trying to control it, protecting his mind from exposure of such ill tendencies. Thus he controls all of his senses and feels non-attached happiness.

3) Practicing mindfulness

Mindfulness is one of the key feature of meditation. To be fully prepared for meditation, one must practice it, develop it throughout his daily life. He should practice mindfulness:

1. in his every forward or backward movement; 2. in his every gesture of hands; 3. in wearing dresses, holding bowls; 4. in eating, drinking, tasting, smelling; 5. in peeing and shitting; 6. in moving, steadying, sitting, lying, waking, speaking and in silence.

Along with this satisfaction of simple living, control of senses and mindfulness he chooses and lives in a quiet and undisturbed place as his dwelling place. He may also like to live in the jungle, under the trees, in the mountains, in the caves, under the ground, in the graveyard, at the edge of a forest, in open fields or prairies for the sake of serenity and tranquility. This is the preparation and purification of mind for meditation.

[seokeros]

A Ticket to the Sun — 2

GENRE — dystopia / best friends to lovers au.

PAIRING — min yoongi / jeon jeongguk / feminine reader.

WORDS — 17.7k words.

SUMMARY — in a world where your life is determined by a piece of paper on a monthly basis, love is practically impossible. but there's always an exception, and with that exception, there comes a price.

alternatively: yoongi gets punched in the face by a girl who believes she is cursed, and he stupidly, helplessly, falls in love.

INCLUDED — time jump. strong pining and angst. recreational drug and alcohol use. implied sexual content. metaphorical references to weapons and death. kind of unhealthy relationships? hinted infidelity?

Yoongi has never been without her for more than a week.

The only time he can think of is that one August, four years ago. Her father had to take her on a business trip, nine days abroad in a northern city. Yoongi had wondered, at the time, whether she would look different; act different; be an entirely divergent person after spending such a time apart from him. After tasting the flavour of a life untainted by his presence.

Though when Yoongi had rode to her house on the day she arrived home, he had realised that his concerns were groundless. She had been lugging her belongings out of the car boot, but the sound of his tyres skidding to a stop at the end of the driveway had hooked her attention. At once, she had dropped everything and clambered over to him, toppling their bodies onto the grass in a fit of laughter and whispers of I missed you, hidden in the dip of his neck.

Nothing about her had changed. She still had eyes that swallowed him whole. She still had a mouth and tongue that crafted angel’s lullabies. She still had a touch that surged enough electricity through his bones to bring him near death; forever teetering on the edge of ascending to her heaven, or keeping his feet grounded for a few moments longer. A constant tug-of-war with his soul, since she never went too long without knocking his knee with her own, or poking at his shoulder.

Now, Yoongi wonders how different somebody can become after three years. Surely, days upon days must bend and manipulate one in the long run.

Time does not fly. Without her, it slows to a near halt. Like wading through thick mud and never reaching the other end of the puddle. The sludge sinks into Yoongi’s pockets, dragging his feet down until he is neck deep, barely breathing, and she is still nowhere to be found.

Her hand does not part the clouds. It does not reach from the crystal clear skies, offering to pull him out and up into the stars where she sleeps, and no laws of such inhumane genocide are imposed. Where Yoongi can brush his fingertips over her cheeks, kiss the rosiest of lips, and feel the softness of her sigh tickle across his collarbone. He can love her without the fear of losing her to a mint green envelope, reeking of death, in her letterbox.

It is difficult to find somebody when they do not wish to be found. Or, more so, it is worse when you know precisely where they are, but they would rather have their spine twisted until it snaps in two than see you.

That is how matters go after their lips touch in flawless harmony, as if made for one another. She runs, and runs, and never comes back. She hides like the truths Yoongi keeps beneath his carpets, wedged in the crevices between the floorboards, tucked too tightly away to ever be properly found again. It is a game of hide and seek where nobody is found. They stay trapped in their bedroom. They never stray down the street. They never message, call, or provide an inkling of something. Anything, to at least hint that they are still alive and breathing.

Not necessarily okay. Just managing enough to live without you.

But Yoongi does not persist. No matter how much he misses her. No matter how desperately he wishes to, at the very least, hear her voice whisper that she is okay, that she is doing just fine. Because even if he were to knock at her front door until his knuckles were shredded bloody, or throw stones at her window until the glass pane smashes, or leave her cell phone to constantly vibrate with fifty-seven missed calls and texts, he knows it would only drive her further away. She would dig deeper into the grave of their friendship, just to keep the distance.

Instead, Yoongi did all of the above once, and then ceased to engage further. One visit to a door left unopened. One phone call that rang through to voicemail. One text message that never even received a read-receipt. He was too late. She had already taken to the axe and hacked the tree of their relationship to a stump, because the flowers that were blooming smelled of anything but death. They blossomed in glorious shades of hope and devotion. The tree bore a forbidden fruit that she let rot because the taste was too bittersweet; too intimate on the tip of her tongue when she took the smallest of bites in the shape of his lips.

Yoongi accepts, but refuses to forget. He cannot bear to be without the memories that are taped down in the photo album of the past seven years, albeit faded of their colour and eaten at by moths. A vanilla milkshake shared between them at the diner bar, no qualms about sharing saliva; no thoughts of indirect kisses. A hand clutched firmly at the hem of his school shirt until he would grin and throw an arm over her shoulders, tucking her into his vessel; not noticing the peculiar stares aimed at her shy eyes or his careless affection. A whisper, stolen by a midnight breeze that had the dead leaves in the gutters dancing, and encouraged her to wriggle deeper into his sweater which adorned her figure. All the while, he shivered with a smile, oblivious to the gentle knocking against his heart that did not belong to the tune of living. Rather, they mimicked the symphony of beating in time with another.

No. Yoongi cannot forget. Such memories are not poisonous. They are not tainted by her sudden, yet expected neglect of the truth that she so arduously demanded. That she received barely a glimpse of, though it was still enough for her to cower away.

Anger boils his stomach raw with its vicious tongue of flame as the days pass on; as the earth rotates without her. But forgiveness has been ready to extinguish the fire since the very moment she spun on her heel, and ran with no expectations of him trying to catch up.

They are not selfish. The world made them this way. Soulmates thrown into a war zone that was bound to tear them apart from the beginning.

Yoongi leaves for college two months after the great contretemps that severed the red string linking their pinkies and hearts. A new chapter, his parents insist. A time to start anew and breathe a fresher air that no longer tastes of honeysuckle and her laughter. A city that does not remind him of her cum on the back of his throat, nor her heartbeat in the silence of his bedroom.

Little do they know that Yoongi makes sure to bookmark the pages of her with the remnants of their scarlet thread. Horribly tattered at the ends. Nothing that a needle cannot mend.

THREE YEARS LATER...

Yoongi is dying. An overdramatic statement, but he would not be surprised if it were the honest truth.

An earthquake is taking place in his head. Sandpaper has replaced the surface of his tongue. Sunlight that drips between the drapes like honey feels akin to daggers against his squinting eyelids, rather than drizzling sweetness. Draped across his bare stomach is an arm that holds no familiarity. Yoongi has little to no recollection of what happened after he lost a game of beer pong with Seokjin last night. Cue internal damnation.

When he subtly shifts against the foreign mattress, the aroma of honeysuckle and vanilla arises from the lithe body laying facedown beside him. Bird nest hair conceals her make-up smudged face. A shiver that is neither unpleasant nor welcoming irritates his skin. He wonders if that is the reason why he ended up going home with her last night. The perfume of his nightmares.

“Morning,” croaks from beneath the midnight fluff, and Yoongi stills in his motion of exiting the situation. He fixes his eyes on the girl, vaguely concerned that she thinks this might have been more than what he was intending. It would not be the first time.

“You don’t mind me heading out, right? Got things to do.” Yoongi half-smirks. He spots his shirt draped over her desk chair and decidedly makes a beeline for it, stumbling when his hangover decides to drag his head by the nails down to Hell. “That was a lie. Jus’ hate awkward morning after shit.”

Yoongi almost gets down onto his knees to praise whoever is watching him from above when he discovers his underwear tucked nicely into the crotch of his jeans. He slips the both of them on, and then grabs his shoes.

“You and me alike,” the agreement is followed by a chuckle, which quickly dissolves into coughing. It seems like her night was just as rough as his own. Her heaving lungs sound like cigarettes.

“Well, it was nice fucking with you,” Yoongi says as a way of goodbye, and the girl, once her partial asphyxiation has calmed, half-heartedly lifts her hand in a wave. She does not bother to remove her face from the pillow and reveal her identity. He wonders if she even remembers who he is, too.

Thankfully, no other housemates are spotted on his Walk of Shame out of her room. All of them must either be still in bed, or in the same situation as he, but elsewhere. Yoongi, in a true streak of unbelievable luck in such an unlucky world, spots his cell phone upon the kitchen counter. Lighting up the screen, he discovers four missed calls from Seokjin, all sent in the earliest hours of the morning. There is a single message from Hoseok, received eight minutes ago.

Received [11:12AM]: Jung Hoseok

need me to come save u from some persistent hoe, damsel in distress?

Delivered [11:20AM]: Jung Hoseok

eat my ass

Received [11:21AM]: Jung Hoseok

oh baby don’t tempt me

shake shack on 5th?

This is not an unusual morning for Yoongi. Truly, it is his every single Saturday and Sunday (sometimes Thursdays, as well) since branching out and making friends within his Engineering major.

Jung Hoseok, of chocolate brown locks and a billion watt smile, is the campus known partygoer. He is greeted to every frat weekend, and welcomed by every night club within a twenty-mile radius of their university with open arms. He is gifted all of the VIP tickets, he receives all of the free rounds. Duly crowned as the royalty of their university party life.

Kim Seokjin, on the other hand, hones popularity within his charm and phenomenal appearance of slicked back blonde hair and a physique refined by hours at the gym. He is the A-grade student who finishes his assignments weeks before they are due, while still having enough spare time on the weekends to get absolutely smashed. Well, until he is sobbing and calling Hoseok and Yoongi. Or, on the other hand, is waking up the next morning with three unknown figures tangled amongst his sheets and limbs.

There is another, Park Jimin, who has been Hoseok’s best friend for the past four years. He can compete with a flute of champagne for effervescence. Since he majors in Theatre Arts, Yoongi only sees him amongst sweltering bodies while they are drunk or high, or both. But that is the thing about Jimin, with his misleading half-moon grin, and his jet black hair that frames a baby face. He is in the thick of the student body drug scene. All actors do it, Hoseok had once said, and Yoongi never questioned it. He is unsure if he has ever seen the guy without blown pupils or reddened scleras; a jitter to his voice and an incessant urge to be moving. Jimin is a nice person, nonetheless.

When Yoongi stumbles out of the apartment complex, he is not sure whether he should be concerned about the fact that his car is parked (albeit very crookedly) in the student parking lot, directly across the footpath. He is usually never prone to drink-driving. The boys always ensure that everyone catches cabs to their homes, or to their one-night-stand home-away-from-homes. But Yoongi must have managed to sneak around them.

Or, they were simply too intoxicated to even realise.

Delivered [11:27AM]: Jung Hoseok

I drank and drove

Received [11:27AM]: Jung Hoseok

fuckin idiot

Received [11:28AM]: Jung Hoseok

come pick me up then I’m at home lol

Ever the delight, that guy. Yoongi makes a mental note to cross Hoseok off the funeral attendance list for when his car bends metal around a tree trunk, or runs through a red light and finds its driver side crushed by an oncoming heavy-loader because he was too drunk on vodka or high on molly to swerve and brake.

Opening Google Maps on his cell phone, Yoongi is provided with three routes to get back home. He also notices that the campus he is currently on rings painfully familiar with a dream that was held by a girl deep in his past; never far enough to forget. The bitter acid that forms in the back of his throat at the memory is quickly swallowed down, burning less painfully in the pit of his stomach. He is beyond used to feeling flames eating away in there. The walls went numb long ago.

Driving back to his own college only takes ten minutes, and then another two while waiting for Hoseok to exit their apartment building. He, alike Yoongi, appears crippled by a hangover. Chocolate hair is mussed into a whirlwind; usually glowing skin dimmed down to neutral. The black shirt he wears is on inside out, the tag flapping beneath his chin as he somewhat skips over to the passenger side of the car, forever wrapped in delight. Even when the guy feels as though he has been dead for a century after a night like the last.

“You look like you made a pitstop at Hell and Satan fucked you ten ways to Sunday,” is the first thing Hoseok comments as he gets into the vehicle with his bright smile. The kind that somehow manages to glare like real, golden sunlight, and encourages Yoongi to wince away from the luminosity. His head seems to be splitting down the centre.

“Likewise,” Yoongi weakly mutters back, putting the gear into second and taking off. He ignores the indifferent comment made by Hoseok of: Wouldn’t mind that. Bet the Devil has top dicking game.

The drive onward is silent of words with their hangovers thick in the air. Only the radio plays softly between them. Yoongi mentally attempts to piece the fragments of his vague memories from last night together.

It started at a frat party, held by the fraternity that this one overly nice guy, Wang Jackson, currently leads. He was also the guy that gave Yoongi two ecstasy pills, which he popped roughly twenty minutes before the game of beer pong that Seokjin insisted they both play. Normally, Seokjin is not one for such party games, but the exception was that they were versing two girls he wanted to fuck. From then on, everything was lost in murky rivers of being too drunk, feeling too high.

Yoongi wonders how on earth he was able to score a night in an anonymous girl’s bed whilst in such a state. She was probably just as plastered as him.

Hoseok suddenly screeches when Yoongi almost rear-ends another vehicle as he distractedly tries to park in front of the restaurant. He swears to every entity that the sound makes the world end within his head. Aspirin and at least a week of sleep is required, pronto.

“I wasn’t going to hit it,” Yoongi grunts as he switches off the ignition, unbuckling his seatbelt.

Hoseok, as if to make the current struggle of living more of a damnation, slams the door with mild indignation. Glass shatters inside of Yoongi’s skull, and he tries to not collapse into a ball right then and there on the bitumen. Hitting his head against the gravel and falling unconscious sounds like less pain than the pounding migraine that inhabits his brain right now.

“The fuck you weren’t. Your headlight would have clipped the boot of that car if I didn’t help you pay attention.”

Normally, Yoongi would bite back until his point won. But his internal struggle to stay standing overrules all persistence to argue. “Whatever.”

The restaurant is particularly full for a Sunday, mostly with college students, some that the pair can partially recognise from their own campus, other parties. Everyone, of course, is either deadbeat hungover or hitting their comedown. Just like them.

A girl seated near the counter sparks Yoongi’s familiarity as one who he has been inside of beneath sweaty bedsheets. He barely manages a nod at her when they pass to make their orders, more out of pain than shame. Hoseok flirts ostentatiously with the young man at the till, offering a lewd wink that causes roses to blossom upon the cheeks of the employee. Yoongi wonders how on earth this guy has the energy to be so amorous when he is currently dragging his feet through a hangover. And ordering the greasiest meal on the menu.

As always, Yoongi skims past the words vanilla milkshake, ignores the gentle tug at his heart, and orders an iced tea. The three minutes spent waiting on the orders are ones of silent, slow-build regret as the hangovers claim their souls. Quicksand of the mind.

Once Hoseok grabs his tray of grease and Yoongi takes the perspiring plastic lidded cup of liquefied hangover cure, the pair find an empty table by the windows. Immediately, Hoseok launches into conversation, simultaneous with wrapping his mouth around the burger dripping with melted cheese.

“So, how was Seulgi?”

Yoongi cringes at his lack of memory, faintly assumes it may be the girl he abandoned no more than an hour ago to her asphyxiating lungs of smoke. “Who?”

“The girl you went home with last– Fuck, how can you not even remember that?” Hoseok drops his burger, throws his hands up in exasperation and then slams them down on the table. Yoongi swears something implodes within his head at the splitting sound. Probably his brain. “You really don’t give a shit, do you? Just fuck and leave. Rinse and repeat. What about feelings, man? Ever thought about making a connection?”

“As long as it feels good, that’s all that matters right?” Yoongi shrugs, sipping at his iced tea. “We’re all dying anyway. No time for love in this world.”

Hoseok blanks. “You’re really depressing, y’know? A serious downer.”

“Sorry that the sunshine doesn’t shoot out of my ass like it does with you, pal.”

“Maybe you should start learning from me.”

“I’d rather die.”

Hoseok slams his hands on the table once more, and Yoongi genuinely thinks about slicing them off. “There you go with death again. Do you really want to live your life being so miserable? Pessimism will send you to your grave sooner rather than later. It’s a proven fact that optimists live fuller lives.”

At that, Yoongi grins razorblades. “My one true wish.”

“Okay, enough,” Hoseok shivers, lips pulling into a pursed, triangular shape that flags down the end of the morbid subject. “Your obsession with ceasing to exist is going to start rubbing off on me. That girl who made you this way must have been a real shocker.”

Yoongi, at those simply spoken words, blanches. Ice water rushes in a flood over his skin, halting his motion of lifting the plastic cup to his lips. “What did you just say?”

But Hoseok only blinks, wedges four crinkle cut fries into his mouth, speaks before swallowing, “The girl. ___? You told–” Then, he is choking on the fried potatoes, eyes tearing up before he determinedly drinks his whole glass of water to clear the airway. Yoongi, all the while, continues to stare in shock. “Fuck me, man. I almost died and you just sat there like–”

“What exactly are you saying?”

Hoseok, after a few laboured breaths, sighs. “Jesus, you really don’t remember anything from last night, do you? It was after beer pong, right before you went home with Seulgi. When she walked past, you turned to me and started freaking out, blabbering how she smelled just like this ___ girl before you stormed over to her and began angrily making out with her against the kitchen table. She seemed pretty into it, so I guess that’s how you ended up at her place.”

Oh, shit.

The finer details are coming back to him now. The moment the girl, Seulgi, had strutted past was while Yoongi was attempting to control his rolling eyeballs from circling all the way back into his head. The aroma of her perfume, distinct honeysuckle and vanilla, had straightened him out within an instant as it wafted from her skin and into his senses. His dilated pupils had flicked back to attention. The drug and alcohol infused fog that was looming heavy around his mind had cleared for the faintest of seconds, because he was so sure that it was her, it was her, it was her.

The ocean of bodies had barely parted when he charged himself between the waves of limbs. Yoongi had pushed and shoved and waded his way to the home of the scent that his mouth watered for; that his every fibre craved. When he grabbed at her wrist, it was with the expectancy of her face. But when it was not her that was watching on with an oblivious, mildly curious expression, his heart had plummeted to the core of the earth. Shrivelled up and burning within molten lava.

Yet it did not stop him from taking her lips between his teeth. An unfamiliar kiss against his tongue that was dirt in comparison to the succulent heaven he knew, belonging to a girl he had bookmarked with torn red strings. He grimly wonders if he had moaned her name while he was fucking the poor girl, Seulgi the smoker, last night. That would not be another first.

Hoseok finishes wolfing down his chips and takes a large gulp of his shake. All the while, Yoongi is having this brain splitting revelation that makes death truly not sound all that bad right now.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Hoseok asks.

In response, Yoongi drops his forehead to the table with a bang that resonates around the restaurant. The sound catches the brief attention of the customers seated around them, until they realise he is just being dramatic. Unfortunately, not collapsed into an unforeseen coma. Or, you know, dead.

“I’m a great listener,” Hoseok encourages, all sweet and singsong. Yoongi presses his forehead harder against the wooden grain of the tabletop. “I already know part of it from what you were moaning and groaning about last night. The love of your life, or some shit.”

At that, in a quick movement that makes him lightheaded, Yoongi sits back up straight and lays his palms flat against the table. His gaze rests firmly on Hoseok, who suddenly pales, as if aware that he might have accidentally dipped his feet in poisonous waters. Ones that Yoongi would have no qualms about dousing Hoseok’s entire body in until the acid disintegrates the bones of the sunshine man.

Suffocating golden beauty was his speciality, after all.

“We were the same. Morbid and sad. But she was lovely. Born in the Culling year and everything. We were best friends back home.” Yoongi speaks quick in a mutter, nervously tapping his nails against the tabletop before running the same hand through his hair. The incessant pounding of his head has worsened, thumping in time with her name as it loops in a continuum through his mind. “But that’s all she thought we could be. Anyway, don’t mention her again. That was a mistake, she’s not worth talking about anymore.”

Hoseok nods, shrugs indifferently. “No worries, I get it. My lips are sealed.”

The conversation stalls to make way for silent eating, and Yoongi allows himself the smallest of moments to indulge in the sober thought of her after so long. He wonders what she must be doing right now. She would have finished up high school, endured the blood and sweat of exams, earned a score that can become meaningless once the clock strikes midnight on her eighteenth birthday. She would be twenty years old now, three-years-aged from the seventeen-year-old girl that taught him curses are not all so bad. Especially when they taste like the sea on his lips, and can moan so beautifully just by the work of his fingers.

But she was much more than that. Greater than a feeling induced by numbness. She was delight singing off-key in the passenger seat of his car. She was comfort tucked beneath a blanket upon a vanilla-flavoured diner, with the moon to keep them company. She was love curled in a calm smile, in star-strung eyes that always searched for him in the crowds, where nobody else mattered but each other.

Yoongi loathes how they screwed up so badly. How they ruined themselves to a split second of lust that felt more driven by their hearts than their desire. That may have been to forget the momentary pain, though was in fact their bottled up feelings, spilling all over his bedsheets where they soon after lay. And it was there that they were able to dwell in it, mull it over, become consumed it by until they were convincing themselves that it was wrong, wrong, wrong.

For more than the hundredth, even thousandth time, he wonders what would have happened if they had never hit that kink in the road. If they were never set on that collision course. If he had reached out and grabbed her wrist before she could sprint into the shadows and out of his heart. If he had whispered don’t leave me against her lips. If she were not so afraid of love in a world that suffocates honesty.

Too many if’s that he wasted time on; enough to let her escape.

Knives slice through his back and drive into his heart. Here, Yoongi remembers precisely why he never thinks of her when his mind is not clouded by white dust on the tip of his nose, or the acrid burn that stays slick on the back of his throat. Maybe, that is why he is content with spending the later end of his weeks in a drug-and-alcohol-induced illusion, since he becomes numb and invincible to the blades and spears that the memories tainted with her bear. He can think of her without the agony that the pair of them lived within. He can remember her touch without feeling as though her fingertips will shatter him like glass.

Hoseok suddenly severs the reverie straight down the centre. Yoongi, for once, is grateful.

“Jimin wants to smoke weed at his place. Wanna join?”

Usually, Yoongi would immediately be up for such an activity. He has nothing to lose anymore. Nowhere else to be. He left everything behind in his backyard, within the shadows that the large oak created. Right where he tasted infatuation and honesty in the crevices of her lips. Right where he realised that love in such a godawful world would be completely worth it if he was spending such affection on her.

But today, something holds him back. Whether it be the desperation for a shower, or this murderous hangover, or the unnerving memory of her bloody knuckles amongst ocean waves, Yoongi is unsure. The straw poised between his lips loses the watered down taste of tea, and starts to suck at air and chipped ice.

“Nah, I need aspirin and fifteen hours of sleep,” Yoongi huffs, dropping the empty cup and grinding the heels of his palms against the burn that thinly veils his eyes. “If I hang out with you any longer, I may fall into a stress-induced coma.”

“I’m delightful,” Hoseok quips, and Yoongi cannot help but twitch his lips. “You know what makes aspirin work quicker?”

“What?”

“Snorting it.”

Yoongi barks out a short, fierce laugh. “Pessimism may kill me, but drugs are gonna bury you.” There is no malice in his tone, no matter of care for wellbeing, just genuine fact. He stands up, jostling his keys. “And after the shit that went down last night, I don’t think I will be doing lines ever again.”

“Don’t eat your words, man,” Hoseok waggles his eyebrows, pushing away his tray and standing up. The pair begin their departure, but not without Hoseok blowing a kiss to the flustered cashier. “Ten bucks that on club night this Friday, you will have your nose pressed to a dirty basin like a cheap crack whore.”

Yoongi, amid his head-splitting ache, manages to file away the mental note of ensuring he brings a ten dollar bill this weekend. He reaches out his hand to the deal and clasps palms with Hoseok, shaking on a bet that he has already lost. Both of them can see it from miles away.

“Deal.”

Well, you only live once, they say.

“Jesus fucking– Hey asshole, your cutting game is weak,” Hoseok whines, forefinger pressed to the side of his powdered nostril. He inhales hard and winces as the rocks catch on the flesh. “It feels like I just sniffed shards of glass– Ugh, yeah my nose is bleeding now. Douche.”

“Shut your ass up or your free line days are over,” Jimin grunts, licking his dry lips and bending down to the basin to shoot up his own line. He tosses his head back with a hiss, blocking his nose and sniffing repeatedly. “Okay, alright, you’re right. But excuse me for not being able to crush this shit into baby powder on a goddamn basin.”

While the pair argue without malice, sweat gathers in Yoongi’s palms. His mouth waters as he stares into the dimly lit mirror, cracked right down the centre and separating his face into two. The pounding bass that thumps on the walls of the bathroom; the light bickering between Jimin and Hoseok; all of it becomes background noise as he squints, blinks, observes the saucers of his black pupils. The slight buzz that coats his hearing translates into his vision, and his surroundings attain a shimmering quality.

The pill that he popped two hours ago is already reaching its comedown. A dud. Or maybe, the ratio of ecstasy to dishwashing powder, rat poison, and all of the other toxic filler that was used in it (and is clearly stated on a package somewhere to not be consumed) was minimal in this particular batch. A cheap tactic to produce more product. College dealers are becoming stingy as fuck, lately.

“Move,” Yoongi mutters, elbowing a giggling Jimin out of the way.

He retrieves a small baggie of cocaine from the bottom of a cigarette packet, and takes to the credit card to start sorting it into thin lines. He licks the pad of his forefinger and swipes up the white dust that still clings to the plastic edge, rubbing it into his gums. Already too far gone to react when the acrid taste hits the back of his throat.

“Yoongi, what was it you were saying the other week? Never gonna do lines again?” Hoseok jeers, poking at Yoongi’s ribs as he rolls up the ten dollar bill and blatantly ignores the comments that bounce about the bathroom. Hoseok is practically tripping over his own words, sentences blurring together. “And look at you now, going at it like a pro! Didn’t you drop only two hours ago? Fuck me, this shit is working quick. I feel like I’m spitting bullets. Hey, that better not be the ten dollars you owe me–”

“It is,” Yoongi bluntly remarks. Then, he is positioning one end of the rolled up note to his nostril, aligning the opposite opening to the first line of cocaine, and quickly inhaling it all in a refined, unpleasant hit.

Yoongi makes quick work of the second and third lines. Not able to dwell too long on how many germs this dirty basin must be swarming with, for the intensity of his high slams into him like a truck. Yoongi’s eyes roll as he throws his head back, loudly exhaling.

Hoseok snatches the crumpled bill out of his hands. “Thanks, asshole. My hard-earned money is not only covered in drugs and bacteria, but also your blood. Go clean yourself up.”

Yoongi wipes his bloody nose on the back of his hand. He has no time to dwell on crimson rivers and cleanliness. It is time to drown in the sound that is leaking underneath the bathroom door and sliding across the tiles. Grabbing him by the ankles. Luring him into the heat of bodies and the dazzling strobes that intensify the ecstatic craze of his mind.

Effortlessly, Yoongi lets the techno notes take control of his limbs. Barely dancing, just simply swaying. Allowing the blood and bone that surrounds his form to shove him side-to-side. Head tilted back, he gapes at the fluorescent rainbow that drips from the black ceiling in brilliant, over-exposed colour.

The night at the club is alike any other. Hoseok and Jimin are dancing with more coordination, more momentum than they should be capable of after consuming so many drugs. Seokjin is wedged into the corner of the leather couches, a girl straddling his lap and very obviously grinding against his crotch, while another latches her mouth to his neck, fiddling acrylic nails down the first three buttons of his black dress shirt. Yoongi, as always, lets the numbing hum consume his being. Lets it drag him into the limbo betwixt life and death; reality and imagination; heart screaming against his ribcage while the lights entertain, distract.

He distantly believes he might have taken it a little too far tonight. Forced too many toxins through his bloodstream. Overworking the vessel that has barely kept him standing as it is since she left.

Oh. Oh god, that is right. Her. Herherher. Yoongi can think of her right now in this near comatose state where his body becomes invincible. The knives that stab through his back turn into plastic rather than metal, rebounding against the muscle. Or perhaps, still cutting through, though he cannot feel a thing.

Star-shine smile against a backdrop of pale blue sky. Laughter of the gods. Red dirt knees washed by a backyard hose. Electricity fizzling between joined palms. Lips like vanilla milkshakes and eyes drowning in expanses of infinity.

We will always protect each other.

Shallow insults made out of adoration. A car swimming in the salt of tears. Four hands touching dusty ivory keys and performing the sound of their love in terrible harmony. Blue icy poles licked up from wrists where they drip, drip, drip.

Your laugh sounds like home. Is that weird?

Her tongue, behind his teeth. His tongue, pressed to her cunt. Bloody knuckles cradled in his hands like the truth exposed. A cello and viola, they are. The End of The World by Skeeter Davis. Vicious stench of bleach.

The bleach didn’t work, Yoongi.

It’s grey, ___. It’s fucking grey.

Maybe this means you really will live until your old.

Jesus I hate you, shut up.

You are such a terrible liar.

It feels so good. Yoongi feels exhilarated. Alive. His heart is about to burst out of his ribcage and be trampled by the bodies that push and shove. He wants to die by these thoughts, he truly does. How pathetically unromantic. Hatred tastes like love. Another lie. Could never hate her. She just wears feet that betray the truth.

Wait.

There.

In the crowd.

Yoongi thinks he must be hallucinating, that he really did take it too far this evening. For there is a face across the dance floor that he has not seen, has nonstop thought of, since his feet were rooted to the earth in the shadows of his yard three years ago. When the face was turning away, never to be seen again.

He blinks, grinds the heels of his palms against his bloodshot eyes, looks again.

Has he died?

Lipstick clings like blood to a mouth. Smoky eyes of burned out charcoals, smeared with sweat, reside beneath arched eyebrows. The kind that have always had a querying angle, as if constantly doubting. Thick tresses are styled into a mess that he is all too familiar with; that has stirred his own heart into a whirlwind alike too many times for him to count. The dress that clings to the figure is all black, strapless, dipping in a tempting arrow between breasts and glorifying legs that sheen with sin. Hunched shoulders are cloaked by a leather jacket that screams bad intentions, yet hides a heart of gold.

If this is a hallucination, Yoongi never wants it to end. He wants to stay high for eternity and a day.

If he truly is dead, then he is more than glad to be welcomed through the gates of Heaven. Or maybe, this is closer to Hell.

She delicately sips her cocktail and glances between the half-circle of people that huddle close. Friends. Her crimson lips move to seemingly form responses.

A helpless bout of hope suddenly starts to bloom poison ivy inside of Yoongi’s chest. Because that is the thing, he has hallucinated not once, but twice in the past. So, he understands a little of the logistics. He knows in the dot points of the symptoms that imagined bodies may interact with life, but life will never legitimately return the favour.

Though the people surrounding her like shadows, without a doubt, respond to the shapes that her lips create. They laugh in perfect harmony when her chin tilts back, eyes scrunch, and she looks fifteen all over again.

Convenience plays its hand when Hoseok walks within arms reach, heading straight for the bathroom, fists already rummaging in his pockets for the next hit. He stops stock-still when Yoongi clasps a hand around his elbow. For a brief second, Hoseok stares him down with wide eyes, almost as if he cannot recognise the person that the hand belongs to. But then he is frowning with familiarity, and the boy of silver hair and a stone heart is scrambling to find words.

“Hoseok,” Yoongi barely manages, suffocating on his own voice. “H-Hey, man. Tell me, can you see that girl over there?”

“What? In the leather jacket? Yeah, why–“

Before Hoseok can even finish his sentence, Yoongi is throwing himself into the clutches of the crowd, parting the sea of bodies and wading over to her. She is real, this is no hallucination, she is real and here and oh my fucking god, she looks precisely the same. Nothing has changed, nothing has changed. They never kissed, they never fought, they never nearly fucked and ruined everything.

Yoongi does what he should have done three years ago before she was swallowed up in the oblivion of a black hole. A place where she could look out and see, but he was only ever faced by thick banks of darkness.

Yoongi reaches out, can feel every fibre of his hand, the movement of his knuckles, the stretch of muscle. Time seems to thin and extend, pulling out until seconds drag into minutes, where his movements are ones of underwater. Glacial and paced.

Contact is made, and she turns. No, whirls, like a tornado set on destroying him where he stands. A storm that he embraced to be ruined by long ago, though she was too kind; too selfish to let her rains come crashing down on him.

Her skin, beneath his palm, is searing flame. The pulse that flutters in her wrist is absolutely genuine.

When her eyes land upon Yoongi, it is as though she is seeing the ghost of the ouija board they did when they were kids all over again. Her complexion drains, bloody lips parting in silent horror. She seems to shrink into nothing but a speck.

Before Yoongi can tell whether she is going to speak love or claw out a scream, her wrist is being yanked from his grip and she is running away. Just like the first time.

Yoongi wonders if this is what dying feels like. If this is how it must feel to have someone dig their nails into your chest, cutting through flesh and bone to reach the vessel that only thrums because it avoided the monthly sentence. To have it yanked out from where it pulses, disposed in the dirt where it turns black and forgotten.

A rush consumes him. Before he can completely grasp onto any sense of abandoned rationality, his feet are moving.

Instinct, more than anything, directs him. Yoongi shoves and ignores the empty accusations made by those who are pushed, squinting and blinking when his eyes start to betray him; shuddering figures into doubles before they become single solid beings again. The strobes that soak everything in violent pink and deep ocean blue do absolutely nothing to help him.

Yet still, he surges. Must appear like a desperate fool when he bursts out of the club entrance, gasping and gulping for air. There, he realises that, from the moment she ran, he had been holding his breath as though he could not bear to let the oxygen they momentarily shared escape his lungs.

A stranger swathed in shadows asks if he is okay, and blindly, Yoongi waves them off. He stands up from his hunched position to take a few paces forward, right into the line of action where other club-goers stand to smoke, or wait for the bodyguard to allow them entry. He keeps still and stands on his toes, despite that his body jitters and seems to bend and wave beyond his own command. Surveying. Searching.

There.

Standing on the curb, she hunches into her jacket as though she is hiding, rather than feeling the chill of the air. Blue smoke plumes around her, dancing in a veil until it disperses. Though by that time, another curtain of toxins has already risen to take its place. Yoongi, for all his feet were worth in the club, is cemented to the pavement. His bones are now of lead, blood like tar.

Go to her. He urges himself, lifts his left leg and barely manages to plant it forward without toppling over. Gotoheryouneedtogogogo.

She looks over her shoulder, eyes locking.

But she does not run.

And just like that, his limbs become air, drained of all their weight. As if the consent of her willing to stay is all he ever needed. A ticket to approach the sun in all of her might and maybe (just maybe), she may not sear him into ash.

Yoongi comes to a stop five feet away. He firmly closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, she is still there. Watching on with an expression that he, in all of his years of knowing and not knowing her, has never seen before. Familiar, yet unrecognisable.

The cocaine sharpens her every feature. It defines the slope of her nose, the angle of her cheekbones, the arch of her brows, and the dip of her cupid’s bow in unadulterated clarity. Refined beyond a perfection he once saw her as, beneath the gentle light of the moon all but three years ago.

She appears to tremble. Yoongi is unsure whether it is the piercing cold of the evening, or the quiver of his pupils with the high. Perhaps, it is consternation over the boy she so earnestly escaped, now standing mere feet before her, high as a fucking kite. Soaked in the unfair stench of lost love that she long ago decided to associate with the putrid scent of despise.

She is the deer. He is the headlights.

When Yoongi parts his lips, the inside of his mouth feels like a volcano. Bone dry. Threatening to erupt with the slightest misplaced movement, to spew vulgarity held dormant since she decided to cut the ties with her bare hands.

“Say something,” Yoongi manages, taking a tentative step forward, ignoring the pain that fleets through his heart when she shuffles slightly back. “Anything. ___, please.”

In silence, she observes, analyses, swallows him in from head to toe. Yoongi wonders if she is more deprived than she first realised, greedily taking in all that she can while he exists in scarcely coherent state before her. He wonders if the rush that devastates her being is unidentifiable, the deja vu near sickening, as though everything she has held back since the moment within the umbra of the oak tree is starting to submerge from the places she confined them within. He wonders if her heart demands to soar, yet she tugs down on the reigns, knowing full well what occurs when it disobeys. A veteran of past experience in the field of the forbidden.

Yoongi can see that she will not let that happen again. She must believe that neither of them will survive the second time around.

“Are you high?” Despite that the words come out with a tinge of insult, they still hold that blue velvet quality, the lustrous flow that drapes his skin in years of comfort and warmth. It feels like coming home. He wishes to pluck the chords of her vocals from the air and tuck them to his chest for safe-keeping; to never let the gorgeous sound escape his hearing ever again.

Yoongi tilts his lips in a tiny smirk, a miracle in itself that he can shift his features into an expression other than awe. He fixates his gaze on the pale cloud she exhales. “Are you smoking?”

As if to spite him, she takes an especially long drag, eyes watering and all before she breathes out the smoke between smiling teeth. Her iron exterior cracks, only barely, yet it is still something. Enough to make his bones feel as though they are melting into butter.

“Touché.”

They are encompassed in private silence, consumed by the presence of one another. Yoongi, in all of his feeble bravery, takes another step forward, and this time, she stays still, save for the ash that she flicks from the tip of her cigarette. The flecks stir dizzily in the air that he disturbs with his precarious advance.

One pace. Two more. This near, the oxygen is stolen right from his lungs by the pleasance of her perfume pervading his space. The smoke hardly manages to veil the distinct honeysuckle that only she suits. On any other entity, it is utterly ersatz. The tension coiled in her shoulders noticeably loosens, newfound tenderness smudging at the circumference of her irises. Almost as though she is daring to give in. Head losing to heart.

Yoongi can feel her exhalation skitter across his cheeks. The cigarette is abandoned in the gutter. In one fell swoop, he could crumble her resolve right where she stands. The walls of the maze are collapsing, yet he knows the route like the back of his own hand.

When he focuses on the plush of her lips, he can still see the truths nestled in the corners. The secrets that only he could ever notice. She is a puzzle that he has solved a million times over, and he does not intend to kid himself with false hope. But by the way she is staring at him right now like she is being suffocated by her own mistakes, he can almost think that she is letting him get all of the answers right.

He presses his nose to the glass surrounding her heart.

“___! Jesus, I’ve been looking for you!”

It is a voice that calls in a tone dripping with depth, the sound of bottomless oceans, and it tears the two of them apart within a split instant. The approaching owner, a tall stretch of darkness, a shadow wrung out and pulled taught over muscle and bone, draws her attention immediately. Her hair fans out in her movement to acknowledge the new presence, and Yoongi soaks himself in a waft of ambrosia because christ, it really is her.

The guy seems nearly sober. His gaze passes through Yoongi as though he is not truly looking. Could not really care. “Who’s this?”

She hesitates, minuscule, though Yoongi sees it. “He’s a friend from home.”

He almost wants to laugh out loud. In disgust; in disbelief. The word friend has betrayed him so much throughout his lifetime. Even more so when it lacks the tag of best.

“The taxi is almost here,” the guy says after a brusque oh, gaze flitting away from Yoongi in an instant. He takes her by the shoulders. “Let’s go.”

“O-Okay.”

He has never seen her this nervous and unsure. Yoongi almost reaches out to grab her wrist and stop them both, but he is terrified she may yank it away again. Third time is a charm to break a heart. The only solace he clings to is the fact that, as she is whirled, her chin tilts back. The pair of eyes that deceived him so long ago anchor to his own with barely a hint of a smile.

“Next time,” she mouths, her voice ceasing to wash over his skin. But Yoongi can hear the words with perfect clarity in his mind, no matter the shroud of drugs that mantles his every other thought. She shines through, crystal clear, like she always has.

Standing on the curb as headlights swing by, dousing him in bright white while other club patrons holler and scream as though they hope for the stars to hear, Yoongi realises something. No hallucination could ever compare, nor think to perfectly replicate the experience that is her standing before him.

He stares at where she stood, merely a breath away. Faintly, in the silver lustre of the moon, Yoongi can make out the scintillations of glass fragments against the pavement where her obduracy had started to shatter.

Next time comes at a small convenience store, no more than a week after their encounter. It must be near three in the morning. An hour, nonetheless, that girls who run from truths should not be.

She fashions cheeks that shimmer with vulnerability, and a black sweater a size too large. They are matched with thin tights that hide legs known to take his breath away, and a pair of battered white sneakers locked at the ankles. Comfortable; approachable. She sits with a cup of steaming instant ramen, intently swilling the contents with pinched chopsticks, hood pulled over her hair in a meagre attempt to appear nonexistent.

As always, she shines too brightly to ever be completely hidden away.

Lit up with florescent, Yoongi sees her right there, through the window. Never for a moment did he doubt it was her as he leisurely strolled by the store. The glint of her damp face caught his eye before he had managed to completely walk past. He knows those tears like his own secrets.

Here, the subway shudders beneath his feet. Yoongi almost expects the train to travel explosively through the bitumen and crash straight through his heart. Maybe, with it smeared across the glass pane, she will finally understand the honest truth. She will see the gory details, painted out in crimson, that he can never stop loving her.

She, still unaware of his presence, barely flinches when Yoongi stands directly before the window; a thin pane of glass their only barrier. It is no more than a few seconds of him staring with a faint smile curving his lips, hands wedged into the pockets of his hoodie, that she calmly comes to a still in the process of lifting ramen-laden chopsticks to her lips. By the time her eyes have lifted to his own, slowly flaring with recognition, he is already entering the store.

Yoongi takes his time. Enough for her to notice that the person who just trudged through the entrance is well and truly him. Enough for her to forget the half-eaten ramen cup, abandon ship, and escape him for the third––or is it fourth?––time. Yoongi can no longer recall. The numbers are melding into a figure too many, to say the least.

He carefully selects the most bearable noodles that he can squeeze into his tight student budget, then approaches the counter to exchange coins with the clerk. Yet, the moment he turns on his heel, she is still there, observing his stride through the reflection in the window. Her expression, cast in the glaring white light, is one of forbearing.

For a sparse moment, Yoongi considers waiting; providing more of an opportunity for her to escape. Though he quickly finds himself completely fucking that idea off. If he does not continue moving forward, the courage will slink back into the shadows, and he will barrel himself right out of the store once more.

At a pace as languid as he can retain, he strolls down the aisle until he is standing right at the food bar, beside where she sits. He quietly peels open his cup, empties the seasonings inside, and fills it with hot water. Then, he circles around her ever-shrinking frame and sits on the stool to her right.

Silence has never felt so suffocating. This is newfound territory between them; their instances together have always been filled with their voices. But she was the one to build the wall, and she damn well knows that Yoongi will not be the one to bring it down to ruin.

She did this. She must deal the first blow.

Two heartbeats unite at a steady pace. Her lips part, and the quiet is so dense that Yoongi hears them separate. The sound is almost comforting. It rings with the familiarity of past conversations, had whilst lying side-by-side in the belly of darkness. It is the soft noise she would make before her younger voice asked a question about the stars, or idly commented on the pathetic performance that is existing in a world which crushes those who dare to defy the unspoken illegality of love. A world which strips your soul from beneath you, so effortlessly, by the bold-black of your name, inked on paper.

The click of his chopsticks snapping apart echoes around the store. Her voice is quick to follow.

“I can never find waffles as good as home around here.”

Yoongi freezes, stunned silent. He momentarily wonders whether it is due to her voice resembling that of nirvana. But he is quick to realise it is because he is completely unsure of how to respond to such an elementary statement.

She speaks as if the past three years were merely a blank spot in his memory. A period of amnesia where, for the entire thirty-six months, they were still best friends; red strings uncut and remaining to be tightly coiled around the knuckles of their pinkies. Or perhaps, an expanse of time where he was living in a nightmare in which she had become invisible, though she could still see everything in refined clarity.

A thickness builds in his throat, the welt of a sob. But it burns like furious indignation.

“That’s the only thing you have to say?” Yoongi, in all of his venomous tone, stabs his chopsticks at a vulnerable leek floating in the broth. He pretends that it is her heart. “Honestly, ___. Fuck you.”

She sighs, as if he is behaving childishly. “I know, fuck me. But you and I both know that saying I’m sorry will never cut the cake with what happened between us. It’s like shouting into the abyss and expecting something good to come from it.”

He realises, as she always used to be, that she is right. Apologies are more like weak excuses than a resolution for travesty. And when they are confessed this late, after all the excruciating damage has worn its wear, it is like attempting to stitch up a wound that has already scarred over. There is no point. An empty avow.

“I still want to hear you say it,” Yoongi says under his breath. He scoops noodles into his mouth and slurps loudly, just because he knows she hates it.

Her cringe is almost audible. He cannot decipher if it is from the sound he makes, or the way the words taste on her tongue. “I’m sorry.”

“Say it genuinely.”

Yoongi almost jumps when he feels careful fingertips through the fabric of his sweater, laying upon his wrist. His gaze instinctively tracks to them, noticing how they still look the same, shiny oval nails with chip-free edges. A small fondness swells in his chest, which he immediately attempts to trample down. If anything, it blossoms viciously as his eyes travel up her arm, her throat, until they settle on her own.

Her gaze is neither firm nor gentle; simply watching with that ever curious contour.

“Min Yoongi.” God, only now does he realise that she has not once spoke his name since they have reunited. His stare instantly surges down to her lips, just to catch the end of them shaping around the three syllables. What a sight, it can never get old. “For everything I have done: taking advantage of you in a moment of vulnerability; kissing you back while we were both drunk; running away and ignoring your calls; being born in a timeline where the world is so undisputedly fucked up that the both of us were doomed from the very start... I am deeply, and so sincerely sorry. The profundity of my contriteness is utmost.”

Her expression is so bona fide that Yoongi has to look away. Otherwise, he truly might convince himself that her apology is the only salve that can soothe the laceration she created on his chest. He might convince himself that the pain dealt by her own hand will always be worth it if that is the way her voice will sound––cold silk against hot flesh––when she makes her amends after the blade has damaged his heart beyond repair. No matter how deep she drives the knife.

“Christ on a bike,” is all that Yoongi responds with. But even she does not seem persuaded by his dismissive tone.

The contact is ceased; her hand slinks away. They return to silent eating without him uttering a single thank you or I’m sorry, too. Neither of them expect it, either.

When she finishes first, she does not get up and leave. Rather, she rests her elbows upon the tabletop and leans her chin into her palms, directly observing his chewing. The sheer weight of her gaze is enough to lure bumps to form across Yoongi’s skin. Tiny mountains of prickled flesh that she traverses with a regardful sweep of her tentative eyes.

If Yoongi were land, she has conquered him a prodigious number of times.

“So, instant ramen is the next best bet?” Yoongi leads on from her initial comment. An attempt at conversation to shake off the sensation of her emphatic vigilance, which follows his every move. It is almost as though she is waiting for the pin to drop, expecting him to abruptly implode in a rush of accusations and insults. Ones that have tied knots around his tongue over the past three years. No, even beyond that.

Her lips are a ghost of a smile. “Ramen fits the budget.”

“True,” Yoongi chuckles, and it actually tastes sincere in the back of his throat. “But you’re wrong about the waffles. There’s a diner ten minutes from my campus that serves them up just like home.”

Yoongi does not mention how many nights he has spent there, more than in the beds of other women who taste like honeysuckle. High or intoxicated, his forehead would be pressed to the cold tabletop. He would imagine that he is at their diner, and she is sitting across from him, sipping at vanilla and about to hit him over the head with a menu while her voice sings out: Wake up!

The version that exists beside him, the real-and-now girl––beyond better than what any figment of his fantasy could ever consider creating––gapes. “You’re kidding.”

“Dead serious.”

“What campus?”

“South, at the State University.”

“Oh, that’s where–! Oh,” she says, eyes lighting up, as if she is about to say the name of a friend. But her expression instantly falters, realising he probably would not know them. “I’m there often. Funny how we’ve never run into each other throughout my entire first year.”

Absolutely fucking hilarious, Yoongi should say. Though his tongue trips into something just as dangerous.

“I’ll take you there sometime. To the diner.”

Yoongi inhales the remaining noodles spooled at the bottom of the cup. She, out the corner of his eye, worries teeth to lips; habits playing his heartstrings like a harp. A tiny crease forms at the centre of her brow, though it smooths out almost as soon as it surfaces. Her gaze flits down to where her fingers pick at the peeled back lid of the ramen cup.

“I’d like that,” and she says it in a tone that reminds him of car windows rolled all the way down and red dirt caked on their knees. It reminds him of the girl who loved him before she ran away after realising how frightening the monster of truth is up close; how sharp its fangs gleam.

Yoongi chokes on a stray string of pasta. He does not miss the glimpse of a tiny smile tilting her lips before the heel of her palm comes down hard on his back.

Once he has calmed, the pair of them discard of their rubbish and exit the convenience store. They fall into step with one another almost naturally. There is no parting of ways, nor calling for taxis. The night opens its arms and welcomes them in, four in the morning already so near, telltale in the way the pitch black spills into a vague navy across the horizon. Neither of them consider the possibility of separating and saying their goodbyes. Even if he had to go the opposite way, Yoongi would have silently agreed that it was his route too. Home may have been safe for girls to navigate in the thick of the night, but the city is crawling with monsters.

They are both prime examples to that. Living paradigms, slinking through the shadows.

They stroll at a languorous pace. Not out of tiredness, but more so to make up for lost time. It is reminiscent of their lazy saunter home from school, all but five years ago as the sun would beat its fists onto their backs. They would milk the twenty-minute walk home until it would last up to an hour, merely so they could spend as much of their afternoon together before they would have to part ways.

“Are midnight walks like, your thing now?” she lightly teases. Yoongi’s heart is stirred into a frantic storm when she grazes her shoulder against his; barely a nudge.

“I had a lot on my mind.” I had you eating me from the inside out. “It helps to get some fresh air. Clears the thoughts up.” Ironic how you just happen to invade me, even outside of my head. Then, he remembers the streaks of silver. The shimmering diamonds against the skin that he once, a lifetime ago, had his lips upon. “Why were you crying?”

“No reason worth sharing,” she says without missing a beat, as though she had been expecting the question all night. The answer was just waiting to be up to bat. “Girl dramas that boys like you would know nothing about.”

“She, the bane of my every single drama says.” Yoongi states it bluntly, incapable of finding the audacity to care when she flinches. She wants it all out on the table, exposed and brutally honest? Well, he is going to take to the scalpel and cut himself open until he has pulled out every shred of agony that she has tucked between the joints; threaded through the sinew.

It is not as though she is unused to blood on her hands. The mere date of her birth year is sheer fact to that.

Once those two sentences surface in his overtired mind, Yoongi mentally punches himself in the stomach for ever conjuring such a disgusting thought. God. You would think it was hate instead of love.

She comes to a halt in the middle of the road. Yoongi continues to trail a few steps before he realises she is cemented to the bitumen. For a single, distressing moment in which his heart lodges itself in his throat and then plummets like lead into his stomach, he fears he thought those twenty-five words loud enough for her to hear. The only giveaway that such a matter is not the case is her expression.

Instead of pained or horrified, it is distant. Far from here.

“Hey, you know what you need to do?”

Yoongi raises a brow. “What?”

She was looking past his shoulder. Now, she looks over her own, and then twists to stare directly at him. He is in a constant state of reminding himself how deadly those eyes are when used in full, undeviating force.

“Yell it out,” she shrugs indifferently, as if she is no longer sure about the answer herself. “Have at me. Scream everything you need to say.”

What a joke, he thinks, like their emotions are some ridiculous game and one of them has to come out a winner. Neither can rule together; a fight to the death. But she has always called him sarcastic, and so it could not do much harm to humour her request.

“Right here?”

She shrugs again, looks at his feet, and then slowly tracks back to his eyes. “Better place as any, right?”

Silence passes between them, voices reduced to make way for the breeze that caresses the leaves of a neighbouring tree. The rustling is so dense that it sounds akin to rain. Yoongi buries his hands deeper into the lone pocket of his sweater, clenching them into fists so tight that he almost expects to feel the skin split over his knuckles. After a moment, he relaxes the joints and slides his palms out of the fleece, calmly resting them at his sides.

“I’m not going to hold back.”

“I don’t want you to.” It sounds like a lie. She almost seems nervous.

“Fine,” he huffs, running a hand through his hair. When he speaks, there is no difference in volume, nor tone. “First of all, fuck you. From the very core of my being. Fuck. You.”

At that, she smiles, and the sheer sight has him scrambling for what he was going to say again. He inhales so deeply that his chest stretches with pain, and then he breathes out a calamity.

“I know that we took it too far. I know that we overstepped an unspoken boundary in our friendship. But what you did...” Yoongi can feel his voice crack. He does not notice how it rises in gradual increments; the build of a wave before it plunges down and floods the streets. “Christ, I knew you had it in you. But I never thought you would actually go ahead and do it, you know? At no point––not even when we were so close to one another on the beach that day, not even when I was touching you in my bathroom––did I convince myself that you would actually cut the ties.”

“For a few days? That’s reasonable. Two weeks? I would've given that decent leeway.” The water starts to break, hurtling down in a swooping undulation. The land is Her, and Yoongi encounters no remorse when the deluge swamps her coast and drowns the homes that they built when they were kids who knew no better. “But three years. Three whole fucking years! You picked up your things and left like the seven years of us being best friends never existed. As if we were living in some fantasy, and you decided to wake up without letting me know it was all just a dream too.

“I wanted to go after you so fucking badly. I wanted to beat down the front door to your house and grab you by the shoulders, just to ask you why. Why did you have to be so goddamn dramatic? Why did you have to act like one of us had received the envelope and it was safer to end things then and there? Why, ___, did you think I was so meaningless and insignificant that you could just throw me away without a care, after all we had been through?”

“You ruined me.” She is drowning. Yoongi can see it from here. He cannot tell if he should grin victoriously or reach out and save her. “The way you left made me feel like I was just some fucking toy that you grew out of. You tossed me away and left me for dead because you’re a heartless bitch. Yet here I stand now, still wanting– No, needing you! Here I stand, grovelling at your feet with my pleas for forgiveness, confessing the truth of how badly you screwed me up by leaving without glancing back. It’s almost as if I’m the monster who abandoned you when you knew I was going to be right by your side until the very end. No matter if the conclusion was made by a natural cause, or a piece of fucking paper sent by the government.”

“The thing is that I didn’t care if you wanted to stay as friends, or be lovesick idiots who should know better in a world like this, ___!” Air is tight in his lungs, fuelling wildfires. “I couldn’t have given a damn about whatever decision you made for us because as long as you were in my life, I was content. Don’t you fucking get that? Can you genuinely tell me that the past three years have been better off without me? Did you never sit and think that I would never push you into something that you didn’t want? That just because I know what your cum tastes like doesn’t mean I expect us to hold hands and fuck each other like we’re something more?”

“All I ever wanted was for you to be in my life. I need you. Not solely for friendship, not only for love. I just know that I have always, and will always need you!”

There are so many words left in his lungs, too many confessions and accusations that he needs to inscribe on her black as tar heart. But Yoongi’s throat crumbles; the sentences strain and fall limp. White flags are kept down. No draw is announced. Nobody is victorious because the game has been burned to ash.

Deeply, she exhales. “Are you good?”

Yoongi stares at her from across the street, partially washed in the muted orange of the overhead lamp, the rest of her concealed in the shadows. His shoulders still heave, teeth sunk in his bottom lip in order to keep the floodgates closed. She stares at him like she knows him, and god, nobody else in this world does as much as her. Even if she only discovered the raw truth of his emotions mere moments ago.

Before he can contrive any further blades in the form of his words to slice into her skin, she is gravitating close. The crunching of gravel is deadened beneath the soles of her sneakers until she stands as near as they had last week. A proximity that would have been considered mundane for them to be within beyond three years ago.

Now, all Yoongi can do is drop his gaze to their feet. Calculating the distance that separates them; only centimetres when it seems akin to vast oceans. So close, yet he has never felt so far.

“Good?” she murmurs once more, tilting her head down so that she can peer up at his drooped chin. Yoongi cannot even find it in himself to wipe away the tears. His fists loosen, useless by his sides.

What he does not expect is for her to breach the minimal space that remains. Her arms come around his waist, palms finding purchase against his shoulder blades and pressing him so tightly to her own chest that they may as well be a sole being.

It may just be his imagination, or the dissipating anger that leaves a dull ringing in his ears. But Yoongi swears he hears something break in her voice when she speaks again. Maybe, the last of her heart.

“Are we good?”

She holds on tighter when he precariously nods against the side of her head.

Yoongi does not hug her back out of fear that he may lose himself completely in her vessel. Become trapped within the bone cage of her ribs. Instead, he tips his chin back to face the stars, cheeks feeling damp and cold. He stares accusingly at the incandescents bodies, mere pinpricks of luminosity, as though it is all their fault.

How could you do this to us? Why did it get taken this far? Neither of us deserved such devastation, yet you awakened an apocalypse right where we both stood.

The stars are left speechless.

To say that matters resumed to how things were in the past would be obscene. Yet, genuinely, it is somewhat how the treacherous tides came to calm into clear waters.

The unbosoming that tainted the atmosphere of that isolated street was merely the chains to the drawbridge unhinging. From there, it plummeted back down so that the two of them could be on even ground. Enabled them to understand and embrace the differences, the hardships, which were emphasised and catastrophised beyond their initial extremity.

To themselves, they cannot help but wonder if such dramatics would have happened if they were born in a different timeline. If they existed in an entirely divergent world to the one where a ballot can tear their life from beneath their feet, even before they make it to the year’s end.

Adjustments are made with their developed maturity. Yoongi no longer waits at the bus stop to pick her up on a school-day morning. Rather, she drives to his campus and takes them to the local library to study for their courses every Wednesday afternoon.

The new diner is visited regularly, though not as often as the convenience store in the middle of the night. Usually, these ventures are planned. Yet they sometimes arrive unexpectedly when either one of them strolls up to the store entrance, discovering the other already watching with a sheepish grin through the window.

They rarely go out to parties together. Their assignments often conflict with the dates, or other responsibilities take the advantage. But Yoongi ceases with the narcotics, and instead sticks to the pleasures of alcohol. It is a matter that none of his friends seem to care for; they almost appear to admire him. He no longer needs to hallucinate in order to see the one person that his heart has been sewn back together for.

The wilted flower of their friendship slowly revives with every small step that they take forward, the petals blossoming into something familiar. Yet Yoongi cannot help but notice the vague restraint that she upholds with their every lighthearted conversation; in the small flinch that she makes when their elbows brush too close; when he squeezes her knee out of reassurance. The red strings are knotting back together, though they cannot deny the fraying of the ends. The ties are loose and unsure, as if suggesting that they may snap once again.

Yoongi only pulls tighter. All the while, she watches on with guarded contemplation, letting the threads go limp in her palms like she is wondering whether all of this was such a great idea.

Two and a half months, on the cusp of three, and only then does he discover her worst treachery of all. The reason behind her unwillingness to allow their bond to return to its utmost potential. Yoongi does not know how she hid it this well for so long.

It is made infinitely worse by the fact that he is so beyond hungover, his brain seems to have transformed into a cement brick.

On Sunday morning, he makes the trip to Shake Shack alone. Hoseok is still passed out under the dining table, Seokjin is actually studying something other than the female reproductive system with his dick, and there is the smidgen of a possibility that Jimin might be dead. It is eternally a mystery as to what happens to him after a hefty night out.

The restaurant door chimes, alarm bells that echo in cymbals through his head. Yoongi is focusing too strenuously on keeping his brain from splitting in half to realise that they might actually be warning him.

Honeysuckle captures his attention as soon as the door swings shut, sucking still air through a vacuum that drifts the aroma, like an instant hangover cure, into his senses. Yoongi, once he is convinced that his head is not about to topple off his neck, levels his gaze to see straight before him. Instantly, his eyes lock onto a figure that he could identify, even when she is merely a silhouette in the distance.

She turns from the counter, holding an extra-large takeaway cup of freshly brewed coffee. The world stutters to the slightest of stops before kickstarting again when she notices him watching on, probably appearing like a goddamn fool standing at the entrance of the restaurant. So, Yoongi decides to will his feet forward, casually calling out her name.

But he stops dead in his tracks when he sees fear ambushing her wide eyes. Yoongi almost does not notice him until her alarmed gaze sweeps away from Yoongi and up to his face.

It is the guy from the club. The one who had sundered their reunion with a single sentence. The one who had managed to draw her gaze away from Yoongi; something that always took a breath of a moment to do in the past, but was as effortless as blinking in the now. The one who had softened her eyes when he spoke, the way Yoongi always could. The one who had clambered her into his jacket and Yoongi did not, at the time, have a chance to think twice of it.

The guy from the club, who has his arm curled neatly around a waist that has always belonged to Yoongi. The guy from the club, who has the fucking stars gleaming in his eyes, because that is just the effect that belonging to somebody like her will always have.

They approach like royals striding toward a peasant. The heart thief glances between the two of them with mild scrutiny. But before the guy can say anything, she parts her lips. The sound that comes out is hardly a croak, yet it sets off World War III within Yoongi’s ribcage.

“Yoongi–”

“Oh! This is the guy– The friend from home right?” He affectionately jostles the arm around her frame, knocking her back into rationality. Her chin barely tilts in a nod. She no longer looks at Yoongi.

Underneath the seething rage that is making his migraine throb like the brink of death, Yoongi vaguely contemplates how to sever the foreign limb attached to her body.

When the guy extends his hand, Yoongi has to restart his dying heart in order to reciprocate the gesture. The defibrillator is charged, and he almost hopes that it will not work. He wishes that the flimsy vessel will collapse, and he will be sucked right out of this moment, swallowed by a most welcome eternal darkness.

“Hey man, I’m Jeongguk,” the guy says.

Three... two... one...

“I believe we already met. But I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself properly.”

Clear!

“I’m ___’s boyfriend.”

Yoongi feels his heart stutter back to life. He wonders how much betrayal the average human being endures in their lifetime, or whether he is just that fucking unlucky.

Jeon Jeongguk is one of the lucky ones in the form of a platinum certificate, declaring a free pass on genocide; cleaning his fingertips of scarlet. A promise to not die by an unlawful hand.

That is what happens, after all, when your life is deemed valuable to this world. When your intelligence is too good to be wasted. When the zeros tacked onto the end of your future inheritance are far too infinite to be ignored. They say this is the secret to immunity: hone pockets weighed down by gold, and bear diamond fangs that can tear through a piece of paper, splotched with the ink of your name.

In a town as small as their own, such a matter was deemed a myth. Then, she met him.

She never knew whether it was sheer fascination, or genuine attraction. Even now, she remains unsure. But Jeongguk was drawn to her; opposite poles of a magnet that met in unexpected harmony. He had knocked into her elbow at the campus cafe and spun to apologise. Instead, he had found himself struck silent by the graves that were on blatant, unadulterated exhibition in the cemeteries of her eyes.

Maybe, he was convinced that he could uproot the dead from where they slept. Thought he could dig his fingers into the soils, and grow bouquets from the minerals that the bones had scattered beneath the surface. Maybe, he wanted to know the secrets. The reasons behind the ghosts that lurked about her irises, eternally trapped betwixt the limbo of Heaven and Hell. Maybe, he was as selfish as the rest of the world. Precisely like her and the other, who was buried the deepest in the boneyard of her heart.

Too many maybes had filled her mind, yet she had found herself saying yes. Not just once. But again, and again, until the two of them were sharing coffee against the lips of the other instead of over a cafe table, and she could describe precisely how it felt when he entered her. Again, and again. Yes.

Now, the boy of platinum teaches her about things that she already knew, but from a different perspective. A preferable one, where one is not concerned with their fate. When their life is not threatened at the beginning of every new month, because their skin and bones are invincible to the bullets of a Government rifle.

Jeongguk takes her to the theatre. In the shadows of the back row, where their mischievous chuckles hide, he shows her what salt and butter tastes like on his tongue. He lets her listen to the sound of their voices blend off-tune with the song playing on the radio. The windows of his car are rolled all the way down, spring breeze curling through her hair, his hand resting on the sunlight that seeps gold onto her thigh. He shows her the bridge that connects the southern and northern ends of the city. The lights that are cast onto the glass surface of the river from street lamps resemble stars, flickering beneath their feet, shining on the gentle ripples rather than above in the hazy, dark skies.

This is where Jeongguk whispers that he loves her. This is where he accepts that she cannot find the voice just yet to say such a burden back. But he helps her take her dress off in the backseat anyway, and he kisses every inch of her skin as if he is trying to find the answer tucked somewhere between her joints. Engraved in her bones.

When he thrusts into her, he moans in such a way that she digs her nails deeper into his flesh, as though she can bury herself within him. Become a part of his platinum shield. She, too, can be untouchable.

It is not that she does not adore Jeongguk. Of course, her chest thrums with that certain warmth when he grazes his knuckles over her throat. Her gaze softens when she finds him walking into the room, lighting up with a grin that is specially reserved for her. He is a secure anchor amidst the raging ocean of this society, and she swears that such a matter is not the reason why she laces her knuckles together to connect at the palms, or swallows his laughter into her own lungs, or presses her lips against his bare spine when the moonlight turns his skin into stardust.

Somewhere, deep down, she thinks there may be a hint of love, too shy to reveal its face. Maybe, it is insecure; unsure whether its roots are woven through the carcass of a natural demise, rather than the tacky mint shade of an unwanted envelope.

No. That is not the reason why she desires him. She may be cruel, but she is not a monster. That is what she tells herself, at least, as she ignores the blood red gaze that watches on from the darkest shadows of her mind. It folds its talons in its lap, wearing the glint of a wicked grin.

The sight is too repulsive to even glance at.

Now, when she parts her lethargic eyes, it is to find Jeongguk already gazing at her through the tangle of her sleep-heavy lashes. He draws the tip of his finger down her nose, outlining the shape of her lips. A map that he marks with his touch before he presses his own mouth to them in a quiet good morning.

“What were you dreaming about?” he murmurs throatily, and it is then that she realises she is frowning. The sunlight that slides into his bedroom attempts to soften and smooth the crease between her brow, though it cannot seem to fade. “You were stirring and mumbling.”

She thinks back to the realm she was briefly visiting. It held the taste of vanilla, and the eyes of blackholes that would bend her at the edges. Although she had clung fiercely to the stars and suns that surrounded him, he let her be free, just like that. There was no fight left in him. No force. No will to drag her into his desolate infinity.

She is unsure if she is grateful, or if she would rather be dead.

“Nothing that I can remember,” is all that she whispers before her face finds solace in the dip of Jeongguk’s throat. There, he will not be able to see the betrayal that brews in her eyes. His ignorance is all the more confirmed when he hums indifferently and slides his palm beneath her rumpled shirt, gliding up her spine.

Because Jeon Jeongguk, with platinum luck threaded through his veins, with good fortune as a shield against unnatural fate, is not, and could never be Min Yoongi.

That day at the restaurant was like giving Yoongi all of the stars in the universe, only to rip them away into the mouth of a black hole. Leaving him with nothing but a handful of tenebrosity.

A boyfriend. A lover. A something that she claimed she could never have because this world took intimacy by the throat and squeezed until the skin blossomed blue. A lie that she threaded through Yoongi with barbwire, as though she could never actually love him. He was just another puppet that she controlled the strings of for all these years.

She was never his best friend. It was always betrayal that stuck by his side through thick and thin.

After the introductions had been made, she had dragged Jeon Jeongguk out of the restaurant without a second glance at Yoongi. She knew she had banjaxed the secret, that this took the cake for being the ultimate egregious bullet point on her list of perfidy. Yoongi did not go forth and make an order. Rather, he had waited five minutes before exiting the restaurant himself, praying on the drive back to his campus that his hangover would make him swerve off the road and bend his bones around a tree.

As per usual, he is never that lucky.

For days, they do not communicate. It eats at him; hollows his body out into a carcass of his true being. He can feel himself slipping back into the skeleton of who he once became; the version who has pupils the size of Pluto and snowy powder on his nostrils.

That is, until Yoongi is in the sanctuary of his dorm room with glass bottles containing the remnants of his heart strewn about the bedside table. He finally gains the liquid confidence to light his phone screen, pulling up a conversation that details the time and location of a recent meet up they had had. Sent over a week before he had discovered that all those times she had said she could not hang out––that she had more important plans––were probably to see him.

Delivered [2:11AM]: ___

why didn’t you tell me

It is late, and Yoongi expects no reply. He just needed to get those five words out of his head; the question that has been persisting his every thought. The memories of the past two months where she entailed no such relationship, never hinted that her heart belonged to another while Yoongi was still convinced that it was the fondest for him; they were all marked with that one word, now.

Why?

There is a gentle vibration that almost goes unnoticed, if not for the way that the shadows of his bedroom shrink away from the dim light that the screen emanates. A lump forms in Yoongi’s throat when he swipes his thumb across the device to unlock the two messages, labelled with her name.

Received [2:16AM]: ___

because it’s not important

why did I need to?

Yoongi is calling her before he even realises he has dialled the number. She, to his disbelief, answers after two rings.

“You know precisely the reason why,” he seethes. The words are laced in malice, yet airy in their tone; exhausted. “Not important, my fucking ass. What kind of horrible excuse is that? Aren’t you tired of making up bullshit? Will you ever be?”

On the other end of the line, there is the shifting of sheets, the distant scuffling of feet, the slide of a balcony door before it clicks shut. Her exhalations are shallow, hair rustling against the speaker with the hint of a breeze. Or perhaps, the distressed combing of her knuckles through the strands.

“You’re with him right now, aren’t you?” Yoongi almost laughs at the realisation, a dead smile drawn on his lips. She audibly gulps.

“Y-Yes. I mean. He’s my– Well, he’s–”

“Your boyfriend? That– That thing that you always claimed you could never have?”

She makes no acknowledgment, nor no confirmation of the aforementioned statement. Only when she sniffs does Yoongi realise that she is quietly crying. He suffocates the surge of regret that threatens to soften his anger. He is tired of being pitiful.

“What do you want from me, ___?” he barely whispers. His heart begins to detach from his body. “All this time, what is it that you wanted?”

Static crackles between them. When her voice finally sounds, it shudders.

“Everything. I wanted, no, I want everything from you. Of you. B-But it can never work.” The words are muffled around a sob, the kind that claws right out of the pits of your lungs. “Yoongi, everything you said all of those months ago is precisely the way I feel too. I need you in my life, no matter the circumstances. But being together is such a risk. We have lost so much already. And– And I don’t want to hurt you–”

“You’ve already done that, sweetheart,” Yoongi barks out with a humourless chuckle. He runs a clammy hand down his face. “You’re doing it right now. You’re doing it constantly.”

“I mean that I’m cursed, for christ’s sakes! You and I both know that!” she nearly shouts, and then her voice drops into an undercurrent. He can almost sense the way that her gaze must be darting back to the glass door, providing the view of a dark room where her lover may or may not be listening to her confess to another man. “You know that first night at the convenience store, when you asked why I was crying? A girl that I’d only just become friends with was drawn from that damned ballot. Honestly, a week before her name was pulled out, we exchanged numbers and made plans to meet for lunch.”

“This was a girl I had only just met. You would’ve been dead from the moment I gave in to you, Yoongi. I’m trying to protect you from this. I want you to live a long and happy life, as normal as it can be, without me being a burden. If that means hurting you in the process, then so be it. I refuse to let you die, especially because of my birth year...” her voice trails off, clamped down by a palm pressed to her lips.

Yoongi swings his feet off the edge of his bed and pads over to the northernmost wall of his room. Even after so many years, he refuses to believe that she still thinks of herself as a bad omen who drags those that surround her to their demise. That she continues to attain such a childish perception; a fib whispered by kids who know no better.

They are adults now. It would be moronic to believe a wives’ tale regarding the four numbers that signified the change for a better world, where all those who were born in that year supposedly honed the curse of death.

“Then why is he so different?” Yoongi murmurs, grazing his knuckles against the plaster. “Why is he the special one that gets to experience being in love with a girl who claims to be cursed?”

“Because he is exempt from the project, Yoongi,” she sounds so empty. A hollow heart. “The rumours about the wealthy families are true. They have no involvement in the ballot.”

Skin splits over bone. Scarlet streaks down his wrist and marks the wall in four bloody patches. Yoongi grunts, but the stinging sensation is soothing compared to the knife that stabs deeper through his back.

The hearsay was no new knowledge since he moved to the city. He has known a few people himself who honed the platinum certificate, bestowing them with normality. A natural end to this world that all human beings should be granted, no matter if their pockets are full of dirt rather than diamonds.

But Yoongi’s fist connects with the wall again when Jeon Jeongguk’s face violently blooms within his mind, eating up the space that she always accommodates. The guy who she can never claim to have slaughtered by the four digits of her cursed birth year. Yoongi swears she winces at the dull thud, followed by a short gasp between his gritted teeth.

“God, aren’t you just selfish,” he mutters, staring at the torn flesh of his knuckles. He clenches them tight when they remind him of her smaller, crimson hands floating amongst ocean waves. That memory, with her mouth that tasted of salt and untruths, should not be tainted by an incident like this.

There is no jocularity in her tone. “It’s a refined talent.”

The plaster is cold against his forehead; his palm is warm with drying blood. After a glacial moment of basking in the sound of her breathing––existing––Yoongi’s voice drops to merely a whisper.

“You need to realise that having you in my life is a decision that I make, not you. And what about these past two months, huh? If that were the really the case, I would be dead already, don’t you think? Stop being so ridiculous. Stop thinking you can make all of these choices for me when you’re ticking all of the opposite answers to what I want. If you don’t want me in your life, stop acting like you do. Don’t lure me in just to throw me back out in the water.”

“I can’t willingly cut you from my life, you know that,” her voice is weak, just like the both of them. “That’s why I’m pushing you away. I can accept it if you leave, but I can’t voluntarily let you go.”

“Why, ___?” God, he is so tired, the words barely come out coherent. “Why don’t you just do it already?”

“I can’t say it, Yoongi. I couldn’t before, and I especially can’t now that– Now that I’m with him.”

At that, Yoongi’s chest caves inward. The vessel within is sucked into the abyss, because the one person in this world who he cares infinitely for practically admitted the truth. She had ghosted over it, yet it was there. An echo of honesty. An admission so vague, though ringing with the utmost profundity through his head; a record that stutters back over that one same line.

I love you, Yoongi. I love you, even now that I am with him.

Yoongi sighs a lifetime of air through his teeth. “Me too, ___. Always.”

Between their paced exhalations that taste like devotion at long last divulged, there is background sound. A door sliding open. The crackle of a voice that is not her own.

She does not say that she has to go. There is no utterance of a goodbye. The line simply hangs up.

Yoongi, the next morning, cannot recall for how long afterwards he listened to the dial tone.

In July, the monthly draw lands on a Friday. The final day of the semester.

It is the end of exams. The return of the summer holidays, celebrated by a barbecue down by the foreshore. A place where all students alike arrive in their respective groups to rejoin before they part for home, but everyone mixes, mingles, and congratulates.

Friendly tournaments of beach volleyball are held between the colleges. The aroma of sizzling meat and charcoal manages to overpower the scent of salt that wafts from the waves. Laughter and conversation tucks itself into every available space. Alcohol is poured graciously and in volumes considered comparable to a frat party.

Yoongi cannot help but wonder how many of the students who have flocked to the beach are going to have their name drawn from the ballot. Whose exam scores are going to become insignificant. Who might be celebrating for the final time with their peers––their friends––before they return home to a family with cheeks stricken by tears and a mint green envelope, bloodied with their own name.

When Yoongi arrives at the foreshore, there is a solid seven minutes of texting back-and-forth with a half-drunk Hoseok––who is dreadful at giving directions as it is––to figure out where the hell he is. Though it is only when Seokjin puts the latter on his shoulders that Yoongi manages to find them amongst the dense crowd. Nobody could miss that Hawaiian shirt paired with a sunshine smile, arms flailing like one of those wacky inflatable tube men.

Their area consists of a canopy housing three coolers filled to the brim with ice and beer, and a scattering of chairs to take up the remaining shade. A portable barbecue is set up to the left of the arrangement, currently left unattended. The sausages are starting to sizzle beyond cooked, but everyone is too busy enthusiastically welcoming the new arrival to care.

Yoongi greets them all with muted excitement. Though his gaze immediately drifts down to the only person who had remained reclined throughout the entire feat, spread on the grass like a starfish. With his blank features partially concealed by his large black sunglasses, Park Jimin––who is known to be the most mercurial of the whole lot––almost appears dead.

“Is Jimin okay?”

“He’s sober,” Seokjin laughs, kicking at the ankle of the aforementioned, who grunts something incomprehensible.

Jimin shifts up from his leisurely position to lean back on his elbows.

“Three weeks off it,” Jimin squints so fiercely that it is even noticeable behind his glasses. He sounds slow, the words drawn out on his plump lips. “It’s not right to do it around family. Plus, my Ma would probably send me to the fuckin’ moon if she caught me shooting up on the coffee table that has been passed down through the generations for like, ever.”

“The fuckin’ moon, he says,” Hoseok quips whilst a safe distance from Jimin and his fists, dousing an overly burnt hotdog in sauce. “You’ve been there every weekend since the start of first semester, Mr. Low Hallucination Tolerance. Hey Yoongi, remember when Jimin literally thought we had managed to make it into outer space and we were walking on the moon like Apollo 13?”

Jimin seems to contemplate whether he should get up and beat the shit out of Hoseok. Ultimately, he decides to slump back onto the grass. “Eat my ass.”

Hoseok genuinely sighs. “You all keep offering, but you never pull through.”

“You mean Apollo 11,” Seokjin circles around Jimin to stand beside Hoseok, raising an eyebrow. “Apollo 13 never landed.”

“Amazing, Seokjin knows facts! And here we all were, thinking that he only knew the precise anatomy of the female body.” Hoseok jeers, the disparages flying out like they are a second language. “Who would have thought?”

“One, I’m not sure if I should be insulted by that,” Seokjin takes his hands out of his pockets and uses an elbow to knock Hoseok in the arm, causing the sauce he is squirting to spray over his own shoes. “Two, you’re honestly asking for a beating, from all of us. But I guess three-on-one is just your style, right?”

“Oh daddy, you know it,” Hoseok, despite that his eyes blaze lividly over the ruined shoes, takes a disgraceful bite out of his hotdog with a lewd wink as if to prove a point. Everyone gags in perfect unison.

“Speaking of, what are you guys doing for the holidays?” Yoongi asks the feuding pair, wrinkling his nose when Hoseok offers him a sausage that resembles charcoal. He opts for a beer instead, and it fizzles pleasantly on his tongue. An old friend that his liver has known well for the past three years.

“My family lives in the town just beyond Hoseok’s, so I’m going to be dropping him there on the travel home.” Seokjin states while cleaning up the grill of the blackened mess, shooting the occasional accusing glare at Jimin, who appears to have initially been on barbecue duty. “God knows how I’m going to deal with that for six hours straight, but I consider it my good deed for the year.” Seokjin effortlessly dodges a kick to the shin by the insulted. “How about you?”

“You’re driving back with ___, right?” Hoseok questions, plonking down beside Jimin, who parts his lips in a demand for a bite. The poor guy nearly chokes when Hoseok eagerly shoves half the hotdog into his mouth.

A shiver is elicited when her name infiltrates the atmosphere, crawling up his spine in a sensation near pleasurable. But now, it is weighted with the touch of a forbidden truth. She no longer belongs to him, no matter if she still keeps her heart nestled between his palms.

Yoongi chugs back a quarter of the beer as if to wash away the feeling, cringing immediately afterwards.

“Yeah, it makes sense to go in one car. Her– Uh, the boyfriend is going to be visiting his family in the east, so he won’t be coming with us,” Yoongi speaks dismissively whilst running a hand back through his hair. His friends appear to not notice the fervent longing that resides beneath his skin.

Yoongi is about to take another sip of his drink. That is, until he stares directly ahead and finds the devil herself, drying off her hair with a beach towel.

It is eternally mesmerising watching her. From the way she moves with the fluidity of water, to the beautiful manner in which her features transform into her signature expressions. Most of them are private inclinations to an opposite emotion. A habit that only he knows of after such an extensive period of time observing her throughout their growth.

She laughs at something her friends says. The surrounding commotion swallows it whole, but Yoongi can hear it in divine clarity; the harmonious melody that has been the repeating soundtrack to half of his life. The calling of songbirds; the gentle notes of a piano; the tinkling of wind chimes in a summer breeze.

There is a faint vibration against Yoongi’s thigh. When he reaches into his pocket to retrieve the device, she makes eye contact from across the grass. A smile drifts about her lips that he cannot help but return, gazing at one another like a secret. Then, she purposefully distracts herself with the entertainment surrounding her.

Yoongi stands up and departs from the group, who are already indulging in other topics. He answers the phone without checking the identification. The line crackles with static, and then, his mother is sobbing through the speaker as though the world is about to end as they know it.

And when she finally manages to choke out the syllables, he realises that such a figure of speech may not be far from the truth after all.

NOTE — this has also been adapted into third-person perspective!! to those who have never read this before, I’d love to hear your thoughts on the piece. besides that, all likes and reblogs are super duper appreciated!! ♡

our finale should be coming very soon. get ready for a true rollercoaster of emotion. I’ve already cried twice while writing certain scenes of it dfsghs.

also, I’ve removed the links to the individual parts of attts because tumblr is being dumb by deleting posts/blogs that are using links or something. until they’ve resolved this issue, you can access the other parts of the series via my master list!!

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED © SEOKEROS. TRANSLATING, REPOSTING AND/OR MODIFYING OF THE MATERIAL IS PROHIBITED.

[redinfra]

CHARACTER  INTERVIEW  !  repost, don’t reblog.

NAME  :  Seungjae Ahn (안승재)

NICKNAME  :  Jae (not officially, he doesn’t claim it but he has been called this); his codename is Blank but it wasn’t something he chose. It was given to him, a joking reference to his often blank expression at work/around strangers (if he doesn’t really know you, you’ll absolutely get the |: treatment from Seungjae). Maybe he’ll pick a better one for himself later but he’s grown to like the ambiguity of it.

AGE  :  Twenty-six

SPECIES  :  Human

PERSONAL !

MORALITY  :  lawful   /   neutral   /  chaotic   /   good   /   neutral   /   evil  /   true

RELIGION  :  he’s not religious

SINS   :     greed   /   gluttony   /   sloth   /   lust   /   pride   /   envy   /   wrath

VIRTUES  :     chastity   /   charity   /   diligence   /   humility   /   kindness   /   patience  /   justice

KNOWN LANGUAGES  :  English and Korean (the former is his first language in his main/ffviii verse while this order is reversed in modern verse)

SECRETS  :     Honestly, i could just say he’s a spy and leave it at that asdfgfds!! That is his biggest secret, quite unsurprisingly. His family don’t know about it and assume his field of work is far more mundane. How he got the job is a pretty well-kept secret too and only those responsible for hiring him know the full story. Seungjae is a pretty secretive person in general, even ignoring his work. He doesn’t like to say much about himself and tends to feel nervous when he feels people know too much.

PHYSICAL !

BUILD  :     scrawny   /   bony   /   slender   /   fit   /   athletic   /   curvy   /   herculean   /   pudgy   /   average   .

HEIGHT  :     5′11 / 180cm

SCARS   /   BIRTHMARKS  : He has few small, fairly had to notice scars but, for someone in his field of work, he tends to get out remarkably undamaged. 

ABILITIES   /   POWERS  :  No particular abilities; he’s human and nothing else. Seungjae has a VERY BASIC grasp of Para-Magic but that’s about it and he can’t work with anything above ground level spells (Fire rather than Firaga, Cure rather than Curaga and so on). He’s not fond of Para-Magic at all and he doesn’t like how it feels, finding that it often triggers sensory overload. Junctioning isn’t something he trusts either.

RESTRICTIONS  : Being human????

FAVOURITES !

FOOD  :     I’ll come back to this later because I haven’t thought about it but...Seungjae’s a picky eater (...aspie mood...) and most of this pickiness relates to textures and sensory issues.

DRINK  :     Coffee. He mostly swears off of things he thinks are too unhealthy (i.e; soda, energy drinks) and he doesn’t drink alcohol, partly due to the health concerns but also because the idea of getting drunk makes him anxious, but he makes an exception for coffee and tends to rely on it for the caffeine hit. I can’t get too into specifics because I know fuck all about coffee but...he doesn’t like his coffee too strong nor does he like it too sweet. He does take sugar but not a lot and he likes milkier coffees. Latte drinks are preferred and his favourite is latte macchiato (although he’s fond of caffè macchiato too). He doesn’t really like instant coffee. He also likes flavoured water and fruit juices. Although, as I said before, he tends to avoid soda, he will drink it them occasionally. If he wants fizz, he usually goes for carbonated flavoured water but he will drink cola if he feels like it.

PIZZA TOPPING  :     No toppings. He thinks they disturb the texture and finds that pizza tastes fine as is.

COLOUR  :     Red!

MUSIC GENRE  :     I don’t really know the answer to this, for some reason?? But I feel like...he’d mostly like singer-songwriter stuff but he’s also okay with poppier stuff or rockier stuff. In fact, he’d probably like more electronic pop tracks but it’d be a guilty pleasure sort of thing.

BOOK GENRE  :     He likes thrillers, especially crime thrillers, and mysteries. Anything where something needs solved, questions need answered and there are secrets to be uncovered. Spy fiction is also something he REALLY enjoys but he’s pickier about books than films because the inaccuracies bother him more in written form; he used to read a LOT of spy fiction as a child.

MOVIE GENRE  :     Spy thrillers...I can’t remember if I’ve said this before but a lot of him wriggling his way into his job came from a lifelong fascination with spy fiction. It was his special interest growing up. He still enjoys the films a lot. As for other films, the same stuff as above applies. He REALLY dislikes gross-out comedy and any films that rely on it. Also, he doesn’t talk about it much but he has a soft spot for animated films.

SEASON  :     Winter. He was born in December so there’s a natural connection (he knows that most of December is technically Autumn but he feels no particular connection to that). Cold weather suits him because he can dress the way he likes without risk of the heat bothering him. Also, he doesn’t have to worry about Sochong moulting.

CURSE WORD  :     Shit. It’s not especially strong (he doesn’t swear much and prefers to save the stronger words for more serious situations so that they don’t lose their impact from overuse) but he likes the sound of it. It’s short and sharp and sounds really good when it’s hissed or said through gritted teeth. He feels it gets his personal brand of anger across just right.

SCENT ( S )  :     He doesn’t like scents that are too strong and overwhelming but he does like anything that has a clean scent. Soaps, shampoos, air freshener. He likes the smell of books, prefers new book smell to old book smell and thinks old books usually smell of piss. The smell of homecooking reminds him of his childhood, when his father still bothered to cook. He likes the smell of leather and of dusty gym mats, even if he thinks that they’re actually fairly unpleasant smells on their own. The smell of Summer BBQs is one he loves, even if the food never lives up to it. Obviously, the scent of freshly brewed coffee is another favourite. Even though it’s not a nice smell, the smell of dog fur makes him happy.

FUN STUFF ! :    His favourite animal is...dog!! His favourite dog breed is...Siberian Husky!! I’ve said both of these things before but he really, really loves huskies and, knowing that, it’s really not surprising that he owns one. His favourite mode of transport is motorbike. He’s owned one for a while. He prefers bikes to cars because he likes the open space, the freedom from being stuck in a small place where you can smell the petrol fumes and the sun burning through the windows, and the speed, the sound of the wind rushing as he cuts though it. He hates public transport because there are too many people too close together. His favourite TV shows are, again, crime mysteries and spy dramas but he’ll occasionally get oddly wrapped up in romance dramas. Sitcoms are good for background noise. You might assume his favourite genre of video game would be stealth games but, surprisingly, he likes action platformers and puzzle games best. His favourite item of clothing is the leather jacket he always wears on missions. It’s not an especially interesting jacket in terms of design, athough it does look nice, and he owns other, similar jackets but there are a lot of memories attached to it.

BOTTOM OR TOP  :     That depends on the partner, really. Seungjae doesn’t really sleep with people unless he’s in a relationship because he doesn’t enjoy being physically intimate with people he does not know well. He doesn’t really have a preference in that area and prefers to go with what his partner wants, it’s more interesting to him that way.

SINGS IN THE SHOWER  :     Yes but, if overheard, he will not acknowledge it. He won’t deny it but he’ll just act like he doesn’t know what you’re talking about.

LIKES BAD PUNS  :     He likes them if he’s the one making the joke but otherwise he hates them.

TAGGED BY  :     i got tagged in this like...a year ago and only just did it asdfghj

TAGGING  :     if you’re reading this, you’re tagged! ♥ feel free to say i tagged you so i can be nosy!

[ryujin-zanba]

chapter 5~ the final chapter ;3; this fic has been really good fun to write,, thank you @katherine-ciejek for all your wonderful suggestions that made me want to do this lol, here’s to more in the future ;3c

no warnings that i can think of just pure and tooth-rotting fluff & body worship from here u3u hope y’all enjoy~

all chapters will be in one place on ao3 in the next couple of days ^3^

It seems as if he’s surprised even himself with that, but in the moment it had felt like the right thing to do; it was what he wanted to do. Because… being around you is nothing like being with his ex. There’s a constant, radiant air of comfort and belonging here, in your arms and just being beside you. He’s always thought so, but never in such an intense way before.

You’ve been a good and reliable friend, the kind he tries so hard to be to his teammates and to you in return, but coming from such a lonely, dark place, only to end up with you in this cosy, intimate setting feels more than just right, it feels natural.

It feels like home. You save him from the flicker of fear that washes over his face when he notices that he’s caught you off guard; a pink tinge to his cheeks that is kindling for a fiery blush. You tame it by kissing him with several tender, earnest touches of your lips, marking him from mouth… to jaw… to neck… to shoulder. He lets the blanket slip enough to expose more and more skin for your descent, but you go slowly; not rushing him at any point while you take the time to appreciate every inch of him that he offers to you. It’s funny, but you find yourself thinking of his ex briefly. You want them to know what they’ve done, and what they’re now missing. You want them to damn well see that this is how you treat the person you love: with devotion and respect. “You’re beautiful,” you say in a light voice carried on a quiet exhale, as you steadily help him to recline on the spread of feather pillows, but keeping his modesty safe by draping the fleece blanket over his chest once his is lying down. “These big strong arms…” you purr, caressing the relaxed muscles with one hand while you kiss the bicep of the other. Ebumi smiles lopsidedly and flexes for you, and you respond by widening your eyes and making an impressed noise.

It’s vital that he feels the kind of affection and awe that he needs in order to regain his confidence, so you encourage his efforts at every single opportunity. “I can lift Matsuo, you know?” He mentions, that loveable spark of arrogance flickering back to life as you gladly continue to feed his ego. “No way!” You challenge him playfully. “It’s true! I threw him a whole three feet vertically when I got attacked by some bastard crab at the beach and I still caught him!” He fervently retells. “Oh, selfless as well as strong,” you swoon in a dramatic voice. It gets a chuckle and a blush out of Ebumi though, and so you ease him down onto his beck again after he had momentarily leant up when protesting your disbelief. “Go on, beautiful, I want to hear more,” you smile, paying attention to his chest as you follow on from mouthing at his shoulder. “Heh, well… I uh… I scored three tries in practice today…” “Mhm,” you acknowledge, lovingly rubbing circles with your thumbs over the barely distinguishable ridges where his ribs should be.

It’s a nice thing to note that they’re not particularly prominent, actually. Ebumi is very soft around his torso; nicely padded. Ebumi is a nice shape in general really. He’s particularly muscular around his extreme upper half and extreme lower half, but connected in between by a plush chest and the softest, most palpable little waist. He’s like an ice cream sandwich; cool softness protected by crisp, abrasive layers… with a sharp flavour but the sweetest melty centre when you get past the initial tang of his prickly nature. You suppose that makes him a rare delicacy in that, in this metaphor, he’s not the type of ice cream cone the majority would like. Most would go for something classic like strawberry, or bubble-gum, or perhaps rocky road, but there are always those who will opt for rum and raisin every time, and right now, Ebumi looks an awful lot like a big soft serve of your favourite flavour as he melts into the duvet and purrs under your touch. “You’re beautiful,” you remember to keep mentioning; adamant that he will think so too by the time you’re finished here. He smiles dreamily, his eyes closed and his arms raised by his head as he fists up the sheet on the duvet beneath him. You’ve been revealing him very steadily up to now, just rolling the blanket down a fraction at a time, but when you take another inch of cover away, Ebumi tenses and his comfortable expression disappears. You notice immediately, of course, and stop right away, waiting for his word before doing anything more. “Do you need a minute?” You offer rather than ask. Ebumi looks down along his body, seeing you poised but patient as you lay out on your front between his legs. “Just… just please don’t stop, okay?” “Please don’t stop kissing me.” He’s almost begging you. You can hear the desperation and defeat, and it’s there in his eyes too. “Please don’t decide you hate it— or h— hate me when you see me there—” “No, gorgeous,” you intervene, wanting to banish those threatening tears before they can ruin his good feeling. “You’re just fine—” “But you haven’t seen me yet! You might think like they did! I might just repulse y—” “I want you, Masaru. I want you just as you are, and I will love everything that comes with you, including these,” you smile with unchallengeable conviction, sliding the rest of the blanket down without looking, and kissing the soft swell of his tummy that just slightly extends the waistband of his boxers. Without faltering for a moment, you begin to kiss each individual stretch mark that adorn his hips, getting so close in that your nose lightly nudges his belly and your eyelashes sometimes brush against his skin. “You see? Beautiful,” you hush between kisses. “They’re beautiful,” you soothe, migrating inward to his thighs. “You’re beautiful,” you croon, leaving kisses for every little stripe, every little mark, and every little ladder you can discover. Ebumi trembles, relaxing once more and letting out a wistful sigh as his mouth twitches at the corners; the pure and tender ministrations setting his chest a flurry as he comes to feel the love and acceptance he deserves to have learned of long before now. All it had taken was one unpleasant encounter with someone who didn’t respect his body, and since then he’d been convinced that any hope he’d have of being seen as even remotely desirable was diminished completely. But he will never know the right words to describe how magical it is to have all those hurtful criticisms and thoughts of self-loathing singed by the unshakable passion of somebody else.

To have his confidence return steadily, and his doubts chased away by the devoted lips of someone who loves him, and this time, truly loves every aspect of him. “Your skin is the softest here,” you tell him, smiling serenely as you close your eyes and just brush the tip of your nose against the tails of the stretch marks that reach toward his untoned tummy. “It’s the softest thing in the world…” Ebumi gazes down admiringly at you, watching as you explore him with no hint of judgment, only genuine adoration. He extends a hand to tentatively stroke the back of your head, and lets out a breathy laugh that makes his chest expand quickly and in turn makes his tummy ripple slightly like the tiniest disturbance on the surface of water. “You’re just perfect, Ebucchi.  Just the way you are,” you promise, opening your eyes to unveil a rich, mellow gaze that you fix directly on him. Heat simmers under his skin and causes a blush to reach up to the tips of his ears; it’s far too adorable, and you wonder how anyone could be so mindless not to realise how perfect he really is. Sensing that you’ve worshipped his beautiful imperfections to the fullest extent, you draw the mood away into a happy close by pressing your lips all over his tummy in a rush of raspberries and noisy, ongoing smooches that have him squirming and cackling, rolling around as he begs you to stop even though he’s giggling and laughing himself to tears. You cease before he starts to actually run out of breath, and bundle him up in the blanket like a little fleece wrap, pinning his arms in the swaddle and kissing his nose. “Now then, beautiful boy, are you hungry? Have you had anything to eat today?” Ebumi’s laughing dies down, and he sniffs as you release him from the blanket burrito and shakes his head. As he sits up though, the fleece slips into his lap where he adopts a pose with both knees bent for his forearms to rest along. This position makes his tummy double up like a little roll of pastry; overhanging just a bit. You’re glad that he already doesn’t feel the need to hide it anymore, and you share in a flurry of chaste kisses all over his face before getting up to make him dinner. He’s clearly starving, the poor mite. He barely says a word; too busy trying to eat his fill when you place a well-piled plate on the coffee table in front of him.

Once he’s satisfied his hunger, however, you seem to be in the company of a very special side to Ebumi. He snuggles up to you automatically, and you sit with his head in your lap for most of the night, just playing with his hair as you watch television into the early hours.

He’s fast asleep when you check on him by silkily moving his bangs from his face. His mouth is partially open and he’s drooling, breathing deeply through his nose and making a slightly congested snoring sound; it’s just far too damn cute.

You’re careful then, delicate with him as you slowly slide him out of your lap and decide that you’ll stay in the little blanket nest in front of the fire tonight.

It’s cosy and intimate, and there’s no chance of a chill when Ebumi instinctively hones in on where you’re about to settle down and attaches himself to you like a baby bird.

You chuckle softly, enamoured by his sweet, sleep-driven antics. But more than anything, you’re happy knowing that he is too.

[ruffsficstuffplace]

The Keeper of the Grove (Part 47)

A small army of workers and pack-animals trooped in to Keeper's Hollow the morning after they pawned Eluna, coming in through a mix of the Tubes and making their way through the water on boats powered by motors, with giant turtles hauling in materials and equipment.

It was fascinating watching them work, in-between Weiss tending to her new crops of sugar beets and wheat, and her budding cacao tree orchard.

The new sprinkler system was like the Tubes, a system of vines grown in deliberate paths and connected by wood and stone anchors,  and the larger equipment like the mill used live trees for foundation, the rest of them made with the raw materials Weiss had been stockpiling from the overgrowth, or gathered from the remaining wilderness.

They didn't tear down the mossy and partially rotten walls of the old barn, but instead had the weavers place their hands on them, pulsing magic into the wood and reversing the aging process right before Weiss' eyes. They even adapted most of the plant-life growing in and around it as decoration; part of the piping for indoor plumbing, power, and natural gas; or a potential source of food or other amenities for the animals they were planning to house in there, once they found tenders willing to take most of their wages in food and lodging.

Even the tree growing through the roof wasn't cut down; they just patched up the breach to keep the elements out, hacked off some of the unrulier branches, and rebuilt the interior of the barn around it.

<Foundation for house,> the foreman had explained to her, after she gave them water and some snacks for their break.

The final touch was restoring the old transport system between the barn and the house, another boat suspended in the air, at where the water level could reach during the Flood. After a couple of safety tests to ensure that the makers had completely repaired or replaced the hinges that had broken off some years back, Ruby and Weiss took the maiden voyage.

They sat on opposite ends, listening to the cranking of the motors as it pulled them across, peering over the edge and waving at the cheering construction crew, looking at the fast-disappearing overgrowth and the small but thriving farm that had gone on to replace it.

Weiss sighed happily as she turned back to Ruby. “We've come a long way from those sweet potatoes, haven't we?”

“Yep!” Ruby chirped. She playfully pointed her horns at Weiss. “And it's all thanks to you!”

Weiss blushed. “Oh please, we both know I wouldn't have even thought of gardening if it wasn't for you...”

<Just kiss her already!> one of the makers yelled, before the rest joined them, howling, cheering, and making playful gestures.

Weiss glared at them, before she quickly sunk below the level of the boat's sides.

Ruby leaned out. <WE'RE NOT--> she made a very loud sexy animal noise <--YOU GUYS!>

There was laughter, confusion, and some sighs of disappointment as Shinies changed hands.

The boat stopped at a deck on the barn's second floor. Ruby stepped out first, grabbed Weiss hand and helped her out. The boat shook a little, leading Weiss to step farther than she intended and end up MUCH closer to Ruby, just one or two inches of distance between them.

They stared at each other, cheeks taking on a light dusting of pink.

“… I… better get started on making Qrow's booze!” Weiss said quickly.

“And I better get ready for the hunts again!” Ruby said as she jumped off the platform, landing softly on the grass below. “See you later, Weiss!” she called out as she ran back to the house.

“See you later, Ruby!” Weiss replied, before she hurried headed inside, and to her new laboratory/kitchen.

With instructions from the Codex and Penny on-hand for documentation and in case something went horribly wrong, Weiss had her first batches of sore-stiff ointment, moonshine, and cheese on the burners, bacteria cultures hyper-accelerating the process to give her what usually took months in the span of a few days.

She hung up her apron with pride, washing her hands, and heading off for a much deserved snack break before it was back to practicing her Actaeon and learning more about Fae society—fittingly, the day's lesson were about Talos, the progenitor for the Order of the Makers, and one of the most prolific engineers, scientists, artisans, and many more professions of the “Ekindling Era” beside.

“Where have I heard that name before?” Weiss asked as they walked back to the house.

“Probably from one of the more popular Fae epithets,” Penny explained. “'Talos Stinky Beard' is the one of the top ten.”

“Why his 'stinky beard' of all things?”

“Talos was a goat Fae, and extremely proud of his beard which he liked to grow long and wear in braids, and meticulously groomed every morning and night. Whenever an experiment or an endeavour went horribly wrong, or in an entirely unexpected and oftentimes unpleasant direction, for some bizarre reason, his beard would always be stained or marred in some way, the most frequent being afflicted with a difficult to remove smell.

“On a related note, he has another popular epithet frequently used as part of prayers to him: 'Talos Help Us All.' This one was because Talos was also oftentimes called in to assist or reverse the damage done by other Makers less skilled than he, also victims of unexpected outcomes, or both.”

“Well 'Talos Help Us All,' then,” Weiss said.

Penny frowned.

Weiss stopped. “… What?”

“I forgot to mention!: that particular epithet and its related prayers are only ever used AFTER something has gone wrong. In Fae superstition, saying it BEFORE anything unfortunate has happened will allegedly cause something to go wrong, as Talos was also well-known for his short temper and dislike of others calling for him, largely because it entailed him having to fix yet another disaster or mitigate unforeseen consequences.”

Weiss frowned. “… How bad are we talking about, exactly?” she asked.

Penny smiled. “Just repeat after me: 'Gabija Have Mercy On Us All,'”

“Gabija Have Mercy On Us All,” Weiss said.

As Penny climbed up to get the elevator, Weiss made a note to herself to not call upon any more divine powers until she knew everything there was about them.

It started with her moonshine.

Though for full flavour and maximum potency, it needed to ferment for a week or more, ethanol was already present within the first 24 hours, and since that was all Qrow really needed, he, Weiss, and Penny were at the laboratory doing the first taste test.

All of them cringed as Weiss poured some into a shot glass, as the moonshine had developed an incredibly powerful, acrid aroma. “Man, they weren't kidding when they said this brewer's bacteria was powerful stuff,” she said as she pinched her nostrils then handed it over to Penny for scanning.

“We Fae have neo-steel guts compared to you humans,” Qrow explained. “It takes a LOT more to get us fucked up.”

Penny made a beeping noise. “Analysis complete! Qrow, I would HIGHLY suggest that you don't drink this, I've detected worryingly high levels of ethanol...”

“It's moonshine, Penny,” Qrow said as he plucked the shot glass out of her hand. “It's meant to be that way.” He raised it in the air. “Bottom's up!” he said, before he knocked it back in one gulp.

“Well?” Weiss asked.

Qrow came to in a hospital bed.

<UNCLE QROW!> Ruby cried, jumping on his bed, and nearly smashing her horns into his head as she hugged him. <I'M SO GLAD YOU'RE NOT DEAD!>

<Fuck me! What happened?!> he asked.

Ruby pulled away. <You mean you don't remember?>

<Last thing I'm getting from my chronicle is me drinking some of Weiss' moonshine, thinking 'Huh, not bad, kinda sweet, but I could see myself drinking this soon as it's got some time to age,' and then POW! Nothing!

<Did the makers launch another rocket, and it happened to punch through the roof and land on me?>

<Actually, you died of alcohol poisoning,> Penny said as she came over. <Fortunately, my mender protocols include detoxification and revival of patients, so long as brain activity had only recently ceased.>

Qrow's eyes widened. <Holy fucking shit… Weiss' booze was that strong...?>

Penny nodded. <The makers currently have it in secure storage, until they find someone brave-stupid enough to want to do serious study of it.>

Qrow laid back on his bed. <How long was I out?>

<6 hours and 37 minutes, including the five minutes that you were brain-dead,> Penny replied.

Qrow closed his eyes. <Someone fill me in on what the hell happened in the meanwhile, before the Council gives me crap about it...>

Penny put her hand to the chronicle-governor on the back of Qrow's neck, and did.

The footage was from Penny's optic sensors, with an overlay of her many scanners' readouts, a scrolling ticker of her inner thoughts, and her “To Do” list in the upper right corner. The latest item was <Keep Qrow from Dying.>

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit…!” Weiss whispered over and over again as she stood over her and Qrow. “Is he dead?! Did I kill him?!”

“No,” Penny replied as she held her glowing hands over Qrow's unconscious body, “he's just suffering from severe alcohol poisoning, he's not yet--”

Qrow's vitals readings flat-lined.

“--And now he's dead.”

Weiss wailed in despair. “Ruby's going to kill me!”

“Initiating revival protocols!” Penny said as her hands began to glow with immense power. “And Ruby won't take violent retribution on you, knowing this was an accident; however, she will definitely be permanently traumatized, and also likely fall into a serious depression.”

“THAT'S EVEN WORSE!”

Qrow fast-forwarded the footage. Penny revived him, stabilized him, and proceeded to siphon all the alcohol from his system. Unfortunately, there was no closing his eyes for the inevitably messy aftermath of that last part.

The emergency menders were called in, and Qrow was hauled off to the hospital for recovery. Penny spent a good while consoling a distraught Weiss, and he put it back to normal speed as after she recovered and they were back in front of the still, looking at it like it had grown fangs and legs.

“Is Fae alcohol always this powerful...?” Weiss asked.

“No, which is what worries me,” Penny replied. “There's no reason for any of the ingredients or the processes used to end with a product this potent, especially this early in the fermentation stage. The only way they could achieve this is with a catalyst.”

“Like what?”

Penny shrugged. “I don't know. I suggest we call the Maker's Forge—they're going to want to study this. And more importantly, we might need someone with the skill and equipment to safely dispose of it...”

Weiss warily looked at the other two containers of fermenting products.

“Don't worry!” Penny said. “Sore-stiff ointment and white cheese are not nearly as volatile as moonshine is!”

Qrow fast-forwarded again through their attempting to recreate the wort they had used for the moonshine, until Ren and Nora arrived at Keeper's Hollow.

“You two work as safety inspectors, too?” Weiss asked as she met them at the doors of the barn.

“Yes,” Ren replied. “It's cheaper and easier, considering we're already combat-trained watchers.”

“You need combat-training for this job?” Weiss replied.

“Yep!” Nora replied as she walked in, her hammer over her shoulder. “Never know WHAT might come out of a flunky science experiment, here in the Valley.”

Weiss was silent as the two went up and began to test her moonshine.

The results were not encouraging, with the alcohol levels still strangely, dangerously high, and requiring extreme dilution in water until it was reasonably safe to drink.

“There's only one more test to see if we're going to need to bar you from making more until you get a license,” Ren said.

“What's that?” Weiss asked.

“The Fury Potato Test!” Nora cried, pulling out a canister from her back-pocket.

“It's when we see if your alcohol could potentially be used as an explosive,” Ren explained.

Qrow fast-forwarded over the preparations, and resumed when they were standing at a remote, uninhabited corner of Keeper's Hollow, on a bank facing out to the water.

Nora loaded the canister full of moonshine into her hammer. “FURY POTATO!” she cried as she swung.

Thoom.

They all watched it sail off into the distance, and into the water.

Plop.

They waited a few seconds.

Nothing.

“Welp, that answers that!” Nora said, putting her hammer down and leaning on it.

BOOM.

Quite a lot of clouds of debris, exploded plant matter, and dead fish and frogs began to float up to the surface.

“… Nope, spoke too soon!” she said.

“Yeah...” Ren muttered, “we're going to have to confiscate all your moonshine and your still, until we're certain you won't accidentally blow Keeper's Hollow sky high.”

“What exactly did you do to make it, anyway?” Nora said.

Weiss walked them through the process, and at the end, added, “I also kind of said 'Talos Help Us All' just after I put them away for aging...”

Nora and Ren's eyes widened.

“… I didn't know you weren't supposed to say it then.”

“What's inside the other containers, and when are they going to be done fermenting?” Ren asked.

“Sore-stiff ointment and white cheese, and a little before two tomorrow afternoon.”

“Call us when you open them,” Ren said as he made a note of it in his tablet. “Ideally, when Ruby and Blake are with us.”

“Tell them to come armed!” Nora added.

“Is invoking Talos when you shouldn't really that bad?” Weiss asked.

Ren put his hand on her shoulder. “Let's just put it this way: pray to whatever other deities you believe in, except for him.”

[therealjammy]

Somewhere, In a Land Close to Home

A fic for @marina-does-things based around Shaw’s lovely hair, entirely from that painting she did: http://marina-does-things.tumblr.com/image/156497648006

I tried to make it fluffy but some angst got mixed in because, well, you know me. Angst touch instead of the Midas touch. But the ending is happy, I promise! (It was also supposed to be sexier but unfortunately my Filter wouldn’t let me.) 

Enjoy! 

Read it on Ao3 instead: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9504224

1.

Shaw glared at her reflection in the mirror. It wasn’t that the dress was ill-fitting, or that her hair didn’t have a single, wavy strand out of place, or that she looked hideous. She looked good. It was just the occasion that this was for: going undercover at some fancy gala where a few of the new assets would be. Suspiciously close to her fortieth birthday. There were suspicions in the back of her head that the gala was fake and the number was too and that it all was just a cover-up for some giant party the Machine and Root had planned, even though they both knew Shaw detested parties and people and birthdays.

           “What’re you wearing a frown for?” came Root’s voice from behind her. She was leaning against the doorway, dressed in a suit this time instead of a dress, her hair done up in a professional-looking bun. She pushed herself away from it and warm hands settled on Shaw’s waist, thumbs running over the silky fabric of her black dress.

           “I dislike galas,” Shaw said. She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, noticing a few streaks of grey that weren’t there before. Her mother always said age was not necessarily a sign of getting older but of getting wiser, and the grey hairs that showed up only proved that you were gaining wisdom. There was temptation to pluck them but like everything else it would just grow back.

           “I know.” Root kissed her neck despite the fresh lipstick applied to her mouth. “It’s just for a little while.” The tip of her nose brushed against the shell of Shaw’s ear. “Have I ever told you I like you with your hair down?”

           Shaw leaned into the touch despite the fact that they were running a little behind schedule. “You like me no matter what state I’m in.”

           Root hummed. “I can’t help it. You’re very beautiful.”

           In her purse, Shaw’s phone vibrated once, a frantic, strong note. She fixed her hair one last time when Root pulled away, telling her, “I think your other half wants us to leave.”

2.

It was late, just after eleven o’clock at night. Root was still feeling full from dinner even though it had been three and a half hours ago. The unpleasant coil in her belly was telling her that she ate too much and that walking back to the apartment afterwards hadn’t been the greatest idea. She disentangled herself from her laptop, reaching over into her desk drawer for a Pepto Bismol chewable tablet. The very artificial cherry flavour made it feel as if she was swallowing her tongue; it took several small sips of water for it to go away.

           Just behind her Shaw sat on the bed, hair down. It was shiny and soft to the touch, the equivalent of an inky waterfall with a little more grey at the roots. She was cleaning her weapons until they shone like they were new, a crease between her brows that showed concentration. The muscles in her forearm flexed and the tendons in her hand stood proud and suddenly Root was wishing they were tense from other things.

           With a sigh she shut down her laptop and made her way to the bed, sitting beside Shaw and letting her finish up her cleaning. When her guns were put away she ran her fingers through Shaw’s hair. When down, it nearly reached her waist. Root questioned softly, “Are you ever going to cut it?”

           Shaw shrugged. “I was thinking maybe a couple inches. The last time it was short was six years ago, when I was still working for the ISA. A few stricter regulations.” She was leaning into the touches and Root thought she would start purring in contentment. She kissed across the crown of Shaw’s head, where the most grey was showing. She didn’t like to think about the fact that they were both getting older, or the fact that the Machine had recently brought up candidates for a new Analogue Interface and Primary Asset. She wasn’t ready to hand down the torch just yet. She thought her body was still in perfect working order even if, nowadays, she got sleepy around nine o’clock at night and her joints were a little stiffer than they used to be. Root wondered what Shaw thought of all this, the getting older business. Did she think of retirement? Did she feel her own body slowing down like Root did?

           “Your hamster wheels are turning,” Shaw said, breaking the reverie. Root’s hand continued the stroking, having paused with her intrusive thoughts.

           “Sorry. I was just thinking about earlier.”

           Shaw had seen the files too, having peered over Root’s shoulder at the right time. Her body had been warm when she’d stood behind her, the tips of her bangs brushing against the exposed part of Root’s neck. There were, out of the entirety of new assets, three candidates for Analogue Interface, and five for Primary Asset, all in their mid-twenties to early thirties. They discussed it with the Machine, Shaw getting her words in first and then leaving to get dinner but not before kissing Root lightly on the head. In the end Root told the Machine it was entirely Her decision.

           “You chose me,” she’d said. “I had no say in the matter.”

           Yes, the Machine agreed, but the new Analogue Interface has to meet your standards as well. You have to make sure that they will be able to fill your shoes. I firmly believe that your input is just as important as mine.

           “We should think it over for a little while,” Root said after a long silence passed. “We’ll design tests to put them through over the course of a month, then hopefully make a decision by the end of them.”

           What of the candidates for Primary Asset?

           “Talk with Sameen. I’m sure she’ll have a few suggestions.”

           Root leaned her head on Shaw’s shoulder. Shaw’s hand settled on her knee. Shaw said, “It’s a big change.”

           “I don’t want to step away just yet,” Root whispered, shutting her eyes. She felt a pebble forming in her throat. “I’ve got a few years left in me.”

           “We both do, and we’ll keep at it until we’re both too old or She gets so insistent that we throw in the towel and retire and take that three week tropical vacation you’ve always wanted.” That got a small chortle from Root. “Maldives, Bora Bora, Grand Cayman. Wherever you want.” Shaw’s fingers settled under Root’s chin, tilting her head up until their eyes met. Her voice was soft when she said, “It’s taken me a while to realise this, but when I feel most… content is when I see you smile.”

           A single tear streaked down Root’s cheek even as she smiled happily. “Sameen.” She kissed Shaw warmly, sighing into it. She pulled away after a few minutes, earlier feelings rising to the surface. She licked her lip, tasting the slight tang of blood left over from Shaw’s teeth.

           “Now I think there was something else you were wanting.” Shaw leaned back, peeling her tank top off. Her hair settled around her shoulders, the lamplight glinting off it. Root thought she looked like a goddess. “I want to distract you for a while.”

           Root hoped Shaw couldn’t taste the artificial cherry of the Pepto tablet when her tongue slipped between Root’s teeth.

 3.

Shaw sighed when the front door of her apartment closed behind her. Salon smells assaulted her nostrils. When she lifted her hands to touch her hair it felt soft and foreign, much shorter. It had been time to cut it, she’d told herself that morning when she was looking in the mirror. Her locks had reached her waist and she knew if she’d straightened them they would’ve been even longer. The ends had been dry and frayed, reminding her of rope. Root had taken to calling her a mermaid, not often enough to be a nickname but often enough that it was a form of affectionate banter. Now, if Root saw her, she would say, “Sameen, you’ve lost your mermaid status!” even though Shaw’s hair went to just above the middle of her back. Still something Root could bury her fingers in when they found themselves in bed.

           Bear greeted her when she came into the kitchen, standing up on hind legs to lick her face. His muzzle was getting white. Shaw kissed him on the head and scratched behind his ears in that furious way he loved that caused him to elicit a long groan of pleasure. “Looks like we’re both getting old, huh?” He grunted, gave her cheek one last swipe of tongue, and lowered himself to all four limbs.

           A little later, around lunchtime, Shaw gathered his leash and the Ziploc baggie of his favourite treats. She would be meeting Root at Park’s Deli for lunch, and then they would walk together in Central Park or find themselves a bench to enjoy the early fall weather. She didn’t wonder what Root would think of her haircut, only that she may think Shaw smelled different because the salon used a different brand of shampoo.

           Outside, the leaves were just beginning to change colour. It was still early enough that the weather still got warm in the daytime but not bitterly cold at night, so most of the trees would keep producing chlorophyll until mid-October or early November, and by the time December hit a lot of them would be bare and the snow would dump itself onto the city, bringing with it a cold wind from the north. Maybe then, Shaw thought, she and Root could take that tropical vacation. Shaw tolerated the cold but it was Root who hated it, complaining about her joints or that cold wasn’t proper working weather. Root was from Texas, after all, so naturally that made her a wimp in weather that was less than forty degrees Fahrenheit.

           When they got close to Park’s Deli Bear tugged on his leash. They walked a little faster and found Root standing near the entrance of a restaurant, arms casually crossed over her chest, wearing black skinny jeans, boots, a comfortable-looking blouse that was slightly see-through, and her leather jacket. She smiled when she saw them approaching and, when Shaw was close enough, her hands automatically went to her hair.

           “Your hair’s gone,” Root said, fingers running through it and pulling a little when they got caught in knots. The sting was pleasant.

           “It was getting ropy.”

           Root’s smile widened. “Ropy? Never.” She crouched down to give Bear a kiss. “You’re getting a little grey around the chops, bud.” He licked her palm. “Want lunch? She says you haven’t eaten breakfast.”

           They ate their sandwiches in Central Park, seated on a bench in one of the more secluded patches of grass. The fall sun was pleasant on Shaw’s skin and once her sandwich was gone she tilted her head back on the bench, exposing her throat to it. She sighed, feeling content. Root’s leather jacket squeaked when she threw Bear’s tennis ball.

           “The results of the new Analogue Interface and Primary Asset came in,” Root said around the last half of her sandwich. She’d torn it in half to give the other to Shaw. “It took a little longer than I was expecting.”

           “We had to make sure they were the right choices,” said Shaw. She cracked an eye open but Root wasn’t looking at her. She was looking at Bear as he ran back with his ball in his mouth, tongue lolling happily out the side. Root picked up the thing that held the ball so that her hands wouldn’t get leaves or drool on them. When the ball was released it sailed through the air, much further than it would’ve if Root had thrown it with her hand. “Want to tell me who they are or do I have to break into your laptop in order to get the info?”

           Root chuckled and handed over the other half of sandwich. “Well,” she said, gathering her words, “She chose Gen for Primary Asset, though a temporary has been assigned—Jason Kramer—until she reaches eighteen in two years and has had extensive hand-to-hand and weapons training.”

           Shaw nodded. “Gen’s a good choice.”

           “She has all the skills necessary save for the two I mentioned, and She highly favoured her over others because of her skills in counter espionage and the amount of languages she’s learning.”

           “What about Analogue Interface?”

           “Claire.”

           “Samaritan’s former asset switched sides, then?”

           “It took some convincing,” Root said amid a sigh, bending down to put Bear’s ball away and instead take out his Frisbee. “Claire had first-hand experience with an ASI. The other candidates didn’t. She was also proficient in weapons training—got the highest scores—and showed great skill with cover identities. It made the best sense.”

           Shaw chewed the inside of her cheek. They had both been hesitant at the thought of Claire’s candidacy. She had worked for Samaritan after all, and who knew if some of those values she learned over there would come back to haunt them?

           “They’ve been talking more often,” Root added, now looking at Shaw full on. “The Machine thinks she’s the right choice. She’s hopeful of a recoding, like She did with me.”

           Shaw nodded slowly, absorbing the words. She sat up straighter and gobbled down Root’s other half of sandwich. She wanted a scotch to mull things over. “I need a drink.” She stood up from the bench, crumpling the wrappers and paper bag up before throwing them into the nearby bin. She whistled for Bear, who came running over. He dropped the Frisbee in Root’s lap and she wiped it off with the sleeve of her leather jacket before putting it away inside her purse. Shaw fed him a few treats before clipping on his leash.

           Root’s hand wove itself into the crook of her left elbow. “I think they’ll work well together.”

           “We’ll see,” Shaw said. “If I remember correctly, Gen’s got a knack for annoying the shit out of people with her firing off questions every five seconds.”

           Root snorted.

 Epilogue

Shaw’s hair smelled strongly of salt water and her brown skin like the sand. She’d darkened everywhere except where her bikini covered. It reminded Root of stripes, for some reason. Maybe because she thought of Shaw as a tiger sometimes, tough and fierce but secretly soft on the inside for the people closest to her. When she kissed her neck Root tasted the salt on her skin.

           It was three weeks into their tropical vacation. They’d stolen a small yacht and cruised to Maldives, Bora Bora, and their final stop was their very own private island in the Bahamas. The sun was low in the sky and a pleasant heat, though Root could feel her back getting sunburned. There would be new freckles on her shoulders that Shaw could press her mouth to.

           “She tells me that they blew up a basement,” Root said against Shaw’s stomach, slowly untying the knots that held the bottom half of her bikini together. “Seems like they’re having fun.”

           “What about the flash drive?” Shaw asked. She groaned deeply when Root began kissing up her inner thighs.

           “Secured. Guards were taken out, kneecaps only. It’ll be arriving at its destination in forty minutes, thirty three seconds.”

           “And the number?”

           “Safely behind bars for the next fifteen years.”

           Shaw’s hands buried themselves in Root’s hair. “Not bad,” she admitted.

           Root glanced up at the cottage. Her back hurt. She pulled away before she could kiss any higher, much to Shaw’s disappointment, and said, “My back’s burnt.”

           Shaw groaned and her head thumped back onto the sand. “That’s what sunscreen’s for.”

           “I’ll reward you generously if you massage aloe into my skin.”

           It was impossible to say no to that.

[thehymnforthealcohol]

To Ølekalender

As much as I love chocolate, these days I much prefer a nice beer. In a self-indulgent spur of the moment, I decided to splurge on an advent calendar from one of my favourite breweries: To Øl.

To Øl are a danish gypsy brewery run by the exceptional Tobias Emil Jensen and Tore Gynthe. Their beers are continually pushing the boundaries of what defines a beer, using high quality ingredients to offer innovative takes on a variety of styles.

Here is my rundown of my thoughts on each individual beer, as well as my thoughts on the advent calendar as a whole:

Day 1: Hundelufter Bajer

A really nice pale ale, with tons of beautiful mosaic coming through. I could drink this by the gallon on a hot summers day.

Day 2: Final Frontier

A lovely pithy IPA that’s practically a core beer in To Øl’s range - but one I’ve never had before. It’s the first time it’s been produced in cans and it’s great!

Day 3: Kaffe og Røg

This was one of my favourite beers from the calendar. It had a gorgeous coffee taste which was exceptional in its own right, but what made the beer unique was the underlying smokiness to it. It prevented the beer from being too one dimensional and made it complex and decadent.

Day 4: Sur Yule

Surprisingly, this was one of the few beers I had drunk before from the calendar. When I tried it I was a bit underwhelmed, so I was interested to try a fresher version. It’s a cherry sour, but I’m not sure to what extent it really works. In the fresh bottle the cherries were much more accentuated which was great, but it’s not a match for To Øl’s other sours.

Day 5: Sessions: Cloud 3 Wit

I initially thought this was just a filler beer, but it was actually really quite nice. It’s a witbier with orange and mango, so it was incredibly refreshing, but it was unfortunately devoid of any lingering aftertaste.

Day 6: Raid Beer

I seldom drink pilsners these days. Many are by-the-numbers lagers, and attempt to pander too much to a casual beer drinker. However, this was fantastic. It’s SO hoppy and floral. This is what a pilsner should be like, showing that flavour and taste need not be a mysterious concept when making a pilsner.

Day 7: Santa’s Hibernation

This was like an amped up version of Cloud 3 Wit. A very nice wheat beer, at a spritely 6%.

Day 8: My Pils

This was quite disappointing for several reasons. Despite the excellence of Raid Beer it was a bit of a shame to have another pilsner so soon, especially when this pales in comparison to it. Moreover, To Øl are a brewery famed for their innovativeness and creativity in beer, so a period of 4 days of quite samey beers made day 8 an especially dark (albeit pale) day.

Day 9: Sur Amarillo

I find single hopped beers a bit underwhelming sometimes, but To Øl have mastered this range of single hopped sours. Indeed, I’ve tried a few single hopped sours that taste very soapy, but this avoids that unpleasantness entirely and highlights the beauty of Amarillo

Day 10: Black Ball

This was a roasty imperial porter perfect for the Christmas season, but it unfortunately exploded on me upon opening. As a result, what should of been quite a smooth porter was a bit overcarbonated and thin to be truly excellent for me.

Day 11: Gose To Hollywood

Another beer I have had before, but I’d be more than happy to drink forever. It’s potentially one of my desert island beers, and one I could wax lyrical on for 2000 words. It’s sour and punchy with essences of saltiness. It’s only 3.8%, so it’s insanely drinkable, but it packs so much vibrancy and taste. I adore the artwork as well.

Day 12: My Sour Pils

After the lacklustre My Pils, I wasn’t particularly excited about this one. I was pleasantly surprised to find it was much much better and tastier. The sourness gave a complexity that was absent in the normal version, and defibrillated what was quite a lifeless beer.

Day 13: Say What?!

One of the problems of trying a range of one breweries beers in a short period of time is that you’re able to compare similar beers quite easily, as your fresh memory highlights what would usually be subtle differences. As a result, Say What?! compared slightly unfavourably to the better Final Frontier. Both atypical American IPAs, but this was a little less rounded.

Day 14: Brett & Butter

This was a beer that sounded really interesting on paper. Firstly for its excellent name, but also for its style. It’s a traditional Belgian table beer which is kettle soured and fermented with brettanomyces. However, in flavour this was quite unremarkable. Despite being quite tasty, the funkiness usually found through brettanomyces was nonexistent.

Day 15: Gose North

To Øl’s goses are mostly incredible and this was no exception. A salty gose with the interesting addition of quince and seabuckthorn was great. It was puckeringly sour yet devilishly drinkable.

Day 16: Frost Bite

I found this more interesting than enjoyable, and I think that’s down to my personal preference when it comes to pale ales. As seen in the photo, this was quite dark for a pale ale and I prefer them to be pale and juicy. This had the addition of pine needles and orange zesty to create a spicy Christmas pale, but one that was a bit too heavy for me.

Day 17: !!!PA Simcoe & Mosaic

I hated this. I especially hated it as I had been anticipating a nice strong beer from the calendar for a while and what I received was practically undrinkable. It was 13% and didn’t hide its strength at all. Again, my dislike is almost definitely personal preference. I just don’t think triple IPAs are very good, and needlessly strong as the strength delimits and negates the subtleties of other flavours. Indeed, many triple IPAs verge into the category of barley wines, which poses the question of “why not just make a barley wine?”

Day 18: Don’t Gose Towards The Light

As stated previously, To Øl make brilliant goses and I was especially looking forward to this dark blackberry edition to counter the woes of the previous day. Unfortunately, as the label states, the sadness will indeed seemingly last forever, as this didn’t work for me. The dark malts combined with the fruitiness of the blackberries gave the beer a very weird juxtaposition. Furthermore, I was expecting the blackberries to provide a sweet and tartness to the beer, but they tasted almost like they had gone off. Very strange.

Day 19: Totem Pale

Look... I don’t want to sound overly negative, but after two disappointing beers I needed something to cheer me up. An insipid 2.8% gluten free pale ale was unsurprisingly not the answer. If I was a teacher at a parents evening, I would tell the parents of To Øl that they had started the month well, but they’ve become distracted and their work has suffered.

Day 20: Tripel Trouble

Thankfully, To Øl raised their game towards the end of the advent calendar and provided a really solid tripel. I think tripels are really hard to get right, and despite this being far from perfect, it was full of honey loveliness. Indeed, despite it’s 7% strength it was very easy-going.

Day 21: Sur Galaxy

This was a ridiculous beer! Without sounding horribly pretentious, this is a beer that challenges perception. It’s antagonistic and challenging, and ultimately a great beer. I’ve no idea to what extent I liked it or disliked it. It’s a single hopped black sour, and it’s extremely weird! In contrast to Don’t Gose Towards The Light, it creates a juxtaposition between sourness and roastiness in the best possible way!

Day 22: Black Bauble

One of the problems with the advent calendar was the lack of stouts, which I believe are perfect for the winter season, and a style that To Øl are generally fantastic at. This was a much needed imperial porter, with added cardamom and orange peel. Christmas beers are often on the wrong side of spiciness or fragrance, but this was really complementary towards what was a luxurious beer.

Day 23: Santa Gose F&*% It All

A really nice gose, again. This time with passion fruit, guava and mango. A bit less salty and sour in comparison to their other goses, which I think was a good idea to subsequently accentuate the juiciness of the added fruit.

Day 24: Snowball Saison

I think overall this was quite a disappointing finisher for Christmas Eve. To Øl do many fantastic big beers which would’ve been perfect (not least their lovely imperial stout Jule Maelk) to celebrate the end of the calendar. The beer itself was thankfully a really good take on a saison, but unspectacularly so.

Overall, I really enjoyed the experience of the advent calendar. To have a curated selection of beers from one of my favourite breweries, all fresh, was great. Moreover, it’s been really fun to look at it critically and analyse each one for this blog post. However, I’m not sure it has represented great value. There was a complete lack of stouts and higher abv beers in favour of few duds which do not really represent the quality of the brewery. Despite this, advent calendars are definitely hard to get right, as there’s no way you can appease everyone. I think To Øl managed to counter this by providing a fairly diverse range of styles, with most of the beers having quite a unique and innovative twist.

[carolcooks2]

Welcome to my new series…food-related of course…I was challenged way back at the beginning of this year by Pete…who suggested that maybe I should use ingredients and cooking methods where the letter used, for example, was the last letter i.e Pizza(A)…

On reflection, I think it was a good idea although how I will fare when I get to some letters I am not sure if it will be doable but I will give it a good go… I am not one to back of if challenged…hehe

Today it starts with Bicarb(B)

Bicarb – Also known as Sodium bicarbonate, aka baking soda…Baking soda tends to be the American name, while in the UK and in Australia we tend to call it bicarbonate of soda (Bicarb).

Bicarb, or baking soda, is an alkali that is used to raise soda bread and full-flavoured cakes such as gingerbread, fruit cake, chocolate cake, and carrot cake. It needs an acid (as well as moisture) to activate it so is often combined with cream of tartar, yogurt, buttermilk, or milk.

Bicarbonate of soda gives off carbon dioxide, which expands in a mixture. Once the mixture is cooked, the carbon dioxide is replaced by air, leaving a light cake or bread.

As with all raising agents, use the amount specified in the recipe. Adding extra bicarbonate of soda can result in a peaked or collapsed cake, a strong unpleasant flavour, and a greenish tinge.

Carob –  I have just learned something I thought carob was another name for cocoa well it isn’t…Carob powder and carob chips are similar to cocoa powder and choc chips in colour, however, carob is less bitter and has a naturally sweet flavour.

It is also caffeine-free and higher in fibre…It can also be used as an alternative to cocoa powder and by adding coffee it will also taste like chocolate.

Carob bean juice can also be used as a safe and effective way to treat diarrhea in children.

Crab – Who doesn’t love a crab sandwich or a crab curry? I know I do … There are thousands of different types of crabs that are divided into over 850 species. Most varieties of crab have a hard outer shell (called an exoskeleton), 3 walking legs on either side of their body, and 2 pinching claws.

Of course, like other foods, there are always the more popular of the species which we love to eat…King crabs are one of the most common and best types of edible crabs due to their large size and delicate taste.

Of the smaller crabs, the one which is very popular here are Blue crabs which are a type of swimming crab that have 2 paddle-like feet to help it swim. In fact, its scientific name literally means ‘beautiful savory swimmer.’

Crumb – a very small piece of bread, cake, or biscuit…which has many uses it can be used to coat meat or fish or as a sprinkling with some cheese on top of an au gratin…

Biscuit or cake crumbs can be used as a fruit topping or toasted and used to top ice cream or as a decoration for a dessert…So whatever you do don’t waste anything like this as it can be made into crumbs…

Corncob – the part of the maize plant on which the grain grows…

A popular and tasty vegetable which can be boiled, baked, BBQ’d…Cut from the cob and made into creamed corn, or eaten as a side or a topping for a jacket potato it is very versatile, plentiful, and tasty…

Curb –delivery (food industry term):      The practice of delivering an order in bulk to the pavement in front of a retail store; or from the tailgate of a truck to an adjacent platform

Herb – A Culinary herb, which is available fresh or dried, include basil, bay leaf, chervil, marjoram, mint, oregano, parsley, rosemary, sage, savory, tarragon and thyme. Used for their aromatic properties, flavour, and texture.

Hobnob- A New World style of wine that is evenly balanced, fruit-forward, with a rich mouthfeel and hints of oak. 5 popular varieties – Pinot Noir, California Chardonnay, Merlot, Red Blend, and Cabernet Sauvignon. …

Hobnob is also a biscuit/cookie …It is the brand name of a commercial biscuit. They are made from rolled oats and jumbo oats, similar to a flapjack-digestive biscuit hybrid, and are among the most popular British biscuits. McVitie’s launched Hobnobs in 1985 and a milk chocolate variant in 1987. Wikipedia

Honeycomb- A honeycomb is a mass of hexagonal prismatic wax cells built by honey bees in their nests to contain their larvae and stores of honey and pollen.

  This is my lovely fresh honeycomb…

Honeycomb is also a lovely sweet which can be covered in chocolate crunchie or used in desserts…

  Made with golden syrup, sugar, and bicarb it is fun to make and although very sweet good to eat as a treat or stir some through your ice cream.

Ingredients:

butter, for greasing

200g caster sugar

5 tbsp golden syrup

2 tsp bicarbonate of soda

Let’s Cook!

Butter a 20cm square tin.

Mix 200g caster sugar and 5 tbsp golden syrup in a deep saucepan and stir over a gentle heat until the sugar has melted. Try not to let the mixture bubble until the sugar grains have disappeared.

Once completely melted, turn up the heat a little and simmer until you have an amber-coloured caramel (this won’t take long), then as quickly as you can turn off the heat, tip in 2 tsp bicarbonate of soda and beat in with a wooden spoon until it has all disappeared and the mixture is foaming. Scrape into the tin immediately but be careful as the mixture will be very hot indeed..be careful…

The mixture will continue bubbling in the tin, simply leave it, and in about 1 hr – 1 hr 30 mins the honeycomb will be hard and ready to crumble or snap into chunks.

Enjoy!

Kebab- I love a good homemade kebab either formed around a skewer and then cooked on the BBQ or if I am making chicken kebabs then I use lemongrass as my skewers and then they impart a lovely lemon flavour. or marinate your meat and skewer it with onions and peppers and pop on the barbie…

or make your own kebab meat like I did the other week and make your own pitta with love green chilli peppers.

Lamb- A meat I cannot always get here and to my way of thinking lamb, if it is lovely spring lamb, is best eaten with jersey royal potatoes and fresh peas and beans…

Rhubarb –A perennial plant with thick red stalks and large green leaves that are poisonous. The stalks have a tart flavor and are often used in pies and tarts. My favourite rhubarb pie and custard.

They do have absolutely glorious looking leaves but never ever be tempted as they are poisonous to eat…

Scab – Causes rough scabby patches on the potato skin and the flesh underneath. It is unsightly and can affect storage potential. Any potatoes with scab should be used quickly.

Shrub – An old-fashioned sweetened fruit drink, sometimes spiked with liquor which seems to be having a revival over recent years. All you have to do is make a flavoured vinegar for wonderful drinks with soda and ice or with cocktails…

Sparerib – The long cut of meat from the lower breast bone of the hog. Spareribs are best cooked slowly so that their fat can be rendered and they can become tender.

These were absolutely delicious…finger bowls required and a bib…

Squab –  is a young domestic pigeon, typically under four weeks old, or its meat. The meat is widely described as tasting like dark chicken.

Syllabub – An English dessert comprised mainly of whipped cream sweetened with sugar and flavoured with sherry, brandy, or Cointreau. Lemon zest, fruit preserves or puree may also be swirled into the cream.

That’s all for this week see you in two weeks for the letter C (organiC)

Please stay safe as it seems in some places lockdowns are being introduced again…not good xx

About Carol Taylor:

Enjoying life in The Land Of Smiles I am having so much fun researching, finding new, authentic recipes both Thai and International to share with you. New recipes gleaned from those who I have met on my travels or are just passing through and stopped for a while. I hope you enjoy them.

I love shopping at the local markets, finding fresh, natural ingredients, new strange fruits and vegetable ones I have never seen or cooked with. I am generally the only European person and attract much attention and I love to try what I am offered and when I smile and say Aroy or Saab as it is here in the north I am met with much smiling.

Some of my recipes may not be in line with traditional ingredients and methods of cooking but are recipes I know and have become to love and maybe if you dare to try you will too. You will always get more than just a recipe from me as I love to research and find out what other properties the ingredients I use contain to improve our health and well being.

The environment is also something I am passionate about and there will be more on this on my blog this year

Exciting for me hence the title of my blog, Retired No One Told Me! I am having a wonderful ride and don’t want to get off, so if you wish to follow me on my adventures, then welcome! I hope you enjoy the ride also and if it encourages you to take a step into the unknown or untried, you know you want to…Then, I will be happy!

Please stay safe and well and follow your governments safety guidelines remember we are all in this together xxx

        The Culinary Alphabet with a twist…The letter B(herB)

Welcome to my new series…food-related of course…I was challenged way back at the beginning of this year by Pete…who suggested that maybe I should use ingredients and cooking methods where the letter used, for example, was the last letter i.e Pizza(A)…

The Culinary Alphabet with a twist…The letter B(herB) Welcome to my new series…food-related of course…I was challenged way back at the beginning of this year by Pete…who suggested that maybe I should use ingredients and cooking methods where the letter used, for example, was the last letter i.e Pizza(A)…

[vapinghut-blog]

Fixing A Vaper’s Tongue

If you’ve managed to read those two words without suffering a violent body shudder, you’ve obviously never experienced vaper’s tongue first-hand. That’s great – I truly wish you never do! However, stuff happens, and you might not be lucky enough to live in blessed ignorance for the rest of your vaping career, especially if you’re an enthusiastic vaper.

Imagine loving music and then becoming hearing-impaired (or completely deaf) for a full week. Or, being a painter and going blind, but just over the weekend. These examples are a little extreme, but losing one of your senses usually is just that – extreme.

Whether you’ve experienced it before or you’re just encountering it for the first time, vaper’s tongue is always an unpleasant experience. The important thing to remember, however, is that it usually passes fairly quickly and has no permanent consequences. That’s doubly true of the cases brought on by simple olfactory exhaustion or dehydration, the two most common causes for loss of taste in vapers.

Keep calm, breathe deeply, and read on. Together, we’ll explore what taste is, how it works, and how it can be altered. As a vaper, you rely on your taste buds to do what they do best, but you also have to keep in mind that they can be damaged. Here, you will find out what can potentially cause harm to them, how to avoid that, and how to, with a bit of luck, reverse the effects more quickly.

What Is Vaper’s Tongue?

As I’ve said, vaper’s tongue is a term coined by the vaping community to describe a medical condition that manifests primarily as loss or alteration of taste. In fact, it covers several different conditions, such as:

Ageusia – a complete loss of taste functions of the tongue. Dysgeusia – a distortion (alteration) of the sense of taste. Hypogeusia – the reduced ability to taste things. Clear-cut cases of ageusia (complete loss of taste) are pretty rare, and most often not brought on by anything related to vaping. Vapers tend to suffer primarily from taste distortion and the reduced ability taste certain flavor notes.

How long an individual case of vaper’s tongue lasts is highly individual – I personally still haven’t met two people who’ve had the same symptoms, severity, or duration. Also, I’ve lost my sense of taste several times since I’ve picked up vaping – each time was different; one time, my sense of sweet went on the fritz, and the other time it was the salty/savory perceptors not working right.

In most cases, vaper’s tongue clears up in a few days, or a week, tops. The first two to three days that loss is sensed acutely, but it slowly starts coming back – how quickly will depend on the underlying cause. That said, vape tongue cases lasting for well over a month are not unheard of. Reddit is full of stories of distressed vapers who woke up one morning not able to taste anything – their food, drinks, vapes, nothing. It would last for weeks and then, magically, disappear overnight.

How Does Taste Work?

That’s a pretty good question. If you think you know how taste works, I’ll bet you $10 bucks that it’s a bit more complicated than that!

Here’s the basic stuff.

Our tongues are covered with anywhere from 2,000 to 10,000 taste buds. These little clumps of cells are grouped everywhere – from your tongue, the inner lining of your cheeks, all the way up to your palate. If you have 20,000 of them, then congrats – you must be a professional taster because, like everything else, taste buds thrive when they get the exercise they need. Taste buds have a pretty short lifespan – around 10 to 14 days – which is yet another reason why it’s unusual for vaper’s tongue to last for more than two weeks in most cases.

In any case, they allow us to differentiate between five main tastes:

Sweet Salty Savoury Bitter Sour So, those are the basics you’re probably familiar with.

But, did you know that your sense of smell has plenty to do with what and how you taste? The brain is getting signals from both organs, which are then combined. What we actually taste depends a lot on how it smells and how good our sense of smell is.

You can test this right now.

Pick up a bottle of your favorite vape juice and give it a good puff in your favorite tank, really register and note down all those complex flavors coming from it. Got it? Now, take a deep inhale again but, this time, pinch your nose, so you can’t actually smell the juice.

Notice anything different?

The taste was completely different. For most people, it will be quite subdued, like an echo of the taste you’re getting when your nose is doing half of the work. This is why some people have linked vaper’s tongue to olfactory exhaustion, and this can certainly be true. However, there are numerous (suspect) causes for this condition and that is just one of them.

6 Common Causes of Vaper’s Tongue

Next time you’re vaping and it just tastes bad, don’t blame you vape juice – here’s a list of things that could be causing it.

Damaged taste buds – there are just too many ways you can physically damage your taste buds. Drinks that are too hot or too cold, smoking, alcohol, infections, dry mouth, spicy food – you name it, it might just be enough to trigger a temporary loss of taste.

Some neurological damage can also cause it, as well as endocrine system problems (niacin and zinc deficiency). Taste buds do recover with time, but it’s important to note that, as we get older, we lose the ability to differentiate taste as well as we did while we were younger. Using the same vape juice for a long time – a lot of vapers say that sticking to one vape juice flavour will make it dull and bland. There’s truth in that – your brain gets used to the same stimuli and registers it less and less. It’s called olfactory exhaustion (or fatigue).  In extreme cases, this dullness will become so noticeable that we can definitely chalk it down as vaper’s tongue. It’s nothing alarming – it’s the bodies way of telling you that you’re having too much of a good thing and your brain is getting overly stimulated by it. Switching things up always help. Dehydration – Dehydration causes your mouth to dry out and this can do some serious damage to your taste buds. Did you notice how, when vaping, your mouth seems to dry out a lot faster? That’s because both VG and PG trap moisture – that’s the most common side-effect of vaping. When that happens, a short film will form over your tongue, blocking taste buds and accounting for bad or almost non-existent taste. Blocked nose, infections, and injuries – since smell has a whole lot to do with taste, it’s natural that anything that interferes with it might reduce your ability to taste things. Even food tastes different (and awful) when you’re sick, so why should vape juice be any different?  Injuries to your nose will have pretty much the same effect. Best bet here is to rest and heal up – there’s no point in vaping, since you won’t be able to taste anything anyway. Certain medications – you’d be surprised how many medications can have a significant effect on the sense of smell. Next time your doctor prescribes you something, just give the side-effects list a quick glance – more often than not, you will find that that drug has been linked to loss of taste or smell. Certain cancer drugs can really mess up your taste buds, but the list of medications that will have an effect on them is pretty long – you can find it right here. Stress-related loss of taste – yep, even stress can deprive you of enjoyment in your favorite pastime – vaping. Since we’re all constantly under stress (work, family, FDA vaping regulations, you name it), this is happening pretty often now. Even if you don’t feel like you’re under any stress, your taste buds might be feeling the heat. Usually, these stress-related changes are small, but can sometimes grow to become significant. Change in habits – in most cases, beginner vapers will experience loss of taste because they are just that – beginner vapers. Their taste buds are still getting used to vapor and reeling from the complete shock of being smoke-free. If this is the case with you, then you will see a sharp improvement in your sense of smell in just a few short days.

Vaper’s Tongue Fixes You Can Try At Home In most cases, vaper’s tongue is a fleeting thing – it comes and it goes, and there’s not much you can do about it. Unfortunately, it’s just a matter of waiting it out. Still, if you’re a bit impatient, there are things you can try. Just remember that vaper’s tongue fixes are dozen a dime – every vaper seems to have something that works for them. The most reasonable explanation, of course, is that it just passes and then that gets attributed to the last wild remedy used.

In a nutshell, success with these fixes will vary. You’re welcome to try them, but judge for yourself how effective (or if at all) they really are.

Hydration – this tip makes sense (and it’s probably the only one that would hold up to rigorous scientific probing!). If you’re dehydrated, you are damaging your taste buds, but you’re also accumulating PG and VG on them. Drinking water regularly will clean your palate and is generally beneficial to your health. Shock your taste buds (and your nose) – some people say that all your taste buds need to snap out of it! They suggest sucking on a lemon (really!) or smelling strong smells such as coffee to get the juices flowing again.

Proper oral hygiene is the key – always! But I’m not sure that it helps with vapers tongue, though. Still, some vapers suggest brushing your teeth and using mouthwash in order to speed up the departure of vapers tongue.

Changing your vape juice flavor – throwing your brain a curve ball every once in awhile will be a welcomed change of pace. If you’re so used to what you’re vaping that may very well be the cause of your problems. Switch things up a bit and see where that gets you. Cleansing your palate with honey – raw honey works wonders for some people. Simply take a spoon-full and suck on it. Apparently, after you’re done, you will be able to taste everything better, from your vapes to your food. I will say that I’ve tried this with ordinary processed honey and didn’t get any results – it might be different if your neighbor is a beekeeper, so give it a shot.

Vaper’s Tongue – Is It Really That Scary?

You can bet your ass it’s scary, especially if it just happened to you and you’ve never heard about it before. But, take comfort in the knowledge that a vast majority of vapers is occasionally faced with this problem. It comes and it goes, and I have yet to hear about a case where it stuck long enough to become a serious issue. Patience is key with vaper’s tongue. You can try a lot of home fixes, but in most cases, it’s the time that heals it.

So chin up – your sense of taste will be back in no time and you will soon be enjoying your vape pen or wax pen like nothing ever happened.

If you have any remedies that worked for you, make sure to drop down to the comments section and tell the world about them. Seriously, however weird you think your solution is, it can’t be worse than the guy’s who encouraged a whole Reddit thread to chew unused tampons!

[dragonfoodadventure]

Chocolates From Japan!

I had bought an assorted thing of small Tirol chocolates from japan and I finally got them! So I’m gonna record my thoughts on the different ones!! 

They look super cute! 

I’ll be eating them row by row, leaving the bigger one on the right for last. 

I’m pretty sure some of these are all just milk chocolate with different wrappers, however I’ll still try them in case, and who complains about MORE chocolate? 

1. Frankenstein! First of all he’s really freaking cute. I was surprised to see on the inside there seems to be white chocolate on the inside, it’s tasty! not just solid brown chocolate! 

2. Coffee Nougat Ghost pal! I love his lil grin. I love coffee so I’m excited for this one. Inside is a firm chewy nougat, with some coffee flavor, it’s nice, and the thing i love with the Japanese chocolates I've had is that they’re not too sweet. The nougat however does have a slight sweetness which lingers unlike the chocolate which has a sweetness that doesn’t linger too much. Which i like. 

3. Pistachio! ooh! It’s a pale green coloured chocolate, like VERY light and pale and seems to have chunks of pistachio inside, Lets take a bite! It’s definitely a white chocolate, again like most of the chocolates I've have from japan, not overly sweet, Very nicely flavored like pistachio, with crunchy crispy bits that might not be the actual nut, but something flavored like it. over all very enjoyable! 

3. Next we have mixed berry! I’m not a huge fan of berries however i’m very excited since so far the flavoring and sweetness in these chocolates have been very good. A light pink colour is to the chocolate and it certainly has a strong berry smell for such a small piece of chocolate. Taking a bite, it has the same crunchy consistency as the pistachio chocolate, however the berry flavor is much stronger than that the pistachio chocolate had. However even as the flavor of the bits in the chocolate are stronger, I certainly still enjoyed it. It especially doesn’t taste fake like a lot of berry flavours I've had in products here in canada have. 

4. MILK. I have a hunch that unlike the Frankenstein chocolate, this one’s gonna be all white. Yep! and it smells really good! Oh wow, unlike the past two that shared the same wrapper style, this chocolate’s very soft and in the middle feels like a fondant or marshmallow like filling- definitely like marshmallow. It’s a very mild flavor, Super lightly sweetened. I very much enjoyed it and it was interesting texture wise.

5. Strawberry Jelly! I’m guessing this has jelly in the middle and is either a strawberry chocolate of a usual milk chocolate. Ooor both! the bottom is milk chocolate while the top half is strawberry- which shows in the smell as it smells very much of both. just from looking at it as it it definitely looks to have jelly in it! And it does! however not the kind i was thinking. It’s like a soft gummy that is easily bit through, and tastes like strawberry jam. Enjoyable and typical flavor for a strawberry desert, however not at all fake like the kind you might find in america. 

6. Last of the top row we have the adorable pumpkin which by the wrapper looks like it’s going to be pumpkin Biscuit! The colour of the chocolate is a golden-yellowy orange colour, and smells... I can’t actually place the smell, it’s not a usual scent you’d find in anything, the taste, definitely reminds me of pumpkin, however not in the usual pumpkin spice kind of flavour. It certainly doesn’t sit well with me and isn’t at all a flavour I enjoy. there was a biscuit inside, and other than the pumkin flavour there is some of the original chocolate flavour inside. Sadly though as I said I do not enjoy the pumpkin flavour. 

7. Starting off in the second row we have what looks like a strawberry and kiwi/melon smoothie! However I suspect this will only be strawberry. Opening it the bottom of the chocolate is a light de-saturated green and the top is a dark brownish-pink colour, both having flecks. Inside theres that marshmallow-like candy which i believe is common in japan. The main flavour is strawberry, however the majority of the flavour is a very soft, milky flavour that is very lightly sweetened. 

8. next looks like mochi? Matcha Mochi maybe? I’m super excited for this! I LOVE Matcha kit-kats and this looks definitly like matcha chocolate. It doesn’t smell strongly like matcha and the center looks dark and i suspect theres a filling inside! Very nice matcha flavour to the chocolate and inside is a soft gummy which i’m guessing is the mochi aspect of it? I’m very happy to have the matcha chocolate! I’m not a huge fan of the gummy inside however. 

9. This one looks to be a basic milk chocolate by the wrapper. Possibly the brand’s basic chocolate. looking at the actual chocolate however there seems to be something inside, however it is a milk chocolate around it. Ooh! Inside is, coffee? Or chocolate nougat?? It tastes very much like the coffee nougatt and I’m pretty sure is that! 

10. Next is Milk Choco Bis. Which is biscuit! It’s a milk chocolate with a biscuit inside And tastes very close to Pocky. 

11. White and Cookies, I’m assuming this is gonna be like cookies and cream. Yep! Very similar however not as sweet! The milky flavour to the chocolate is very good and this might even be one of my favourites! 

12. Next is another milk labeled chocolate and so far it looks like it might either be a solid milk chocolate or like the Frankenstein chocolate. Yep! Like the Frankenstein chocolate. Milk chocolate with a white milky core! 

13. Last of the smaller chocolates we have what looks to be a strawberry short cake? and that certainly looks like what it is. The chocolate itself seems to be a marbled mix of strawberry and some kind of bits inside. It’s reminiscent to the berry one, much lighter and has some fort of cookie and gummied fruit bits inside. Strawberry isn’t my favourite flavour when it comes to chocolate, however it wasn’t unpleasant. 

14. And lastly we have what looks to be deepfried banana? It’s smell is very much banana. and inside there seems to be another kind of cookie bits. The colour is very pale, almost white, yellow. The banana smell smells much like a ripe banana and almost smells spiced? Taking a bite, it tastes just like eating a real banana with some slight banana-bread like flavour to it. Theres gummy bits inside it, and over all this is a VERY good chocolate. It’s definitely my favourite. 

That’s all I have for this time, I have some kits i’m going to want to do, but other than that this was fun! I hope to get more chocolates to try and other treats! 

[lilydoughball]

… and HOT!

Like any good hipster, I adore coffee (and Twin Peaks). I never thought I would be such a fan of the hard stuff; I have always first and foremost been a tea drinker, but in my ever-advancing years I’m finding my tastes shift more and more over to the dark side.

”

Every day, once a day, give yourself a present. Don’t plan it, don’t wait for it, just let it happen. It could be a new shirt at the men’s store, a catnap in your office chair or two cups of good hot black coffee.

“

Recently, I got an email from a lovely lady on behalf of Greggs, asking if I would like to take part in a little experiment. To highlight their ever-expanding range of takeaway coffees, and in line with Fairtrade Fornight, it was my job to taste-test coffees from various high street retailers and see how they matched against Greggs’ offering.

Bemusing, you might initially think, seeing as Greggs more famed for their steak bakes than their caramel macchiatos. But judging by the declining quality of some of the more well-renowned barista houses (I recently had to take a drink back to Soho, it was that disgusting) I was intrigued to give it a try. So in the name of S C I E N C E, I prepared my heart for caffeine-induced palpitations and set off in search of the best cups of joe.

  RULES: 1) I’ll be judging each cup on the following criteria – taste, value for money, aroma, visual appeal and, because of Fairtrade Fortnight, sustainability.

2) In the name of science, I’ll be ordering the same beverage from each coffee house – an Americano, in the smallest size possible.

3) I’m also going to be adding an extra criteria of my own invention. An Americano is traditionally espresso and hot water, that’s it. It should always be drunk black. In an exceptionally old-lady-way, it irks me when I’m asked if I want some mysterious invention called a ‘white Americano’, and so if I’m asked this question then the venue in question will automatically FAIL.

First up was hipster favourite, Pret a Manger.

Pret a Manger

I adore Pret. I love their little sandwiches, I love their brie and avocado toasties, and I’ve never been let down on the coffee front.

I order an Americano to take away, please. “White Americano or black Americano?” Lily’s old lady criteria: FAIL.

After the initial disappointment of assuming I wanted milk in my coffee, this was a pretty tasty beverage. It was robust without being too bitter, and had a nice fullness of flavour. Taste: 4/5

It also cost a mere £1.80. Value for Money: 4/5

There wasn’t much of an aroma about it, which was unusual, but might have been because it was stifled for so long under that plastic lid. Aroma: 3/5

I can’t really comment on the visual appeal of it, to be honest, because by the time I had travelled to my destination and taken the lid of it was no longer piping hot. Also, it’s just a black coffee. There was also an unnecessary stick in the top of the cup, for some reason. Visual appeal: 3/5

Pret also seems to be continually aware of its social and sustainable responsibility, which you can see here. Sustainability: 5/5

All in all, this was a pretty good start.

Costa Coffee

Remember to look at the lens, Lily, not the flippy side screen. You weirdo.

Next up, we had Costa. I would never really gravitate naturally towards Costa because I always assumed it to be rather expensive. There’s also something a bit weird and fake about it, which I think comes from their strange red colour scheme. Either way, I just don’t really rate it.

“Would you like milk in the Americano?” Lily’s old lady criteria: FAIL.

The taste of this was very strange. It was almost thin, kind of watery, with a weird acidic tang. Taste: 1/5

While your fancier coffees might be pricey, a small Americano was £2. Not too bad. Value for Money: 3/5

Not much aroma to this thin, despicable brew. Aroma: 2/5

I do like Costa’s weird, ribbed cups though. It also had a nice crema on top. Not half bad. Visual appeal: 3.5/5

Costa is also doing their bit for sustainability – all of their coffee is Rainforest Alliance certified. Read more here. Sustainability: 4/5

This doesn’t stop it from being a terrible cup of coffee though.

Caffe Nero

The colour scheme of Caffe Nero soothes me. The aggressive font they have chosen for their branding does not. It’s for this conflicting reason I don’t often choose this place.

At first I thought that they might pass the first criteria. But then, here it came – the dreaded question. “Would you like any milk in the Americano?” Lily’s old lady criteria: FAIL.

This was by far the most bitter of all the coffees I had tasted thus far. It was also quite ‘thin’ in taste, not much to report back. It wasn’t dreadful though. Taste: 2.5/5

The most expensive so far at £2.20. The cup was also a lot smaller than the other places I had tried so far. Value for Money: 2/5

It had a kind of weird, muddy aroma. Even Tom remarked how earthen it smelled. Aroma: 2/5

I took the lid off to have a peep before sipping it and it looked a bit… grainy. Visual appeal: 1/5

Their sustainability and ethics policy seems a bit bullshit, to be honest. It’s all wrapped up in weird wording on this page of their website. I think they weren’t banking on too many people finding it and actually reading it. They only mention their beans being ‘sourced from clearly identifiable and traceable sources’, which not all of them can be, apparently. So they could be from anywhere, according to Caffe Nero. Sustainability: 1/5

Greggs

I saved Greggs til last, because if I’m being perfectly honest I was a wee bit worried about how it would measure up against the coffee giants. While their coffee comes out of a ‘push-a-button-and-ye-shall-receive’ coffee machine (as opposed to an Italian-style barista one with the knobs and steam wands etc), I was very pleasantly surprised.

EVEN GREGGS DIDN’T PASS THIS BLOODY TEST! She even pointed out where the milk was for the espresso we ordered!!!1! Argh! Lily’s old lady criteria: FAIL.

Not a half bad cup of coffee at all. No unpleasant bitterness, and a fairly well-rounded depth. It was very weak though, so if you’re a fan of strong coffee you might be disappointed. Tom had a double espresso, however, which was nothing short of smashing. Taste: 3.5/5

A snip at £1.50. Value for Money: 5/5

Not a hugely strong smell from my Americano, but the whiffs coming off Tom’s were pretty good. Aroma: 3/5

Both of these looked lush, to be fair. I have deducted a point because there was no sleeve on my cup and my little porky fingers were getting roasted. Visual appeal: 4/5

Greggs’ beans are also 100% Fairtrade, and they have been a Fairtrade Partner for over 10 years, contributing more than £1million through coffee sales alone. You learn something new every day! Sustainability: 5/5

In conclusion, it was a pretty close draw between Pret and Greggs, in my personal opinion. Tom made a very good point in all of this – coffee is just coffee unless you’re drinking something extraordinary which you’re usually going to be paying through the nose for. So really, if you’re drinking black coffee like me, then the most important factor is the price, which Greggs did win.

If I have learned anything from this challenge it can be summed up thusly: all High St chain coffee shops are much of a muchness, and you shouldn’t disregard something just because it’s cheaper than the others.

This post was in collaboration with Greggs.

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