#use memento AND LIE

[averagewatertypetrainer]

tatsugiri are so shaped i want to catch one so bad but alas. memento.

[blackwinged-soul]

Fictionkin privilege is being able to find kin euphoria entirely produced by others in fan-made merchandise.

(I just bought a print I’ll be hanging on my bedroom door. Gid|eon’s nicknames for H|arrow|hark. I do actually like them and they mildly amuse me, and also my bedroom door will perhaps need more decoration than my usual golden bird and the gargoyle... If I have the golden bird decoration as a piece of my hearthome, why on earth not throw a ‘kin reference there in place of my Earthly birth name?)

[fazcinatingblog]

Oh yeah, Tumblr, last night on the train home, I saw a man with "memento mori" tattooed on his arm... I couldn't work out the tattoo on his other arm, some kind of picture, it wasn't "through love, all is possible" or "light it up" or

[daisukitoo]

I am 15% of the way through Harrow the Ninth. There are no plot spoilers below.

"Second person, past tense" is a really weird choice for a novel's narration, and I will be disappointed if this does not pay off mightily.

Most pieces I see in second person POV are short stories. The goal is to establish intimacy and immediacy, and they are most commonly in the present tense. The notion is that the action is happening to you, right now, and you are finding out about it as you the reader go through the story. Occasionally you see such a story in the future tense, suggesting someone is prophesying to you.

Second person, past tense is someone telling you your own history. This is kind of weird. One assumes a Memento story with an amnesia premise, or similarly Merlin living backwards in time. The second person here raises the question of who is telling you the story. The past tense raise the question of why you need someone to tell you your own story.

That our protagonist is explicitly and demonstrably insane gives us a lot of "why," although the particular "why" depends on the "who." The most obvious "who" is that Harrow is telling herself her own story. We have already seen Harrow telling herself her own story within this story, so adding another layer of recursion seems obvious and later adding multiple seems fun.

But here we reach a fork that we cannot resolve this early in the book. Is Harrow in a moment of lucidity telling herself what she should already know? Is Harrow in a moment of insanity hallucinating a new history? Is Harrow just lying to herself because the ending of Gideon the Ninth was too painful?

Harrow the Ninth is sometimes described as gaslighting the reader about Gideon the Ninth. Someone is not telling the truth about something here. One character seems to have noticed, but it is hard to be sure when our narrator is unreliable and may be hallucinating and/or lying.

Gideon was a somewhat unreliable narrator not in the sense that she lied (except perhaps about her emotions, except perhaps mostly to herself) but in that she was not paying attention, like the meme post in circulation about a movie showing the start of World War I from the perspective of a pet pigeon. You can probably identify all the important plot points of Gideon the Ninth by how boring Gideon finds them.

Harrow is more classically unreliable. She has a skewed perspective, and within that perspective she hallucinates, and on top of those hallucinations she will deceive herself and others. This early in the book, we already have many examples of Harrow seeing things that aren't there. She tends to realize within a page or two that she is hallucinating. The big news at some point should be that those little hallucinations were within the context of a larger hallucination and/or lie.

And now I need to go finish the book so I can check my Tumblr notifications without worrying about spoilers in the notes.

[writingwithfolklore]

When your Antagonist is Also your Protagonist

                If there’s one thing humans are all really good at, it’s getting in our own way. Most stories have at least some element of protagonist against themselves—we create this block between our protagonist and what they want when we create their flaw.

                However, stories that rely on this conflict with self have to do a bit extra work. Internal motivations and antagonists are a bit more challenging, but still a valid way to introduce conflict into a story. Here’s three considerations for when your antagonist is also your protagonist:

1. What is preventing them from what they want?

This is the same question we ask ourselves when creating character flaws, but I think it deserves repeating here. There has to be something you can name that is standing in the way of your character, or this won’t work. It must be deeply ingrained, difficult to overcome, and effective in preventing them from getting what they want.

Maybe what they want is to ask out their crush, but they’re horribly shy. Or they want to take down their evil ruler, but they’re secretly in love with them. It’s important these are traits they can’t just snap their fingers and fix. Like, if your character really wants to win a weightlifting contest, the thing standing in their way can’t be that they’re just too weak, because people can work out and become stronger—that doesn’t make for a very compelling story, and it also doesn’t explain why they couldn’t have just done that sooner.

There’s a reason your character doesn’t already have what they want.

2. How will you use that to introduce conflict?

In order to be effective, this trait has to act as the antagonist, which means at every turn, they have to be thwarted by themselves. Maybe your character comes face to face with their crush and physically can’t talk and it comes off as awkward and weird. Or they’re approaching their evil ruler and can’t seem to pull the trigger.

Their inability to get over their trait should be frustrating and challenging for them. If it helps, think of it like a little invisible guy hovering over their shoulder and forcing them to do the opposite of what they want to do.

3. Other ways of standing in their own way

Characters can also be thwarted by their own minds in other ways. Some stories take the route of reality being unreliable, whether through drugs, mental illness, or a magical/fictional reason. Memento, the movie, is sort of an example of this, where because of Leonard’s memory condition, he’s unable to know who to trust or what the truth is, and what's a lie.

One of my favourite video games is Fran Bow, where the distorting of reality is both the problem and sometimes the answer.

                What are some other ways the protagonist can act as their own antagonist?

[grimmcheems]

Buff Chichi😤💖

Just thought it’d be funny to draw this, but at the same time I’m so mad we were robbed of a buff Chichi. Like….Miss Ma’am was the world’s strongest woman at some point and you’re saying she had no muscle mass whatsoever?!!?!?!asiwybfuheu

There is no way she wasn’t able to have that body 😭 I can understand maybe losing some of it when she was having Gohan, but to lose all that FOREVER?!?! Nahhhh. GOKU WOULD’VE BEEN ALL OVER HER TOO, don’t lie. Punching the air rn. This originally didn’t even have all the other doodles, it was just gonna be a meme art of Chichi carrying her man but it evolved during the second phase of the sketch 🗿

either way it’s a crime that we never see much of her to begin with, much less for her to actually have a body that could hold up to her old title. I’ve seen other buff chichi arts on here and they make me laugh so much bc y’all are wild so that’s why I made this😎. Anyways, if you are part of Chichi nation please rise up bc I don’t see many who appreciate her character, our queen was lost to bad writing and lack of screen time.😢

Also toddler Gohan is-aeljnfwljnf. He would def tell some bully that his mom can “beat their a$$”, though she would flip for just hearing about him using that language by his teacher and would more likely monitor him around Goku’s friends there on out lmao.

HC that OX King very much treats Chichi like a “daddy’s girl” therefore he always keeps mementos of her milestones growing up, hence the photos of her being ripped while going to tournaments or just training in their villages’ dojo. He got into scrapbooking when he got into taking more photos of her and definitely commissions or makes borders for them and adds stickers to them for funsies. :)

Goku may or may not also be a thigh type of guy, idk he would fr go wild with it if he had a more sculpted chichi but that could just be me🤷🏽‍♀️

[holybibly]

Divine Rosa  ❢ot8xreader❣ 

❣ Pairing: yandere!otx8 x reader

❣ Genre: Dark Romance, vampire au, angst, horror, yandere au, smut

❣ Word Count: 10.1k

❣ Summary: The moth always pours itself into the flame; what a pity that in the end it burns out. After the tragic death of her sister, MС tries to find answers to the questions she left behind. This leads her to a gated cottage town known for its luxurious rose gardens. In addition, there are also these mysterious men who manage all the affairs in the city. Too sweet, too helpful, too intrusive, and too in love.

❣ WARNING: only!18+ Themes of death, suicide, severe depression, stalking, blood, yandere behavior.

❣ Disclaimer: I don't support yandere behavior, stalking, or religious imposition. Themes include violence, obsession, possessiveness, and emotional or psychological manipulation. This book is intended solely for entertainment purposes.

❣ Chapter 1: Memento Mori ❣

Have you ever thought about death?

How many times have you asked yourself, “What will happen to us next?” “Is there something on the other side?” “Will we see the shining light at the end of the tunnel and the white-winged angels, or is it just darkness waiting for us?”

We constantly reflect on this, sitting in the noisy company of friends, frozen for a moment in cold numbness; late at night, when there is no sleep and gloomy thoughts creep into your head; on the subway, bus, or taxi returning home from work or school, desperately understanding the desperation of their situation; recurring days in endless solitude.

We should stop doing that. When the time comes, we will ask ourselves other, more important questions.

Nevertheless, we tirelessly continue to be interested in it. Again and again, until our clock stops.

Sometimes I think all we have after we die are flowers and regrets. In our soul, heart, and mind, every second, there are many events that do not obey any rules of formal logic. All that we lose at death. There is no longer the privilege of choice that we had in life; now we have to settle for small, choking on despair and memories, staring into our own reflection on a silver epitaph.

“Our love will stay with her forever.” It would sound like a dream if it weren’t such a dirty lie.

I don’t think love exists. It’s like a sweetener: we feel sweetness, but the brain realizes it's fake, sending out red signals warning of deception. But we still desperately crave this feeling, however painful it may be.

And yet, after death, our lives go on, and in some special cases, we find ourselves more alive than ever before.

It's our time to watch as the new story unfolds, and the usual roles are played by other actors. New names appear on the waiting list, and celebratory ribbons are given to the new queens. See how fake diamonds sparkle in their luxurious crowns. Despite that, you’re the star of this show. Your name is in the news, in the bold headlines on the front pages of newspapers, and every casual passer-by claims to have known you personally while you still existed in a small, closed time period called life.

So what does it feel like to be the only spectator in the front row? The main subject of general regret.

In our cooled consciousness, a sharp conviction of our own uselessness is born and settles. Friends we used to call the best put your stuff in boxes with ribbons of tape. A family that tears the remnants of your life apart, erasing your name from the family register with a sickeningly straight line of black ink. Acquaintances and colleagues, always smiling with an astringent sweetness that glues their teeth, easily remove your number from the contact list and open their palms in a welcoming gesture to those who came to take your place.

All of them, all these people close to us, express their false regrets about your untimely departure, putting a tick in front of the memorized phrase: “Ah, we are so sorry. She was young and beautiful.” Is that what they usually say?

That’s all; our race for popularity is over. The rules of good manners and standards of appearance no longer matter. Your thoughts, actions, and preferences belong only to you, and at this very moment, we feel freedom. Short time, but still freedom.

It is only a short moment until the lid of the coffin closes completely over us. And here we are, face to face with our past, alone.

As hard as it may be for us to admit it, it's true. All that remains for us after death is regret.

Each of us has our own. Someone feels regret for the love that he could not protect and the loved ones that he has lost forever. We regret the things we’ve done and the words we haven’t said, but most of all, we regret the time we’ll never get back.

The dead mourn more than the living.

Besides regrets, we’re taking flowers with us. Yes, these beautiful creatures are leaving with us to one day wrap around our bones, sever the grayish subtlety of our skin, and grow again above the ground, eating us like a parasite. 

The flowers also symbolize the grand finale of our celebration. When the music dies down and the curtain falls, they will be the only ones who will stay side by side while the guests leave the lavishly decorated hall one by one.

Have you noticed how many bouquets are brought to cemeteries?

I like to think of it as a peculiar payment for our rest. Maybe death is as in love with these deliciously fragile things as we are, and that’s why they’re leaving with us. Silent companions who hold our hand as we go into the darkness.

The path to the origins of the great Sanzu River is paved with bloody lycoris and mournful lilies. Truly a magnificent sight. Ugly and beautiful are two sides of the same coin.

When I was little, Mina told me many different stories. Some warmed my cheeks and stretched my lips in a happy smile; others were gray, like days with incessant downpours. I wrapped myself in blankets and warmed my palms with warm cups of herbal tea, but there were other stories that I didn't want to remember until now.

They were sinister, like a spider hovering on a web waiting to be sacrificed. The words were sharp; they pierced the skin, leaving long, stinging wounds. Meaning has always been terrible; like a blade in the tongue, it could not be swallowed and understood. I was afraid. I was scared to death. I could not sleep in the light of a bright day or in the mist of a starry night; in the coziness of the blankets, there was no warmth or protection, and the mocking laughter of Mina made it worse.

My grandmother scolded her and assured me that all this was nonsense, empty words, and legends formed from idleness, but I knew better. There was truth in Mina's stories, and the realization of this only made them scarier.

The most terrible of them was the story of a young man in black silk robes. Beneath the black veil was a sensual smile, and the fox's heterochromic eyes were alluring and sparkling like stars.

Was he a nine-tailed kumiho? A black reaper holding death itself on a leash? He may have been a vampire, desperate and thirsty, but personally, I was sure he was a ghost. A past woven into a single canvas, thread by thread, stitch by stitch. I think I saw him once, during the Lunar Festival. He was the center of my little universe, the otherworldly and inexplicable, his long black clothes flowing to the ground like a waterfall, and the diffused light of the treacherous moon embraced his silhouette like a caring mother’s embrace.

I thought the world was dancing around him. The children were running around laughing and circling like butterflies in the round dance; the couple were whispering nicely, their palms intertwined tightly, as if it would save them from the inevitable parting; and the others were simply enjoying the festival time, waiting for the sheaves of colorful fireworks to explode in the sky.

His eyes pierced my figure so greedily and sharply. I saw hunger in them. A thirst. A goal. 

And then I screamed. So loud and disgusting in a childish way. With a shrill screech, I rushed into the crowd, hoping to find Mina. The colorful ribbons in my hair rushed into the air, and the wind bore me the echoes of his sweet laughter.

He was mocking me. I could have run, but he could have caught me in a second if he wanted to. For a moment, I looked back to make sure that he was still standing there, covered with moonlight and a myriad of stars, but the long, flowing silk of his black robes melted like a mist in the night without leaving a trace.

Mina laughed mockingly as I clung to the lush skirts of her violaceous hanbok, sobbing, choking with tears, and pointing my finger in the direction where I saw the young man with the fox’s eyes.

After that incident, I didn’t sleep for days, couldn’t eat, and was afraid of every noise.

From that night on, I began to believe in ghosts. They are among us. We can see them, reach them, and hear their whispering voices. Science cannot explain them; they are not subject to it. They are mistakenly called fictions, twisted forms of memories that acquire real outlines and are indistinguishable from the real world.

Science calls it imagination; I call it another form of life. Ghosts exist. They’re always there.

The line between the dead and the living is thin and fragile. If you push it a little harder, it’ll shatter.

It’s true—life after death exists.

I was told once that death is like being submerged in water. First, the lungs start to burn from a lack of oxygen; the body gets heavier; the eyes are baking, but we’re still conscious; and the brain continues to function. Then comes the next step. Our body desperately clings to life, continuing to contract the heart muscle. Bam, bam, bam. Deaf blows on the rib. If you start acting now, there is little hope of salvation. No more than a minute. And then, after that, there’s the final stage. Clinical death. Smooth stripe on the monitor.

Our sinking is over. We have reached the bottom. We have met eternity in the muddy depths, blended with the muddy sand and pearls.

That may be true, but for me, death is no more than a moment—until the last flowers on the grave fade.

I never thought about dying. Until it happens to Mina.

The first time I met death, it was with my first breath. I was born with silence—too small, too fragile, and painfully quiet.

Then there were the piercing sounds of medical devices and the screams of doctors and assistants. I was taken away instantly and carried far into the sterile, transparent box. Death retreated, but it didn’t go away.

I was only three when my parents died. Mina was squeezing my hands and talking about a long journey. Grandma took us to her old country house, where secrets were hidden and hyacinths blossomed. At the time, the very concept of grief was not clear and tangible to me; rather, the feeling was like frostbite, when the skin was already dead, but the pain was absent.

So I knew death before I even knew it.

My grandmother died suddenly. Her life was cut short in an instant, like a thread brought to the flame. I knew it; it seemed long before it happened. That summer, I was going to be at a ballet camp, and Mina was the star of the school, and she was planning on spending time with her cheerleading friends. Just one call changed all our plans. Short skirts and ballet points replaced chrysanthemums and black ribbons. Mina was grieving, taking condolences, while I watched from the sidelines. Grandma's leaving seemed like a dull pain from an old injury rather than a sharp cut, and it was easier to deal with than I thought.

This was the third time I'd known death.

And then Mina happened.

The passionate, bloody, grandiose Mina's death. By closing my eyes, I could see her face again. White, sun-drenched, and blood roses, her long fluttering eyelashes, and scattered carmine strands of hair.

She was not at all afraid to die, as if this scenario had been memorized by her. Isn't it an innate instinct, a fear of the unknown, of death? We are frightened by monsters under the bed and horrors lurking in dark corners. We must be afraid of death. We are obliged to do this from the very moment we are born.

Mina was not afraid. She was never afraid of anything, unlike me.

Spiders, darkness, roses…

The list goes on.

When she died, I realized two things: one, nothing lasts forever, and two, I wanted to know what happened to my sister and what became her trigger. Big red button. At my request, an autopsy was conducted to rule out a drug-induced hypothesis that could have caused mental and emotional distress. Forensics found nothing in her lungs except rose petals. Mina literally breathed flowers. It sounded almost fantastical to me. Even her death was beautiful. Forever the first violin in the orchestra. 

The case of her mysterious disappearance was closed. There was no point in looking for someone who was already dead. I asked the detectives to continue the investigation, but despite my desperate pleas, the police were adamant. My sister’s once-radiant life was packaged in a pair of cardboard boxes with a large-scale signature in black marker. “An Mina, case 117”. With each passing day, everything about Mina sank into darkness, but the mysteries and secrets around her only grew larger.

Once upon a time, I could call Mina an open book. It was easy to read—all the emotions, character traits, and habits—everything in it was exaggerated; there was no middle. Her love was never a simple hobby; it was always sharp, risky, and passionate.

Perhaps that is why she so easily fell into an obsession with roses; her feelings took a dangerous path.

I wanted to know who gave her these fabulous roses, who sent her candy and little sweet notes. There was something wrong with all of this, and not just the fact that the lush pink buds didn’t fade. No. It was a feeling, something very ominous, like a calm before a hurricane. A frightening, unnatural silence when all is silent and the air is gathering in front of the thunder's stunning storms.

There’s a long, unrequited tranquility on the other side of the phone line.

In the Japanese language, there is the expression “koi no yokan,” which literally means the feeling of inevitable love for the person you first met. This is not love at first sight, but a premonition of future love. So it was with these roses; they were not evil as such, but they were the inevitable omen of his coming.

True evil does not come in the form of a little red man with sharp horns and a long tail. Evil is beautiful—almost religiously magnificent. His appearance is divine and seductive, attracting the sweetness of the forbidden. Of course, the Devil himself was once an angel. And not just anyone; he was God’s favorite.

So are these flowers. I’ve never heard of people falling in love with soft petals and spiny stems. No one ever sings strange prayers for roses and dedicates his life to them without a trace. Those roses were bigger than they looked.

I think that Mina’s death was not accidental; it wasn’t suicide. Something broke her, violated her mind, and eventually destroyed her. Whether they were roses or people who gave them, that was my question. It was a secret hidden in the white folds of her lace dress, the dreamy smiles, and the names she spoke with such awe.

During Mina's funeral, I was approached by one of the lawyers who handled her legal affairs. I had to sort out the property rights and the lots of pages with numbers, dates, and places. Mina left me not only secrets but also a great legacy. As it turned out, in addition to our common apartment, she had several other assets in her possession, including her grandmother's mansion, which at one time she received as a sole inheritance, shares in various companies, and investments abroad.

I am now the sole owner of all this.

I had no idea where to start looking for answers or where to find the keys to the secret locks. Maybe I can find something in her files between the lines and the capital letters, or maybe it’s all dry formalities. So, going to the lawyer sounded like a good start to me.

How many can hide from those who command our last will?

Even so, I didn't want to be alone with Mina's secrets if I could find something in her belongings. I decided to call Soomin, who was once Mina’s best friend, the closest, to be exact. She was always there, having fun and crying with Mina, supporting and comforting when needed. Soomin was an integral part of her life. My life.

After the incident with the roses, they split up, not on the best of terms. Their conversation completely ended, but I still continued to spend time with her, and we often went to brunch at various gourmet cafés that Soomin loved so much. She was an elite restaurateur and had great taste, not only in the interior but also in food.

In a way, she completely replaced my sister. Soomin always told me, “No orgasm can ever match a stunningly cooked fondant au chocolat”. Yeah, I could totally agree with her on that.

After dialing her number, I waited for an answer. The wait was not too long, and after the second tone, I heard the melodic voice of Soomin on the other side. “Hello” “Soomin, I'm sorry to distract you from work; can you give me a few minutes?

“Sarang? I can’t believe you finally called me. How are you feeling, honey? I’ve been really worried about you, you haven’t spoken to any of us all this time.” In her voice, there was a sincere concern that resembled a mother's. 

Soo has always been so caring and gentle. In her was the same fascinating brightness that Mina possessed, which brought them very close and became the strong foundation of their friendship, but unlike Mina, who resembled a raging forest fire, Soomin was a comforting flame of home. One was ready to destroy everything around her; the other collected ashes in beautiful vases and kept them as precious memories.

After Mina died, she was there for me when I especially needed support.

“Sorry, Soomin, I’m still trying to get over it." I sounded exhausted, even to myself. The days spent in voluntary isolation completely drained me emotionally and physically. I was the alarm of danger light for my friends. “You know, when she went missing, it was hard for me, but I was still hoping she’d come back. I convinced myself that Mina was fine and that she was enjoying life surrounded by her favorite roses.” It was the first time I had spoken openly about my feelings since Mina’s death. “I never imagined that my sister would slit her throat in front of me. I still have nightmares, Soomin, but I’m calling you for another reason, I have a little favor to ask you.”

“Sarang, you should feel like this; it’s okay. What happened to Mina traumatized you; damn it, it would have traumatized anyone if they were you. We agreed to give you time to get over it at your own pace, but when you didn’t answer our messages and calls, we started to worry. Eun Jung even offered to come to you several times; you know how she is.” She was anxious, and I understood why. “I’ll help with everything I need; just tell me how I can do it.”

“You agree too quickly, Soo.”

“Sarang, please stop. The only thing I can offer you now is my help. I can’t imagine how you’re handling all this, and if you need my help, I’ll be there for you. So stop denying me and tell me what you wanted to ask.”

“Do you remember Mina’s lawyer who approached me at the funeral? I think it’s time I met him. It’s all about inheritance and property, but there’s something else.” I started off insecure. “I want to find out who sent her those stupid roses.”

“Why?” in her voice sounded like sincere surprise. “If you were me, would you want to know how it all started?”

“Probably, but aren't you afraid? Judging by how it turned out for Mina,” she stammered for a second. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.”

“No, you’re right. Absolutely. I’m scared, and if things weren’t so messed up, maybe I would have done something different, but listen, Soomin, I have a strong feeling that I’m always missing something, and it’s bothering me.” “People don't change so dramatically, and certainly not because of the roses. You've been friends with her for so long, so you know her as well as I do, and we both understand that it's crazy to give up everything in your life for roses like that. Especially for Mina.” When I spoke my thoughts out loud, I was even more convinced that I needed answers. It really was crazy. “ She left so many secrets that I want to find a clue. I haven't told anyone, but the roses are still being sent. I received a call from the cemetery administration saying that her grave was littered with flowers, and they needed to figure out what to do with them. Not only that, but I also received several bouquets.” There was no point in hiding it anymore. If I want Soomin to help me, she needs to know about those roses that were sent to me.

“My God, Sarang, you should have told me right away. Did you talk to JiHo? This is an abnormal situation. What if you’re being chased, Sarang? I don’t know, it’s all so scary.”

“You have no idea, but I don’t think we should talk about stalking.”

“Why? Maybe it’s a stalker or serial killer; you should be careful. Please tell me JiHo is living with you now.” “First, I don’t think anyone in their right mind is going to come after me, and second, JiHo and I took a pause.”

“Did you break up?” she asked with an incredulous echo.

“I'm not sure if you can call it a breakup.”

“God, the bastard left you. I always told you he was a rare asshole and would run away at the first opportunity.”

“Soomin, let’s not talk about it, but if you want to hear it, yeah, you were right about him.” The memories of our conversation with my ex were still fresh and festering in my mind like a ball of worms.

It’s very convenient to hide behind phrases like “let’s take a break,” “you need time to figure things out,” “emotional vacation,” etcetera. No one wants to be a part of your grief. At this party, the cake belongs entirely to you.

“Okay, let’s close the JiHo thing. Tell me, do you know anything about who sent the roses? Any ideas?”

“Absolutely nothing; I’m stuck. There’s nothing that can help. No address, no sender’s name, Maybe we can find something in her files or stuff; I don’t know.”

“Yes, it’s possible. When do you want to go to a lawyer?”

“This Friday, if you’re free?”

“Give me a minute,” the papers rustled on the other side, Soomin clearly trying to find the day she needed in her diary. Knowing the nature of Soo, it was difficult to make out anything there; her records were always chaotic, and careful planning was not her forte. In this, too, she was similar to Mina.

“I’m totally free. How about going to brunch first and then to the lawyer?

You could use some fun, and I’ve always wanted to go to this new trending place. I hear they serve incredible fondant au chocolate, and the owner looks like God cut him out. How does that sound? “First, tell me, are we going there for the fondant or the owner?”

“You can’t judge me; everyone’s talking about how attractive this man is; I just want to see.” Soo softly dissipated.

“Have you betrayed your love of chocolate for a man? Kim Soomin is something new. Anyway, everything sounds great. Let’s go and see if those rumors are true, but if I were going there solely for the chocolate,” I smiled at that thought. I’ve really been lacking in communication lately. We should start coming back to the real world. “Do you know the address?” “Sure, I’ll pick you up at 11:00. Please wear something prettier than a black dress.” “It’s a classic, and thank you again, Soo.”

“You have nothing to thank me for, Sarang. Finally, I can call you like that, you know, Rosa, it doesn’t suit you. I’ll see you Friday, baby.”

“I think so, too. Until Friday.” I put the phone aside, taking a deep breath. The long stems of white roses had folded in half in the cramped bin. A luxurious wrapping in a rare shade of Solferino and embroidered topaz ribbons lay next to the bulky pile, and a small note was shrunk into a perfect ball that was also lying in the trash.

Whoever sent those flowers should have stopped doing that. I’m not Mina. I don’t like roses.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

How quickly does the waiting time pass? We count the days, the hours, and the minutes until the exciting event we’re expecting, circled by a thick red line in the calendar, but is it really worth our time, which life has measured for us?

It's so strange; the days are like bottles of sand thrown by a restless ocean onto a flickering glass bank. I remember this one, crystal blue—it smells like strawberry cheesecake and summer heat. And this one, made of gloss and pearls, is full to the brim with grave earth and chrysanthemum petals. I like the one that sparkles with diamonds from the royal frosted glass; it smells like a lover’s pillow, and there are memories of the first love. There is another, very ordinary, and therefore the most precious—empty and at the same time full. If you open it, you can hear the gentle wind whispering your name.

My life is all about memories now. I’m just trying to keep what’s left.

The rest of the week passed unnoticed by me. Time, like the rapid trains at the station, rushed by, and I kept waiting to see the stop I needed in this incessant turmoil.

Existing in space is very simple when it belongs only to you. I did actions that were memorized to the finest detail, simple mechanisms that gradually brought me back to my normal state. Feed the neighbor’s cat. Do the cleaning. Go for a walk. Check the mail. Cook dinner. Ordinary things to take your mind off the colorful bottles on the shelves of consciousness and the endless cycle of nightmares.

And I also noticed that at night, time flows more slowly. Second by second, replace the glowing dial until dawn. And so on until the ruthless rays of the sun insidiously penetrate between the tightly woven threads of heavy boudoir curtains, and the golden shadow spills over the pampered skin like boiling water.

I think I'm allergic to the sun and, therefore, to the stars.

Maybe the whole world.

Today I woke up earlier than usual. Somewhere below the horizon, the sun splashed in the golden ichor of the predawn twilight. Yoru stretched out at the foot of the bed, warmed by tiny drops of warm light that seeped into the room through the window. Last night, she refused to leave, stubbornly ignoring my presence and my tender pleas to return home to her mistress.

Yoru was my neighbor’s cat, perfectly embodying all its best features: a slightly aggressive, capricious, and having a little bit of arrogance. Despite this, she had a strange affection for me and often stayed at my house if she was in the mood.

Other tenants avoided Yoru, considering her a bad omen, and it was not only the polished glossiness of her black fur; she always appeared where death later came. I didn't care; I've always loved cats, and having one of them in my house was a bit of comfort. I wasn't alone.

Sensing my awakening, her almond-shaped eyes flashed with the sharp color of precious stones in the slits of the eyelids—a thick amber glow, not yet warmed by curiosity or playfulness. Yoru tossed and turned, clearly unhappy that someone had disturbed her sleep, arched her back and closed her eyes again.

We could lie like this all day long, in silence and some strange harmonization. I’m sure she’ll get close to me a little bit later, calculating her every move, until he presses on his heart with a peaceful, relaxed purr. Unfortunately, today was not the day I could afford it. Soomin will soon be here, and I need to get a little tidy.

Shower. Food. Simple things. Jars of creams and neatly arranged lipsticks Are there certain rules of appearance when you go to a lawyer? What dress should I wear—a deep neckline or open legs? How decent?

Should I still look mournful? Should I wear a veil? Two months have passed; are other colors acceptable? What will he think of me?

So many questions were spinning in my head while I was going, and it seems to me that whatever I choose, it will still be inappropriate. The story of Mina was not a passing affair; probably everyone in the city had fleetingly heard about her death. One of my friends told me she was called “Queen of Roses” because of the flowers in her hair, and I saw the headlines of the “exquisite death” articles.

The black color dripped venomously to the floor with the long hems of the dresses in my wardrobe; the gray, like a mist, settled in the loops of cardigans and oversized sweaters; and the ghostly white terrified me with thin transparent lace and ruffles, just like on Mina's dress. The choice was not too large.

A jacket dress on a naked body made of thick matte silk, a little pearl, and a high choker collar with long falling threads, It was one of the old jewels I bought in a small antique shop. Vintage trinket in the style of Queen Marie-Antoinette. I had a whole collection of such chokers—some studded with precious stones made of expensive jewelry metals, others woven with the finest threads, like a skillfully woven web. Hard made of steel and leather, and soft, like angelic kisses, made of organza and velour. JiHo once said I had a choke kink if I liked things like that; maybe I did, but my ex was too “vanilla” to close his hands around my neck.

After getting dressed and styling my hair, I sat down on the couch and waited for Soomin to arrive. What should I do now? I was lost. Turn on the TV or read a book? Look at the news feed on Instagram; be sure to look at JiHo's profile to see his new photo. Does he miss me or not? Is someone else warming up his bed now that I'm not around? Is JiHo still wearing the same perfume as before, or has he found something different?

Anyway, I never liked his perfume; it was salty like tears and distant ocean breezes and rancid like decaying wood in the dense Amazon. He called them gourmet; I could only agree if they were worn by someone else, say someone more dominant and powerful. Maybe I would even find this strange, gloomy mixture of aromas attractive, inhaling it from someone else's hot skin and feeling with the touch of my lips a steadily beating pulse in the swollen veins on a strong neck.

How long does love last? Three years or more? For me, it's a moment; for others, it's an eternity. I loved him. It's true. Very strong and very long ago. My love did not resemble the indomitable elements or the explosions of colored fireworks; rather, it was the fragrant bloom of wildflowers and the scattering of stars in the sky. She was comforting, not passionate, and I wanted to see someone like me, someone who could comfort my heart and give me tenderness.

Tenderness and comfort alone were enough for me, but deep inside, I wanted something dangerous, something forbidden. I was devout, one of those people who are called “good girls,” but was it really me or the role that Mina gave me?

Maybe in the far corners of my mind, my thoughts weren’t as good and right as they should be. I didn’t even want to admit it to myself, but sometimes when I woke up from another nightmare, I was glad she was dead. Dark, reckless emotions made their way through my cracks; they were moments of despair as my anger lifted its ugly head and oozed poison and blood. My cruelty and hatred had the color of roses and smelled like chocolate. She had fox eyes and a seductive smile; desire flowed in her veins, and strangled thirst was heard in her voice.

In my nightmares, I saw not only Mina and bloody roses; sometimes there was a young man in long silk robes and a veil hiding his face. He's just a ghost; I met mine years ago, but somehow he seems more real to me night by night when he comes into my dreams without permission. He crept into them like a serpent-tempter into the Garden of Eden, slipping away at dawn like the shadow of two moons, hiding behind a door I could never open.

Unreal in my reality.

I felt the arrival of Soomin even before her long nails methodically began to knock on my door. It was as if the spell had been removed and all the sounds of the world had rained down on me in an instant. Yoru shook off her sleep and whirled around at the front door, waiting for an unknown guest. The clatter of high heels echoed in my apartment, slipping through the cracks of the door locks, and the thick smell of ambergris and blooming jasmine at night walked ahead of her, warning every one of her approaches. If I didn’t know better, I could easily have mistaken her for Mina. That was my sister once.

The whole world was just a part of her life; she was not part of the world. To be ordinary—what a bad form!

“Sarang! Sarang, open up. I’m here.” and in fact, her long nails caught on the dark wood of my front door, causing Yoru to bristle and hiss.

I was absolutely sure they wouldn’t get along.

“Are you awfully loud? Someone told you this, Soo?” I opened the front door wide, smiling softly. “I missed you, Soomin.”

“Don’t tell me about it; I missed that pretty face.” She hugged me, which made Yoru hiss again, attracting Soo’s attention. “When did you get a cat?”

“That’s not my, Yoru cat, my neighbor from apartment 1366, that door.” I waved my hand to the far end of the corridor, where Mrs. Lee’s apartment was located. “I like her; I don’t mind having the baby stay with me sometimes.”

“I see.” There was an awkward pause between us until Soo broke it. “You want to talk about… you know what.” She was worried about this topic; I could see it from the way she shifted from foot to foot, or was it from high heels? In the light of the electric lamps, the steel studs glittered like sharpened spindles from the tale of The Sleeping Beauty.

“Not now. Better tell me about this restaurant we’re going to.” Soomin was easily distracted if you changed the topic of conversation in the direction of a subject of interest to her.

I walked out of the house, taking one last look at Yoru. The cat didn't even think about leaving my space; he was already ensconced in a pile of pillows on the sofa in the living room. If she wasn't going to leave, I wouldn't force her.

“Don’t you need to return the cat to the mistress? She looks expensive.” asked Soo

“She’s a purebred Persian cat, and no, Mrs. Lee won’t worry about it; Yoru can stay with me for weeks before she comes home. This has happened before.”

“All right, if you say so.”

I shut the front door and turned the key, permanently cutting off my escape routes. Today. I have to do this today or my resolve will wear thin, and I will once again voluntarily isolate myself in the comfort of blankets and tightly closed curtains.

"And so, the restaurant..." This was the beginning of a long story that interested no more than random passersby in a faceless crowd.

“You’re going to love this place, I promise. Everything I’ve seen on their Instagram profile is so fascinating, but you know what makes this place really attractive? It’s the owner. Eun Jung was there last week, and she couldn’t shut up about…”

For the next 30 minutes, I heard about this trending establishment. “ Angels' Share” is the most requested boutique café in the last 3 months on all search engines. A luxurious café with exquisite dishes and a magnificent concept.

But most importantly, it is, of course, divine, and Soomin, the owner, was absolutely sure of this. Hundreds of girls lined up in endless lines from dawn to dusk, hoping to see him, at least for a moment.

On your first visit, the owner of “Angels' Share” personally serves you throughout your interruption there. Your name is inscribed in the book of exclusive customers in gold ink. Their main specialty is gourmet desserts, and if you are not seduced by the angelic face of the magnificent man who runs this place, then the sweets melting on your lips will do it instantly.

Full berries of scarlet strawberries in white Belgian chocolate. Mille-feuille with fresh wild berries. The devil's food is the most chocolate of all chocolate cakes, and, of course, the angel cake has the most delicate silk cream of exotic fruits.

As Soomin told me about it, she was clearly having an emotional orgasm. Her arousal was obvious, but I could not understand what she craved more: exquisite desserts or the sweet kiss of the owner.

“I think he's a real angel,” Soo finished her rant after giving a fiery speech about the unique beauty of a man she had never met in her life.

“I'm not sure if it's all true, Soomin, but you'll be able to see for yourself when we get there. You should not trust everything they say. You're too impressionable and trusting.”

We spent the rest of the journey in peaceful silence. This is the type of silence when there are a lot of questions in the air, but each side is not sure when to start asking them. I know she wanted to ask me a lot of things, and in response, I wanted to finally share my experiences and feelings that I had been desperately hiding for the past two months. Nevertheless, each of us remained silent, as if afraid to destroy fragile comfort with uncomfortable words.

When the car stopped, Soomin smiled approvingly at me, as if to say, “Go ahead, my girl!” She was good at it because she was also a cheerleader like Mina.

“Angels' Share” was impressive at first sight, and not only because of the long line of girls lined up in a perfect line and dressed in intricate clothes like collectible dolls on the shelf.

A myriad of flowers, lace, and feathers, pastel shades, and delicate ruffles—all of them looked like animated sugar fantasies. Their cheeks were dusted with pink blush, and their inflated lips were accentuated by a thick layer of transparent sticky gloss with a fine sprinkle of glitter.

Perfectly well-groomed hair is arranged in children’s cute curls or intricate hairstyles with hundreds of sparkling hairpins and velvet bows. The variety of their images was amazing, as was the height of their heels. This place was definitely something special if the girls were willing to sacrifice their comfort for a couple of desserts.

Or it wasn’t about desserts.

At such moments, I especially understood how much we needed someone else's approval. The list of items seems endless: he likes cute girls, girls with an athletic figure, pale skin, and big eyes; she should not be boring; my friends like her; she has long legs and a thin waist; and she is a certain height. I wonder if he'll use a ruler to measure me. Big boobs or a nice ass—which turns him on more? What will our first date be like? That's right; should I call him Oppa or not? Tell me what you want, and I will fulfill whatever you want. I will fulfill every one of your fantasies. Tell me about your desires.

Seduce me. Surprise me. Love me!

I don’t want to live like this. I want to be who I really am, with all my flaws and imperfections. I want to be sharp and rude; I want to be cruel and honest; I want to look as I want, without colorful tinsel and layers of makeup, with cellulite, stretch marks, and a little overweight. That may be so, but it will be me. Just me. 

The voice of Soomin ripped me out of my mind.

“I told you so,” said Soo smugly, purposefully heading for the entrance, circumventing a string of discharged girls. She was a lioness on a hunt, while they were stranded in colorful piles like scared rabbits.

If you do not pay attention to the girls, the exterior is fascinating. Gold, flowers, and crystal resembled the frame of a precious box. “Angels' Share” was positioned in such a way that the sun flooded it from all sides, creating around it a mysterious golden haze of sunlight and a dazzling iridescent play of crystals.

Everything was so beautiful, I won't deny it, but didn't the gingerbread house beckon the children deep into the dark forest where the wicked witch lived? Everything beautiful always has a downside, and someone knows how to mask it better than others.

While I was looking at the details, Soomin dragged me inside and was already talking to the host girl, who was checking the records for a long list of names. She also, like the girls on the street, looked like a doll. Her hair was long and shiny, tucked away from her face with an embroidered rim with Swarovski crystals, and her eyelashes were so lush that they touched her cheeks when she blinked. I would call her beautiful; she licked to perfection, which made it almost unnatural. She had a sweet, high-pitched voice and an overly friendly smile. Annoyingly friendly. 

“Please follow me; I'll show you your table. Since you have visited us for the first time, Mr. Yoon will personally take care of you today. Please enjoy your stay at “Angels' Share.”

YooA—that was the name of this girl—led us up the spiral staircase to the second floor. It seemed that everything around was carved from pale golden marble, with the addition of luxurious interior items and thousands of flowers—or, to be more precise, thousands of roses. Snow-white, cream, pastel pink, and soft peach—the whole space breathed rose buds that stood in tall transparent vases.

The sight took my breath away, and I was inwardly tense. It's okay; it's just a café, not Mina's apartment. You need to relax and not start panicking; it will not benefit anyone.

As if sensing my growing panic, Soomin squeezed my palm.

“Are you all right? You look pale.”

“Yes, it’s all right; there are too many roses for my taste; you know, it brings back memories.” I smiled tortuously in response to her words. I didn’t want to ruin her day; she was so excited and happy when we came here.

“We can leave if you are not comfortable, Sarang.” Soo still held my hand, gently walking her thumb over my palm in a comforting circular motion. “If you want to go somewhere else, this is fine. I can always come back here later.”

“No!” came out too loud. “No, I’m fine. I can’t wait to try their chocolate fondant. You know I’m here only for chocolate.” She said the last part with me in one voice.

YooA showed us our table, although it was more like a small loggia separated by airy chiffon tulle and pearl threads from the common room. I could easily fall in love with this place if not for the languid, enveloping smell of roses and the beauty of their lush, perfect buds.

“Do you think the rumors are true, and we'll see an angel appearance today?” Soomin leaned across the table to talk about the owner, not so obviously?

“I think you'll find out about it now, anyway.” I couldn't finish my thoughts, interrupted by Soo's enthusiastic sigh. It was a sound of undisguised admiration that she couldn't hold back, even if she tried.

The reason for her excitement was right behind me, and I had to look back a little to see what it could have been.

Of course, all the sounds of delight belonged to none other than Mr. Yoon. In part, I could understand why he was called angel-like. His beauty was painfully perfect, to the point where it became almost terrible. His face was beautiful—almost obsessively beautiful, like the face of a stone goddess on a grave. Surreal. The skin seemed to glow from the inside, like molten silver flowing through the veins. He had long hair—ashes, platinum, mother-of-pearl—everything mixed on a diamond cloth. One silvery strand fell delicately over his face.

Are the melodies of an angelic choir in the air, or does it just seem that way to me?

The more I looked at him, the more his appearance disgusted me.

I felt flawed and unsuitable, like a puzzle that did not fit the picture; my heart did not beat faster with excitement or sweet agony; I did not burn and did not desire it as it should. Between us, it was possible to draw thousands of parallels in a myriad of universes, and none of them ever intersected. Beauty is deceptive, like a serpent promising forgiveness. It’s the pain of a bittersweet injection entering our nervous tissue.

What do we know about them—angels? White-winged light bearers, without flaws and ignorant of evil and vicious desires, are submissive and faithful to their ideals and purposes. Silent watchers who look after our virtue. But there are those who are chained and silken, whose wings are torn out with bloody flesh, for they are sinners.

Their name is the fallen. Unforgiven. 

He was not an angel. He was one of them who traded the vaults of heaven for the flames and steel of the nine circles.

His presence was heavy, stifling, and sharp. Goosebumps ran through my skin as an omen of the imminent end.

I could have sworn that the second our eyes met in his eyes, the color of dark bitter chocolate, anger, and disgust thickened. So everything that is perfect collapses, falls, beats, and crumbles like the great walls of Babylon, kissing the transcendental peak of heaven. Like a Venus flytrap, his appearance was a clever disguise of vice and rot in a velvet cage of flesh, and this place is the very gingerbread house that beckons to certain death.

 “Welcome to “Angels' Share”. My name is Yoon Sung Hoon; I own this place, and today I will make sure your stay here is unforgettable.” The voice flowed like honey smoothly and gently, I could melt at this tone.

“I am Soomin, and this is Sarang; we have heard a lot about this place.” Soo’s cheeks were pink from a shy blush, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was embarrassed. This man was clearly something special, if he could make Soomin behave like a schoolgirl in love with just his presence.

His eyes rested on my figure for a second, and I wanted to shrink into a ball under this appraising gaze, as if he was trying to probe me and understand how dangerous I could be. It was only a moment, and then a smile shone again on his angelic face.

“I hope you’ve only heard nice things about us. What do you want today?” I wonder what he is used to hearing in response. I want you and your love, and I will accept everything you would not give me. Will you be my boyfriend? My husband? Will you give me eternal love? Judging by the expression on Soomin's face, this is exactly what she wanted to ask him, but she pulled herself up in time.

“I want to taste your best dessert.” As they say, kill them with your sweetness. Where has my self-sufficiency and t.” As they say, “kill them with your sweetness.” Where has my self-sufficient and confident self gone? Soo, this blushing mess was nothing like hers.

“Of course, only the best is for you. And what do you want?” All his attention was now drawn to me, and I had no pleasure. Yoon Sung Hoon is clearly not used to girls not falling at his feet like moths hitting the glass. Our dislike was mutual. Our dislike was mutual. “What do you want, Sarang? I would recommend one of our most special desserts: a white chocolate soufflé with candied scarlet roses.” Sung Hoon was smiling, but not at all benevolent; there was something mocking in the exquisite curve of his lips, as if he were challenging me: “Come on, try me.”

Roses. Those damn roses again. It always came down to these flowers. Were they my path leading away from the dark forest, or would they lead me straight to the crystal coffin in the tallest tower of the castle?

Instead of politely refusing, as a true lady should, I have given a crude, hoarse, and utterly evil speech:

“I hate roses.”

For me, flowers are as beautiful as the pain of a broken heart. You can call me a heartbreaker. What will your heart taste like? I'm so eager to try it. 

“My apologies.” Sung Hoon bowed his head, hiding his gaze in the lace of fluttering eyelashes and platinum bangs. With this simple action, Soomin once again made a barely audible, enthusiastic sound. “In this case, I offer you our signature chocolate fondant with raspberry jam and glass caramel glaze. Our clients say that he has a heavenly taste, so celestial that he can be sinful.”

Sung Hoon—there was something about him that disgusted me. His way of speaking, his appearance, his behavior—in general, every detail of it The most beautiful apple on the branch will always be wormy. I couldn't understand how he could charm girls in a split second, without any effort, as if it were in his blood—to cause desire and awe.

During our short conversation, Soo did not look at me once, inseparably studying every detail of the angelic man. If I make an incision in his skin, will the gold pour as befits angels, or will it be the viscous and black acid that Pandora once shed from her eyes?

I didn’t like it here. I didn’t like Yoon Sung Hoon, and he probably didn’t like me. How was I in his eyes—insignificant, puny, ordinary? Our dislike was mutual but totally unfounded; I just knew I didn’t want to be in the same space with him. I can’t breathe.

Guests always leave after dessert. I didn't want to linger, so I agreed to fondant. “Okay, I'll take fondant and cappuccino.” I looked at Soomin again; her thoughts were clearly elsewhere, judging by the bitten lower lip and flushed cheeks. “And matcha latte, please.”

“Of course, ladies…” With this phrase, he finally left us, and I sighed deeply.

“I think I'm in love, Sarang.” Apparently, with his passing, Soo’s brain has resumed active activity. “He absolutely justifies all the rumors about him.”

“Yeah, I can agree with that; he’s definitely something very special.”

After Sung Hoon served desserts and another 10 minutes of heated discussion of his appearance, our conversation took its normal course. It’s like ping-pong; the rules are very simple: move from one question to another, follow the theme, and don’t miss your turn. “How's the work?” “Everything is fine.” “How’s your boyfriend?” “You remember I told you we broke up?” “What have you been doing lately?” “Too much to do; I can’t remember, but recently I came back from Japan”, “Did you like it there?” “Great seats and great cuisine.” “How do you feel, Sarang?” Say it again; I didn’t hear you.

“How do you feel, Sarang?” Once again, you speak unclearly.

“How do you feel, Sarang?” It's so loud here, I can't hear you.

“Sarang?!” Can I skip my turn? I’m tired of this game.

I took a deep, slow breath.

“What do you want me to say, Soo? Something that will calm you down or something that should comfort me? ”

“Truth, Sarang. I want to hear the truth from you.” Soomin looked at me so carefully that it seemed as though she was looking straight into my soul.

My mind moved from one thought to another, not knowing what it would focus on. Truth. What is it like, this truth? She is like a beautiful, spiritually disheveled monster with a lesbian couple of black widows in an aquarium; she exists in an endless eternity of joyful decadence and an ecstatic nightmare.

It’s no big deal to tell someone the truth, but are you ready to see your own reflection in someone else’s eyes? They say alcohol is a liquid truth, but I think it's nothing more than a road strewn with bread crumbs, straight into a dense, dark forest. The more you drink, the deeper you go. Sometimes, through the intricately woven stems of condemnation and bitterness, subtle rays of understanding break through, like the light shed by the dual face of the moon. But this happens so rarely that the eyes themselves become accustomed to the surrounding darkness.

I’m still afraid of the dark and, therefore, of the truth. Now I’m sure I’m allergic to the world.

When I looked at the café, I noticed that there were many more people. Bunny girls with colorful barrettes occupied small transparent tables filled with all sorts of desserts; others, similar to porcelain dolls, put their palms to their cheeks, flushed with embarrassment, and laughed loudly, sitting in the same loggias as ours. The sounds of clicks from selfies and aesthetic Instagram photos did not subside for a second, as did the high play of voices merging with soft background music.

This probably wasn’t the best place for such a serious conversation, but was it ever the perfect place to have a heart-to-heart?

“Honestly, I don't know. Really?” I began, stirring the thick, fragrant foam from the cappuccino. It tasted like a first kiss—a little bitter, a little sweet—something that I would like to repeat again and again. “Secrets, secrets, and more secrets—everywhere I look, no matter what I ask, they only get bigger. Everything is as usual: Mina died, and the world is still spinning around her. Remember, I told you that they still send roses? I can say that soon the cemetery will start selling bouquets because there is simply nowhere to put them. Every day there are fresh flowers on the grave.” Maybe I sounded a little petty and annoyed, but I didn't care. “I may not seem like the best person on this planet, but sometimes I feel absolutely happy that I finally managed to bury her in the ground.”  Yes, this is exactly the right moment; you are not mistaken. That was my truth, like salt and pepper, like ashes, like burned dreams.

Soomin shook her head negatively.

“You shouldn't talk about yourself like that, Sarang; you're not a bad person, and we both know it; everyone around you knows it; and even that bastard JiHo knows it. You have gone through a lot, and if I were you, I would have gone crazy long ago, but look at yourself: you are here with me, in the noise of the metropolis, and you have your whole life ahead of you.” She put her hand on top of mine, and the warmth of her body penetrated mine. “Mina was who she was, and neither you nor me nor anyone else could change her. So don't let her ghost poison your life. I'm not a fan of this entire Nancy Drew thing, but I won't dissuade you. If you want my help, I'm on board.”

I laughed bitterly, taking a sip of the coffee that had already cooled. There was something special about it—sweet, ice-cold coffee, like long-cooled love.

“Yeah, you’re right; she was who she was, but I guess we were wrong about that because those flowers broke her in half. In fact, that’s the whole point of the question: where did the roses come from? She was interested in nothing but flowers and some strange prayers. She frightened me. You know, at first it looked like another love of hers; everything was as usual—she talked incessantly about flowers and admired them, but the more roses they sent us, the less she was interested in the rest of the world. Mina withered and languished while the roses bloomed. I've never seen anyone come to our house or meet someone. Nothing, just roses—hundreds of roses. You just can't imagine how many there were.”

“You know, I don’t really want to imagine it. Okay, let’s say you find something in her files. What’s next? You really need this? Maybe we should just let go, you know, scatter the ashes to the wind.” Breaking off a slice of angel cake, Soo mooed in satisfaction as the dessert was in her mouth. “Mmm, I love sweets. Who handled her legal affairs? If this is one of the free lawyers, we should hurry; the queues in these cantors are worse than here.”

“No, no, we're not going to a free advocacy team. Wait a minute.” I pulled out of my purse a small card from a thick black cardboard and handed it to Soomin. Transparent gloss on a soft matt surface looked refined and very expensive, just like the business card itself. “Silver & Black LTD” was the name of the law firm that handled Mina’s affairs.

“You’re kidding me!” She exclaimed, almost burying her face in her business card. “That’s “Silver and Black.” How did she manage to work with them? They’re one of the most elite law practitioners in all of Seoul, and I’d say across Asia. Their lawyers are real sharks in their cases; for the existence of their practice, they have not lost a single case, and the bills for their services are simply cosmic. How does she have so much money? Sarang, did you inherit her sugar daddy too? If that's the case, ask for more; you're much more expensive than a cheerleader, and nerds are always sexier and more desirable.”

“Stop saying that like I’m a whore. I don’t know where she got the money, but are their services so expensive?” My surprise was obvious. Our family was not poor, but we were not rich; we occupied that golden layer in the class hierarchy where we could just live without any worries about tomorrow. Mina and I were well provided for, but judging by Soomin’s reaction, “Silver and Black” could afford only filthy rich and influential people.

“If I were to be offered the opportunity to trade my virginity for cooperation with them, I would have done it without hesitation. Are you sure we have an appointment with them?”

“Soomin!” Frankness was always such a simple thing for her that I felt awkward at such moments. “Of course, I called them yesterday to confirm the details.”

“What? The cult of virginity is overrated anyway, but now I'm much more interested in it.”

“Let me think, more amazing men?” “How did you guess?” Soo smiled sweetly, shoving another piece of dessert into her mouth. I snorted; I couldn’t help it. "Hey, don’t laugh! You should also consider new options, since you and JiHo have broken up. Listen to me, little Sarang, nothing will warm your bed better than a hot big boy."

"Ew, Soomin." She just laughed back.

[synthshenanigans]

hey so remember how I made color palettes based on the TMPH? well all the songs are out now so here's a crap ton of color palettes based on all the Power Hours!! :D

I might use em myself but if anyone else uses them, please tag me in your post!!! I'd love to see what you do with it :D

Also because I'm a nerd & I like explaining things, where I got the names for them are below if anyone curious bout them :}

TMPH:

Page one is more obvious; it just being the song title. The second page is named with Acts like how the first three songs were titled [both in CJs & in the original]. The entire acts all together is named Ego, hence the bottom being named Ego. And then all of the Ego/Acts together spell C.A.N. & as CJ said in the Directors Commentary, it funnily enough matches with his old YouTube channel name "Can of Soup" [or DJ soup I think it is now].

THDPH:

There aren't as many palettes since there wasn't much I could grab from sadly. But the names are more creative at least.

•Pocket Aces- Shutup Your Stupid: "Maybe I'll shoot my shot at one of those handsome faces. Have a couple drinks, make my stance advantageous; play my pair of Pocket Aces"

•Kismet's Call- Evl Ppl: "Our habits and our rituals aren't half as stacked as Kismet's Call"

•Coloring & Additives- Savages: "Savages! Who work with ratios and averages; Governments, establishments, Coloring and Additives"

•Course & Rough- A Drink to Death: "We were nice, but now I'm Coarse and Rough"

•Casa Infierno- Chonny's Inferno: "Perhaps a snack or beverage, on the house, from Casa Infierno"

•Unintentional Impression- Shutup Your Stupid: "He does his best Impression of me, says it came out 'Unintentionally' "

WWPH-

First page is again just the song titles. Page two is lines from some of the songs [Top two are Laplace's Angel & the bottom two are Memento Mori]. And page three is from the lyric "Heaven. Hell. Nirvana. Nothing. No one knows how it ends" from Memento Mori.

CJPH-

First three on page two are just song titles [Push should technically be labeled Don't Take it Personally but I named it wrong & only realized till just now 🙃. But oh well its too late now]. The bottom two are words from The Lie of Black and White.

•Misery: " 'Every moment I wait substantiates my Misery' "

•Melody: "Every person on Earth deserves to sing their Melody"

Page two is all for Push [or what should have been Push but i fucked up lol]. Streamers are colors from the party streamers on him. Makeup is the colors he used for his makeup [as best I can tell]. And Charcoal is for the charcoal soap goop on him. Buuuuut lets pretend it based on the line "My wrist and my heart where you kissed, pulled apart till it burns like Charcoal" from DTiP. Just so I feel less like an idiot.

Maybe ill post what photos I got the colors from if I feel like it. But if anyone's curious on a specific one, you can send an ask or smth & I'll gladly tell you :}

[kometqh]

𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧'𝐬 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭

Captain Rex x F!Reader Pt. 1 Rex tells the story of his first love, his first heartbreak, his one last regret. Word Count: 1,166 Warnings: None (from what I can tell) A/N: This is meant to be a multiple-part story, the second chapter will be out soon!

"Rex? How come you're so good with kids?" Hera's soft voice rung out in the almost empty cockpit of the Ghost. It was an early afternoon when Kanan, Ezra, Zeb and Sabine left, leaving the two captains behind. And Chopper.

They had been sent on another stealth mission, something about retrieving data on the Empires latest star fighters. Now it was the early hours of the evening, and they still weren't back.

"Huh?" He hummed as he turned around, his swivel chair squeaking in protest at the sudden movement. "What do you mean?"

He had an inkling of an idea of what she meant, though he wasn't too happy to pursue this topic. Play stupid, yes, play stupid, Rex thought as he nervously made eye contact. Maybe she'll drop it.

"Oh come on Rex, you know exactly what I mean. You're practically a second father to our youngest ones!" She exclaimed, elbowing him in the ribcage as she leaned over, egging him on.

"Beep boop!" Chopper added, his tiny, robotic arms raising into the air.

Rex left out a soft grunt at the sudden dig, recoiling into the soft cushion of his chair. He rummaged through his thoughts, trying to form the most believable lie in the next five seconds, before the two managed to catch on.

The cogs in his brain turned, working overtime as Rex dragged on the silence, scratching at his beard in thought.

After a few moments, he let out a sigh, his shoulders drooping.

"I-I'm not sure this is appropriate, Hera." His voice was soft and yet firm, he used it often on his brothers back in the day when they wanted to disobey command, he agreed, and yet followed orders like a good soldier.

In response he received a confused 'huh' before a sudden pain erupted in his shin. That goddamn clanker!

A grunt left his lips as Rex attempted to smack the top of Chopper's metallic head, a slight burning pain erupting in his palm as the robot mechanically cackled, enjoying Rex's demise.

Though to Hera and Chopper this was a sweet, lighthearted moment, to Rex it was a sticky situation. He hadn't yet told the others of this part of his past, and he wasn't sure he wanted to dip his fingertips in deeply drowned memories.

"Oh come on, you know we won't judge." Hera continued, wiggling her eyebrows at the older man. "And plus, this is great for team bonding." She wiggled her eyebrows at him, trying her best to look as convincing as possible.

The two got on well, being somewhat close in age even with Rex looking like a grandpa. He still had the refreshing energy and spirit of a young man, but he also had the knowledge and experience of an experienced veteran. How fitting.

Rex would do anything but talk about this. The room felt a little too hot for his liking, his heart beating harshly against his rib cage.

"It's a bit hot in here, isn't it?" He asked, getting up and moving over to the temperature control panel.

Though as his gaze moved from the control panel to his fellow captain, Rex couldn't help but sigh out loud, his head hanging down. "Fine. You got me."

Before she could even proclaim her victory, Hera was quickly hushed by Rex.

"Just know this doesn't have a happy ending." He warned, crossing his arms over his chest. All of a sudden, the cool steel grey of the cabin seemed more inviting to look at than his fellow crew members.

Leaning back against the wall, Rex thought over how to tell her. These.. Memories, these events, he had hidden them away deep within his subconscious, like sacred mementos in a time pod.

Only a few people were allowed to dig them back up, if they hadn't been by his side as he lived through them.

I guess it's their time now too.

A heavy sigh and a shake of his head later, Rex was feeling ready enough. As ready as he could be.

"Long ago-"

"You sound old."

"Be quiet," Rex hissed out, his words whistling out like bullets from a gun.

He could tell Hera meant it as a joke, but this wasn't something he could bring himself to joke about.

"Long ago, when I was just a shiny, I met this.. Girl."

"Ooo."

"It was during one of my first missions," He paused, observing the scratched out pattern on the floor, "She was caught in the crossfire, and I saved her." He felt his chest twist as more words spilled from his lips. Even though so many years had passed, the memories still felt as fresh as the day they were formed.

He couldn't stop now. He wouldn't. 

"As we made our escape, a plasma bolt grazed her hand, and she fainted and then we defeated the bad guys and my brother Kix had gone off to tend her wound, he was a medic clone, y'know." His shoulders shook as he scoffed, remembering how well Kix had handled the situation.

"She was so.. So weird. She insisted on walking herself home, but then proceeded to get lost on our ship. So I had to find her and escort her, like a gentleman," He paused, his gaze locked onto a scratch of the ships floor, "I think that was the first time I ever felt like a human, like a man."

"From there on, we became closer. She was moved t Coruscant and so I was able to see her during every shore leave. We wrote letters to each other, we went out together, we slept together. Waking up to her by my side was like a dream come true. Until it wasn't."

At that, Hera's posture straightened out a little. She wasn't sure where this was going, and she could feel Chopper shielding himself with her leg.

"My duty to the Galactic Republic outweighed my duty.. My loyalty to her. I left her when she needed me most." He paused again, this time his shoulders shaking, tears tiptoeing at the edge of his waterline. "She wasn't my priority. And neither was Tala."

"Rex-"

"I spent so many months, weeks, days yearning for her. She was there when I closed my eyes, reaching out to me, she was as beautiful as a morning sunshine, her eyes held so much love for me. And I abandoned her." He paused, hiding his face in one hand, seemingly pushing the tears back with his thumb and forefinger. "Tala was three when I left, and I hadn't seen them since."

Silence fell over the trio. Rex didn't want to continue, and Hera was at a complete loss for words. Even Chopper, the usually chippy chirpy robot, had nothing to beep out at this.

Simply put, nobody knew that side to Rex.

"R-Rex I- I don't know what to say.."

"It's fine. I've made my peace with it." He waved her off, the tears having evaporated from his eyes in mere seconds.

"Are they.. alive?"

He felt his breath get caught in his throat, encircling and squeezing at his wind pipe like a tight fist.

"I.. I don't know."

[vashtijoy]

Your analyses give me a lot to think about. I finished P5R recently and am trying to spread the Akechi brainrot to someone else by playing it through with them. One thing that I constantly think about, and I guess it's a minor detail, is the the fact the Thieves' Den theme is a more upbeat version of No More What Ifs. It's interesting to me that it isn't other songs (i.e. how they use With The Stars and Us for Persona evolution/important moments as a leitmotif). If they wanted something more generally applicable, they could have used a version of Our Light, another variation of Beneath the Mask (like we don't have 10 billion of those), or some other common theme. It's stated at the beginning of the conversation that it's formed from Joker's/Akira's cognition specifically and represents all of his memories across time (since the Thieves' Den stays the same no matter which playthrough you're on). But the song is uniquely Akechi's, through the lyrics and how it's associated with him both in P5R and in other Persona media. It makes me think, why that song specifically? Why a more upbeat version of it? Another detail (and again might be unrelated) is that the first day the Thieves Den is accessible is the first time he appears (as Pleasant Boy). IDK I'm definitely overthinking it.

No such thing as overthinking on this blog, anon! AND OH SHIT IT'S THIS SONG. I have a feeling they only chose it because it's a nice easy listening piece, but on the other hand, it's definitely Akechi's song, isn't it? Am I, like, a bad fan if I say I never looked up the lyrics before? BECAUSE I AM HAVING A MOMENT:

I do not regret with my choices I'm rather proud ooh I know I won't change anything because I can only be me so

This isn't a line Akechi appears to use in the game, but that "I can only be me" line pops up in Mementos Mission, of course, and I'm going to go into it because I really love these two pages:

"I can only ever be me." Ren knows better, of course—look at his face. Give him a break, Akechi. And look at Akechi's face—he's lying, or he's deflecting. What just happened here?

Shido calls Akechi in, for some dubious reason. Ren asks him why he doesn't quit, knowing full well it's not the investigation team, and Akechi is like "nah bruh". And then he smiles, mask fully in place, and says "I can only ever be me". It's one of his double- or triple-edged statements—the "me" he is, of course, will happily lie and deceive and be any number of different people.

I wouldn't be surprised if this scene was based on the song.

[thegildedbee]

Cold: May 6 Prompt from @calaisreno

The meeting with John Watson had gone unexpectedly well; Philip decided the news was good enough to merit drinking the last of the whisky he'd been hoarding. And he would stop at the hole-in-the-wall naan spot and cadge a flatbread with cheese and lamb. He had a few pound coins he’d surreptitiously fished out of the fountain in the park near his flat. It would be the most satisfying meal he’d had in weeks. That it would come with a side of hope meant that it would help quiet the gnawing at his stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.

Two months ago, his first meeting with Watson -- well, attempted meeting -- had ended in disaster. He'd been prepared for that, although not the broken nose. After what Watson had done to the Superintendent, it should have been an obvious outcome. However, he hadn't thought his lowly status would merit Watson generating any effort at physical assault, no matter how much he might hate him. He had thought it would be a door slammed in his face, to erase his presence as quickly as possible. Certainly not any actions that would allow for reminders of the encounter to linger, like bruised and swollen knuckles.

And from his previous observations when tailing Sherlock's former bulldog, the man had seemed so depressed that he had assumed it would be unlikely that he could summon up the energy to be angry. He'd made the rookie mistake of underestimating John Watson. One of these days that lesson would stick.

And Watson certainly had been angry. In fact, he hadn't needed to even take a beat to tap into it. It was right there growling under the surface. You couldn’t really blame the little guy. He could be cranky as all hell even on his good days, back when he and Holmes had been smug-footing their way about the city. And there probably hadn’t been many good days -- if any at all -- over the months that had stretched on after Holmes’s funeral.

It would soon be a year since the Bart's catastrophe. If there was any justice to be had for that nightmare, maybe the media mea culpas would finally begin, prompted by the inevitable anniversary look-backs and updates. He didn’t understand why the press jackals were being so cautious. If nothing else, by now there was overwhelming evidence that Moriarty as Brook had pulled off a spectacular scam with his long con. Maybe they were waiting for a signal from the government spooks. He'd heard that even Magnusson and Murdoch were scared of the elder Holmes.

But today . . . this time, Watson had been willing to listen. He had been different, somehow. He had carefully considered his collection of clues, and the map that he’d brought, with his conjectures penciled in. Watson had even suggested that the next time they talked he would bring Lestrade, and they could meet in Angelo’s back room. He suspected that Watson's physician side had registered his nutritional deficits. He didn't care. And as long as Watson was there, Angelo wouldn’t expect anyone to pay. Maybe he could over-order and manage to have the uneaten portion boxed up as take-away. He hoped Lestrade wouldn't punch him. He didn't think his nose could take it. Maybe he could watch some defensive videos on youtube beforehand.

Yes, the meeting with Watson had gone better than he’d expected; granted, his expectations were one small step above being flattened by the little prick. Well, that wasn’t fair. He had to get used to the two of them now being on the same side. Perhaps today's meeting meant he was going to be able to come in from the cold, and atone for his past sins. As he was leaving, Watson had called him Philip and patted him on the back and said they’d all been taken in, one way or another, and had politely avoided any hint of where his place on the sliding scale of being deceived would lie.

The next step was to wait to hear how Watson’s meeting with Lestrade would go. He’d said that the detective had mentioned sometime in the past that he had a box of mementoes, and had offered to bring them by Watson’s place. He’d put Lestrade off at the time. But today he said that he would arrange to go down soon to the Met and visit with Lestrade.

He didn't know about Watson, but he was certain there would be more to the contents in the box than might be assumed at first glance. He hoped that he'd be allowed to get a look in. His food parcel in hand, his mind had drifted, as he closed the distance to his building, and he'd caught himself humming "Here Comes the Sun." Yes, this was definitely the day to finish off the whisky. And to begin again? ........................................................ @calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @friday411 @peanitbear @original-welovethebeekeeper rest of the @s in the tags, which will work for communication purposes, I hope? just say the word if you want to be untagged or tagged xoxoxo

[richmond-rex]

The scrolling branches holding the main royal arms of [Henry VII and Elizabeth of York]'s marriage bed are echoed around the sides and ends of the lid of the couple’s tomb; they lie as on another bed with remembrances of their first, but this time with Renaissance cherubs to guard them.

One effect of this doubling of wedded bodies was to lengthen the duration of the marriage vows: what once expired at death now continued in the afterlife (...) Though it was common for a funerary monument to function as a memento mori, seldom had the imagined dialogue between the living and the dead been imbued with this degree of spousal intimacy.

Royal double tombs as a reflection of the royal body in which the body politic and natural body are mixed to forge royal power ‛whereby the emotional texture of the relationship between king and queen becomes a means to persuade their subjects of their superhuman authority’ (...) In short, spousal love becomes part of the definition of monarchical identity and power.

“We will, that for the said sepulture of us and our dearest late wife the Queen, whose soul God pardon, be made a tomb of stone called touche, sufficient in largeur for us both. And upon the same, one image of our figure, and another of hers, either of them of copper and gilt, of such fashion, and in such manner, as shall be thought most convenient.”

A CLOSED DEATH OF THE SHARED GRAVE |

Pietro Torrigiano — Tomb of Henry VII and Elizabeth of York / Ezra Pound — The River-Merchant’s Wife: A Letter / Franz Kafka — The Castle / Stephanie Brooke — Imagery, Iconography and Heraldry; The Marriage Bed of Henry VII & Elizabeth of York: Dynasty, Design & Descent / Bastille — Remains / Donna L. Sadler — Stone Fidelity: Marriage and Emotion in Medieval Tomb Sculpture (review) / John Berger — And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos / Laura Gilpin — Selected Poems / Henry VII — The Last Will of Henry VII

[cleolinda]

Weekend links, April 7, 2024

My posts

This week feels like it has been a hundred years long (not in a bad way). 

Somehow we joined together to balance the seesaw just right so Ava Gardner and Jean Seberg could both go through in the Hot Vintage Lady polls (percentages rounded). Like, I’m wearing the Ava jersey and even I encouraged people to vote Jean when necessary. Honestly, I just wanted to see if it could be done. And it COULD. 

Round three has begun. It is already horrific. This is the first round that’s really going to hurt because we spent the last one really getting down in the dirt and championing our ladies, or learning about actresses we’d never heard of before and getting attached to them. And now? We are reminded: memento mori. Everyone loses but one. 

(I personally pitched in for Sara Montiel. “BUT JUST LOOK AT--” Yeah, I did, thanks.)

Reblogs of interest

April Fool’s Day: You were here for the Boopening, yes? The whole thing was that you only got badges for giving boops, not receiving them, which is a great way to not reward popularity contests, but also means that every last one of us was out here trying to figure out who to bap with a cat’s paw 1000 times. I said, listen, my notifications are already trash garbage today. I’ll take the bullet. Boop at will.

The Activity graph isn’t too clear on this point, but it looks like I had something like 65,000--hits? engagements? boops?--that day. Listen, I got the black paw badge too. We all did what we had to do in the Boopening. 

A Shakespearean boop of goodly length: “And, Meowntague, come you this afternoon, to know our further pleasure in this case, to old Food-bowl, our common judgment-place.” 

I had to go lie down awhile after a pun like “The Purrge.”

--

I had just gotten up from that pun and then I had to go lie down again.

Account security gothic

The Canada griffin

Dinotopia nostalgia

Two pairs of spectacles, one made from slices of emerald, and the other from slices of diamond

An old favorite: Cerberus as a puppy, guarding the gates to heck

I feel like these two posts have the same energy: Time cops will not let you travel back to the Titanic and bloodthirsty gazebos are currently in a dormancy period.

The birds are still troubled

PSA: The best sunscreens for your face

Video

A collection of various American Indian/indigenous American languages, including Navajo, Tlingit, Lakota, Colville Okanagan Salish, Cherokee, Yucatec Maya, Greenlandic, Mohawk, Yup'ik, and Mi'kmawi'simk. 

A trans health-and-wellness fundraiser (Mercury Stardust, Point of Pride, and friends) kept getting banned off Tiktok due to assholes. Here’s how to donate; I saw a few “here’s how they helped me” notes, so it seems like these programs are both legit and effective. 

You think you’re going to sit staring at this video because Chocolate Guy is weaving chocolate. Then you get into it, and it just keeps going.

“Too Sweet” is doing hilariously well on the charts for a song that didn’t even make the album proper. Hozier’s bees would like to thank you for your support.

I know I said that Stevie Nicks would make you sing backup on your own haunting, but late in this 1997 live performance of “Silver Springs,” she makes Lindsey Buckingham, the man she wrote this song about, look her in the eye while she belts it at him. This specific performance was released as a single (I was there, Gandalf) and nominated for a Grammy. Watch the video and you will see why.

The Women Those ‘Evolution Of Beauty’ Videos Leave Out

I don’t really know how to describe this rubberhose-style cartoon of Cab Calloway as a singing nightmare clown. Betty Boop is also there. “You just described it!” No, I really didn’t. 

How movable type worked 1000 years ago, from scratch.

Unrestrained seasonal yak fun

A snowy raven photoshoot

The sacred texts

I don’t know how to explain this double Sacred Text about ominous dreams that comes with its own comic, except to say that they’re so iconic that I first saw both posts in lo-res Pinterest screencaps.

April Fool’s: The ultimate sacred text.

Personal tag of the week

Wet beast Wednesday, which had both a headshake stickflip and bears on a swan boat.

[thetardigrape]

Okay listen.

An unreliable narrator is not "a character who lies." That's just a character who lies.

An unreliable narrator is, crucially:

a narrator, meaning they're the one relating the story to the audience

untrustworthy

Unreliable narrators might outright lie, or they might conceal important information, or they might be deluded. But always, always, they are telling the story, and the person they are failing to tell the truth to is the audience.

Unreliable narrators are incredibly rare in filmed media (TV, movies, etc.) because it's pretty rare for that media to have a narrator at all, much less an unreliable one. Unreliable narrators in film are hugely tricky to pull off. Examples of unreliable narrators in film are Edward Norton's character in Fight Club, Leonard in Memento, and Patrick Bateman in American Psycho.

It's also important that the unreliable narrator's lack of truth be relevant to the plot. Eventually the audience learns what the unreliable narrator has been concealing or unaware of. The audience eventually learns that Edward Norton is Tyler Durden. They learn that Leonard is the one who killed his wife. They learn that Patrick Bateman is a psychotic murderer who actually loathes almost everything about corporate culture. Without this eventual reveal, there is no point to the unreliable narrator.

Unreliable narrators are literary devices used to frame a story, usually one with a twist. They're not just characters who lie. Please understand this difference.

[mika-writes-fanfics]

Dabi x reader with chronic pain

Tags/Warnings: chronic pain, slight angst with comfort, fluff, soft Dabi, established relationship

Author's note: Having a bad pain day and I was thinking about what Dabi would do seeing the one he loves in pain.

Word count: ~650

It’s kind of embarrassing, truthfully, how something so small can piss you off today. It’s not even a big deal, more like an insignificant annoyance in the grand scheme of things. Still, you find yourself groaning in agitation. All the minor inconveniences you experience every day just seem so overwhelming right now, with the constant background pain that seems to be ramping up as time passes on. 

“What’s got you in such a sour mood, Princess?” Dabi teases with his usual cocky smirk. You turn around to face him, finding him in the window of your bedroom. You’re a bit surprised to see him. Not that he doesn’t usually enter your home through the fire escape, but because you weren’t expecting him. Especially not on a day like this. 

Unlike most other times, where you either respond to his playful jabs with one of your own, or instead vent it all out with passionate ranting, your expression communicates a sort of exhaustion he’s not used to seeing on you. You don’t seem sluggish from a lack of sleep, rather, it’s as if you’re out of energy to deal with anything. You’re tired from the demands placed on you, your pain eating away at any mental energy you have left. His face falls upon realizing something is genuinely wrong. He knows he can be an ass sometimes, but seeing you look so despondant has him regretting his choice of words. 

“Sorry, I’m just… in a lot more pain that usual today,” you force out. The tone of your voice makes it clear just how much this is weighing on you. Putting up a cheerful facade is too much to bear. You’ve mention in passing how you have chronic pain. It always follows you, remaining as a cemented constant. You’ve made it a point to not bring it up much. Knowing what Dabi experienced just made you view your discomfort as something so miniscule, something not deserving of concern. So you’ve always tried to hide it. It’s worked in the past, and conveniently, he seems to be busy in the times that your pain ramps up. Today is the first times he’s really been around for days like this. “I don’t want to bum you out so if you wanna leave, I understand-”

“No,” he denies, cutting you off. He knows what its like, to be constantly haunted by life’s cruelty. The scars on his skin tell his story whenever he has the misfortune of seeing them, whereas your aches shouts your story. You both carry unavoidable mementos of pain. You’ve done more than you think in bearing his pain. You’ve listened to his recounts of his past, patched him up when he’s come home to you after a mission gone south, and unknowingly held onto him when his thoughts were darkest. He wants to return the favor, in any way he can. “I’m not going anywhere.” He climbs down from the spot on the widow sill and closes the window behind him. He kicks off his boots and lays on your bed, gesturing for you to lay with him by opening his arms. 

You sigh, before saying in a tired and stressed voice, “I can’t Dabi, I gotta clean and then-”

“I’ll take care of it later, c’mere,” he urges. You don’t have the energy to fight him, so you acquiesce. Not to mention, you’ve been dying to just lie in your bed. Dabi being in it is a added benefit you don’t want to pass up. You curl up to his side and rest your head upon his chest. “Where are you hurting?”

You point to the area. In a rare moment of softness from him, he gently traces over the aching part of your body. It’s not a cure for your pain by any means, but the gentle touches both give you something else to focus on and melts your frozen heart. “Thank you,” you meekly whisper and nuzzle closer against him.

“Don’t mention it,” he replies. “Anything for you.”

[lavender-romancer]

Deceiver

Part One Tommy Shelby x Reader cw: slow burn, violence, swearing

You've been involved with the Peaky Blinders business for a few years now, undiscovered as a woman posing as a man. Now the Shelby boys have grown suspicious of you and want you found out.

an: set in season one

”*°•.˜”*°•. ˜”*°•. ˜”*°••°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜.•°*”˜

Hiding under a disguise had become second nature for you these days, you didn't slip up, you didn't find it hard to lie and you never under any circumstances made any exceptions to the rule of being secretive about your identity. You weren't y/n y/sn, you were Eddie Thompson, your hair was short and black shaved on the sides, and ruffled forward on top. You wore shirts, waistcoats, and trousers with socks in your boxers to give you a false cock. You flirted with women, never took any home and you drank like your dead father used to every night. You wore razors in your cap and a pocket watch attached to your waistcoat with a short gold chain. You learned how to bind your chest and flatten it completely but allow your chest to still look muscular. There never was a better cover, but you didn't do it to spy or cheat or deceive at least for the wrong reasons. The reason you did it was because you wanted agency, taking your dead cousin's name was easier than it should've been but there was no one around in your family to protest.

"We need some boys down in the Garrison, rowdy ones to get everyone riled up about fucking Campbell," Tommy announced at the front of the betting shop where all the Peaky boys had gathered "We need some fucking unity in this place or that man's going to separate us all."

"Oh we've got no problem being fucking rowdy, 'ave we boys!" Arthur yelled with a cheer rousing from the crowd before Tommy.

"Alright, Eddie, John, Scudboat, Lovelock, Danny, Arthur and whoever else is willing to put out some good fucking press for us and against Campbell." Tommy straightened his blazer and looked toward you, you lifted your whisky to your mouth looking over your glass at him.

There was a respect between you and Tommy that had been there since he employed you, you weren't old enough to have fought in France but you worked in explosives as a teenager and were very helpful. Tommy could see your value from the moment you stepped into the shop looking for work, your verbal CV was glowing with value. Questions never seemed to arise due to the impressive cover story you had built for yourself from an extremely young age so you could survive in a world of men. You had absolutely nothing in your possession that would point to you being a woman, no mementos of your time before your deception started and you never changed that fact. You were quieter than some of the other boys until you got a drink in you but it allowed you to assess situations and know your next move that wouldn't raise suspicion.

"I've got a job for you," Tommy told you as the other boys began to leave, he sat down on one side of the table and you sat on the other. You spread out your legs and leant over your knees, taking off your cap and ruffling your hair.

"What have you got for me, Mr Shelby?" You asked.

"I need you to follow Billy Kimber, take off your hat and clean yourself up a bit. You're gonna need to look the part for this role," Tommy took out a cigarette and you tossed over your matches "You have proved very valuable since my return and I want you to keep doing that."

"And what am I doing following Kimber?" You raised an eyebrow and lit your cigarette.

"I need to know where he's going, who he's meeting even if it's just the types of people he's with. I want to know his every move today, especially when he hears about how we've been fixing his races, he's going to be pretty pissed off." Tommy took a drag of his cigarette and put his feet up on the table.

"Sounds like an interesting one," you held the lit cigarette between your lips "and what is the aim of this intelligence? Anything you want me to look out for?"

"I want to know how he reacts, how he… how we're getting under his skin. He's gonna be in this restaurant, at table 4 at around 4pm. Before that I want you to follow him on the train before listening and noting what he says, then come straight back." Tommy looked you in the eyes and you nodded, picking up the pieces of paper he'd given you about the locations.

After changing your look into a more slick back and clean look you headed off to the train station, onto the 2:30 towards Worcester. You saw Kimber's men head into the fourth carriage, you headed into the third and walked through to the fourth to sit with your back facing Kimber on the other side of their booth. Lighting up a cig you looked out the window and listened intently to Kimbers conversation.

Tommy always knew there was something off with you, he hadn't been able to put his finger on it till today. Your eyes, they had a certain femininity that he hadn't noticed before until you looked at him over your glass. It was different, your eyes had looked so stern before that the change was easily noticeable that he'd sent you on a minor errand at the chance Kimber would let something slip.

"Arthur, John, in here." Tommy called as he entered the Garrison and the boys sat in the private room as he closed the door.

"What's going on, Tom?" Arthur asked.

"I believe we have a rat in our ranks and I want to stamp them out." Tommy poured himself a whisky.

"Who the fuck dares rat us?" John seethed.

"I think it's Eddie," Tommy paused. "I've sent him off to report on Kimber, so we can discuss what we're planning."

"We're gonna cut off his fucking cock is what were gonna do!" Arthur yelled louder than he should have.

"Yeah, we can fuck him up one by one," John laughed and Tommy looked at him with a straight face.

"You two are too bloody excited for what the situation is, someone we thought was fucking helpful. Fuck, loyalty is hard to find these days." Tommy rubbed his forehead.

"We're still gonna fuck him up, Tom." Arthur grinned at John and Tommy couldn't help but mentally agree, he was too fucking angry.

You left the restaurant at around 6'oclock and headed back to Small Heath, you hadn't really got much from Kimber as he just talked about women and blow. It was a fucking boring day and you wished you were down the pub instead. As soon as you got back to Small Heath you headed to the Garrison and sighed in relief at the noise that was coming out of the doors. Walking in you ordered two whiskeys and downed one, holding the other in your hand as you turned around and greeted some of your Peaky boys.

"The fuck is going on with your hair, you twat," Scudboat asked with a laugh.

"Ah just a bit of fucking dress up, you know I'm posing as a twat so I thought I should look the part too." You raised an eyebrow and held out your cigarette in your mouth for Scudboat to light.

"You're fucking mental," he told you, as he lit your cigarette you took a drag. You sat next to him, placing your drink on the table and breathed out slowly.

"You know today I-" you were interrupted

"Eddie, fucking here. Now," Arthur yelled and you turned your head expecting a smiling Arthur but instead he looked like hell. You picked up your drink and walked towards the side room.

"What's going on?" You asked, taking a drag.

"We need to take a little walk," Tommy told you with stern eyes.

The boys walked you towards the shop and you couldn't help but feel like something fucking awful was about to happen to you. John and Arthur were behind you as Tommy walked Infront, you were surrounded by the brothers and even though you wanted to run you knew you couldn't.

"In there," Arthur told you, pointing to his office and you walked in, "sit down." Arthur nodded towards the chair in the middle of the room. The air was thick and tense as ever, you were going to die, you just knew it.

"What's going on here then boys?" You asked, trying to keep the tone light but it wasn't working. You ruffled your hair, the gel making your scalp hurt. Arthur suddenly grabbed you by your chin and forced your head back harshly.

"So who the fuck do you think you are?" Arthur asked, his face was close to yours and he glared into your eyes that went wide.

"It's a good question, brother." John added, he lit a cigarette close to your face and the heat made you wince.

"Who the fuck are you?" Arthur yelled and you didn't know what to say. He let go of your face and you looked up, seeing Tommy in the shadow near the door. Arthur punched you in the nose and your head flew back, blood running back into your nose and back out again.

"I don't know what you want to fucking hear! You know who I am!" You yelled back at him and Arthur shook his head.

"I'll ask you again, who the fuck are you!" Arthur screamed and when you just stared at him through angry eyes he punched you again.

"Stand him up," Tommy instructed and John forced you to your feet

"So this is it then Tommy? Now time for me to fucking die eh?" You asked, your arms held by your side by John as you struggled against him. Arthur pulled your head back by your hair and it left your neck completely exposed.

"Well if you tell me the truth it doesn't have to be the last time we see each other, does it?" He walked close to you and took off his cap. Tommy unbuttoned your trousers and let them open, revealing your boxers and you panicked, kicking your leg out to collide with Tommys leg.

"I don't fucking think so," Arthur forced you to sit back down on the chair with your legs opened "Too scared to loose your cock eh? You fucking traitor." Arthur flicked up his knife and ran the blunt side against your neck.

"Fuck off, Arthur. If you're going to kill me just fucking cut my throat, I'm no traitor and I never have been!" You yelled in his face and Arthur went to punch your cock but instead found a soft impact.

"What the fuck," Arthur put his hand on your crotch, knife in hand and you shifted uncomfortably, trying to get out of their grasps "He's got no fucking balls, Tom."

"What?" Tommy sounded like he would laugh and you tried to stand up but the Shelby brothers held you down, your neck still exposed.

"Don't fucking kill me, I- FUCK. I'll tell you alright, fuck." You pushed off their grip that had lessened and buttoned up your trousers.

"What the fuck is going on?" Tommy asked.

"I'm, fuck. Okay. It's not my real name alright, but I'm not a fucking spy. I'm deceptive but I'm not a fucking spy, I love this job and this family like my fucking own. I'm a woman," You looked into Tommys eyes and he had to admit it wasn't what he suspected.

"This is fucking insane!" John bursted out laughing and Arthur joined in.

"You're a fucking woman?" Arthur yelled as he laughed and John was inconsolable with laughter.

"He's a fucking woman, oh my life what is this shit?" John had to lean on Arthur for support because he was falling over with merriment.

"Still got a bigger cock than both of you out together though," you muttered and Arthur held your face up.

"What the fuck did you just say to me?" Arthur seethed with a vision of humor in his eyes.

"Come on brother, can't beat up a woman who you know will beat ya!" John was laughing again and Arthur joined in, letting go of your face and smacking John on the shoulder.

"Now just piss off. I'm still angry you tried to fucking kill me," you gave John a playful push and he just laughed.

"Alright, leave us now brothers." Tommy told his brothers and they roared with laughter as they walked out the door.

Tommy poured two drinks and handed you one, you turned the chair around to face his desk. Tommy downed his drink and poured another.

"So, who are you really then, Eddie?" He asked, the fake name rolling off his tongue so sarcastically.

"Y/n y/sn, most of everything else was true. Every family I know is dead, it was my cousins name and I couldn't live as a single fucking woman in this city. I mean fuck, when my parents died I inherited everything and it wasn't even enough to get by a year. I was 13 and I had to completely fucking change." You took a swig of whisky and sniffed before wiping the blood from your nose on your cuff.

"How long since you've gone by that name?" Tommy asked, lighting a cig.

"8 years since someone's called me my god given name," You looked into Tommy's eyes and sighed "I'll pack up soon though don't worry, I can't stay here anymore now."

"Since when do you make the rules around here, y/n?" Tommy asked and your eyes narrowed at the use of your real name.

"Don't, Tommy. It's not fair." You looked at him with sad eyes and he smiled.

"You're not getting away from us that easily. I'll tell you that for free. My brothers are always saying I should take a woman, maybe you're just the type of deception I want in my life." Tommy rested the cigarette in the ash tray and stood up, walking towards you. You looked up at him as he approached you.

"You're going soft," you paused "and who says I'm even interested?"

"That look you gave me this morning, I knew there was something different behind those eyes." Tommy lifted up your chin gently so you were looking into his eyes again.

"You act like this wild stallion who can't be tamed with all this damage. I think you just need a good trainer," you were mocking him and he didn't seem to mind. Tommy held your chin a bit tighter and got close to your face.

"And you think that's you, eh?" He whispered

"I think I'm the most enticing person you've ever met," you whispered back.

"I always thought you were a pretty lad, might make an even prettier woman. Not as if I'm scared of some short fucking hair is it." As he spoke you could see the slightest of smiles on his lips and you wondered how long he'd been looking at 'Eddie' like that.

"You'll never be able to figure me out and I think that's healthy for you to experience every now and then considering how fucking vague you are." You raised an eyebrow and pulled his hand off your face.

"Hmm, hadn't met a better man who'd dealt with explosives before you and I haven't met a woman either. I can't say you don't interest me." Tommy sat back down and you scoffed.

"Tommy Shelby handing out a free compliment? What is the world coming to then?" You slid you glass across the desk for Tommy to refill it "I might not be a man but I know how they tick, I know how they think and you are the most interesting mind I've ever encountered."

"Fucking flaterry from someone who was my best footsoldier a moment ago," Tommy smiled and you raised an eyebrow. "Where do we go from here then eh?" Tommy asked in a low voice.

"I don't know if that's my decision, Tom." You leant over your knees, undid your top button and tried to relax.

"Men are free to do as they will in the world, I would hardly be fair to take that away from you because you are a woman. This business was run by women before us," Tommy took another drink.

"I don't want to be a fucking bookmaker or a chalky or any other shit that you get people to do. I've proven myself time and time through and I don't expect to be treated any differently." You held your hands together and looked at Tom.

"I will treat you a bit different as Y/n but I don't have another demolition option who I can trust won't blow my cock off altogether. Well, I suppose you've figuratively blown your own cock off now haven't you?" Tommy ran his tongue along the top line of his teeth as he looked you up and down.

"You seem almost too happy to find out that I don't have a cock?" You sounded questionable and Tommy looked curiously at you.

"Well don't most men act so close to their friends it almost seems they want to fuck them? I might actually get the chance," Tommy gazed at you through sky-blue eyes that were often in your dreams, or maybe he haunted you in your nightmares. Either way, you didn't know where to go from here with him.

next part

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