ultracocobabe-blog

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tiintenherz:

“i can’t poison you, if i do it then who will save me?” she nudges his arm with her shoulder before walking again. it’s getting late and she doesn’t want to take more of his time. (maybe she wants it, but it’s not the right thing to do). “again with this drinks talk, i guess you liked drunk hana.” maybe she’s more interesting drunk than sober? hana knows that she at least funnier, or at least her crying seemed very funny to him.

“i don’t know, maybe my roommate and her boyfriend will join us if they’re free, i have to check with her.” because having dinner with just taesoo would be awkward, wouldn’t it? only then hana realizes that it could be considered a date. does taesoo thinks of it as one? she feels her cheeks burning, her ears becoming red. “what do you like? do you have any allergies? i don’t want you to show up and have something you hate or you can’t eat.”

it makes no sense that a girl like this can affect him so heavily during their second conversation so far, and their first while sober. he chalks it up to her beauty, or the way she smiles, as if unbothered by the world, as if she’s free to do whatever she wishes just by mere virtue of being her. he chalks it up to curiosity, not attraction, and it is perfectly normal, isn’t it, to be curious about new friends? – or maybe that’s it: taesoo hasn’t had a friend like this, not made like this, not without some transaction to be had first. friendships are built on favours, and hana doesn’t owe him anything, not really. so he smiles because this is a new friendship, at the least, or at the most, and laughs a little. “you know what? sure. i’ll give you a discount for as long as you stay sober. then i charge you the right price when you’re drunk.”

they turn a corner and her mannerism, slight and small, catches his eye when they walk under the streetlight. “sounds good,” he says without thinking, or checking his schedule. he’ll make time for it. he doesn’t expect her to nudge him, too; most would think twice about laying a finger on him, much less be so close to him. “i – no, no,” he refutes immediately, nudging her back with as little force as he can manage. “drunk you is messy. i like this sober hana plenty enough, thank you. less for me to worry about.”

there’s a slight hint of disappointment that strikes him when she says they won’t be alone, but he doesn’t blame her, either. he’s a stranger, through and through, and she’s an acquaintance at best, though he’d very much like to be her friend. yes, perhaps he jumped through quite a few hoops in thinking that she’s his friend now. maybe later. hopefully soon. it’s been a while since he hoped for anything other than something that’d benefit him monetarily. it’s interesting, if not frightening, so he puts a bit of space between them; it’s this warmth she’s giving off, he decides, that’s messing with him.

“that’d be interesting. hope they don’t think i’m your boyfriend or anything like that!” he laughs off the awkwardness a little, and continues, “but no, i don’t have any allergies. i’m perfectly fine. and if you don’t put poison in it, i’m pretty damn sure i can eat it.” they turn on another street, more familiar, because he can still see the patch of dark something-or-other staining the sidewalk. (some unmentionable thing that exited her mouth that night.) he motions towards the other side of the road and continues to walk. “why, what were you thinking about?”

devil in the details.

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tiintenherz:

and sure, he is there to protect her and not random people, but taesoo should also protect hana from herself and her poor choices. when they reach the wall she leans against it and sighs, the cold rock against her body making her shiver and she has to close her eyes, which she is sure must be a golden color instead of their normal brown. after taking a few deep breathes she opens them again, turning to taesoo.

she almost feels sorry for him for having to be in this quest with her, one hana didn’t want or asked for, almost. his smugness and the condescending way he looks at her are enough to make hana change her mind about it, he deserves to suffer through her moods and her inability to sit and watch injustices, and her lack of self control. he deserves her. sort of. in not all meanings of the word. perhaps.

“lets get our things and leave before i have to burn someone else.” she says. the more she stands too close to taesoo the more she feels her body becoming warmer and it’s not a good sign, she needs to put some space between them, throw herself into water before she burns someone who doesn’t deserve it. 

taesoo did not hate hana. he didn’t exactly hate that she stood up for her beliefs either, no matter how tedious that was for the both of them. he held onto her without any intention to let go, and frankly, it was surprising how many people convalesced into a single area. in hindsight, choosing an inn named after a goblin’s body part never could amount to anything good. taesoo had hoped then that it was just for ironic effect. now it really was chaos, with people finally scratching that itch for a fight. just as they reached the wall, he braced his hands on the stones behind her, finally choosing to retort –

“knights are supposed to protect noble idiots like you, your highness. i told you –,” a flying mug, unluckily half-full, was thrown over the air, and landed straight against the back of his head. he let out a timely ‘ow!’ but couldn’t quite pinpoint which felt more embarrassing: wood against his skull, or cold ale running under all the layers he was wearing, right down his spine. “see? that was never your fight to pick.”

and he could’ve kept going about how she couldn’t correct all the injustices in the world, or how normal knights were just supposed to protect princesses against political threats – including (but not limited to) assassinations or, worse, brutal social insult. instead taesoo was protecting her from people she was picking fights with! as much as he admired her...tenacity, there certainly was nothing good to be had from it. and, damn it, it wasn’t as if he could just slack off and persuade her (subtly) that she should let go of him as her knight and choose someone else. they were already on this quest, for better or for worse.

“for once, princess, i absolutely agree with you,” he answered with hardly any patience left in his tone. “come on–!” he reached for her hand, mindful of how warm it was (no, that was just her dragon blood), and tugged her beside him, meaning to protect her against further projectiles, even if the fighting seemed to be reaching its last hurrahs, drowned out by the roaring innkeeper. it was safer to stick by the wall, keeping himself between her and everyone else, until they reached the staircase, where he let go of her hand and urged her to go first. “hurry. i think the innkeeper isn’t particularly pleased with us, either.” he sighed, and grumbled, “can’t believe we’re camping out again, for maker’s sake...”

goblin’s head inn – xx49

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westwell abbey – 04.02.16

@bercevse

at one point in his life, henry winchester believed that nothing could spoil a good spring. everything looked to bloom on time without much interference and with plenty of care. what he did not expect was a notice at the end of winter that caused him to move down to westwell by the end of march. westwell was a charming little place compared to all the smoke-and-engine of the city; a little pastoral place with large estates and farms and a small town proper with not much to do than work in the larger houses of the nobility who settled here, and gossip about them in turn.

he wasn’t surprised that gossip about him reached his ears before he and his sister were escorted from the station.

it was comforting to know, at least, that they were not untouched by the world. they had automobiles and dressed like normal people, not unlike the fears he relayed to his sister. most of all, his assumptions about his cousins – the earl of westwell, imagine that! – were thankfully proven untrue. he assumed that they were the inbred type, and who could blame him? the valet that picked up victoria and himself from westwell station spoke too much of the earl’s eldest daughter, who was meant to marry her second or third cousin. he imagined her side of the family to be a little different than normal, surely; new sciences proved that inbreeding certainly didn’t produce the best results. if one traced the lineage of the king far back enough, he was sure that he’d find proof of it.

what he expected even less was that they seemed like decent people, or as decent as highborn people could be. 

they allowed henry and victoria to stay at winchester house, and provided them a valet or a butler (whichever it was), as uncomfortable as it made henry, and he was slightly glad that they allowed the siblings to keep their maid from home. it was a decent place, if not a little too large, and he’d have preferred a smaller, more modest one. last night was his chance to make his case that he planned to make himself and his sister remain in the house for an indefinite amount of time. last night was also the first he’d seen of the estate, and despite its old, traditional charm, and that most thanked the lord and lady of the house for the employment, henry found that he simply could not remain for much longer than he had to. the lord and lady were not unkind to him, and he was half-afraid that their eldest daughter would repeat the unkind things he said yesterday when he assumed that no one else could hear, but nothing of the sort transpired. he could sense their animosity and he understood it, and he questioned it no further.

if, indeed, he was to be the heir, then he should at least clear the air between himself and the eldest.

he found her with the help of their butler, mr. norton (and he was glad that he actually remembered, what with the astounding amount of staff here – who needed so many people doing things for them?), and was slightly thankful that she was out in the lawn on such a nice day. this way, no one could lurk behind the doors or the corners. he wouldn’t want her incident repeated with another. 

“i suppose it’s a good thing the estate is such a large property,” he spoke up, without saying her name first. “i’d hate to be cooped up in an ancient place like that.” he stood under the shade of the tree, but did not presume to sit next to her. not yet. had he not made such a disastrous misstep the day before, he would have even thought her charming, unable to think of any other thing to compare her with other than spring itself. “i suppose you’re not pleased with a stranger showing up and calling himself your father’s cousin, are you?”

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melxodrava:

“Ah, just like this one.” He says, motioning to a nearby work of his. It was a difficult piece to decipher, full of geometric shapes that were connected to form one grandiose piece. The colors were muted, very different from the vibrant ones around it. “This was inspired one night, after I met someone.” He said, trying his best not to look at Marcel, because Apollo knows who he is talking about. “And that person had changed my life, perhaps for the better. But from the beginning, I knew it was meant to be, which is what inspired me to make this one.” He said, smiling, despite the sadness of his words.  “In fact, most of these works were inspired by that person.” He said, sipping his champagne once more as he stood in front of his painting, taking in all the details.

apollo has a smile that would put all the gods to shame.

the old world could not have imagined apollo’s beauty. they would have written about him. marcel, for all he’s worth, did not have the right words to do that man justice. part of him regrets having called apollo’s name, and another, more selfish one is glad to have monopolised the artist’s attention. without touch, and with only a smile, marcel’s heart pounds in his ears, called to his sleeve by the hand that beckons it, by the eyes that search for it. surely, there should be something sinful about seeing another man in such a light. if anyone knew it would mean the end of both of them. european or not, such a thing is unholy; sacrilegious to love; and, yet, nothing has felt closer to heaven than by being near his love, being near that smiling man who talks of love so easily and creates it just by being. 

marcel, for all that he’s worth as a poet, cannot bring himself to think of any word other than joy, other than excitement, other than pride – such simple, complex things! apollo speaks of love as if it is everything to him and that, in itself, is frightening, maddening, disarming. marcel takes a sip of his champagne and wishes for more to loosen his tongue. perhaps then he can speak his truth in this room, or have the courage to do the right thing, and the improper thing, which are altogether the same kind of thing.

“do you always find such inspiration in something so...tragic?” he asks out loud, unable to keep himself from thinking, and hoping, that apollo had taken inspiration from him, too. who is he to assume that apollo’s love belongs only to him? surely there must be others. that smile is meant to be shared with the world, and not taken for granted by another soul who cannot cherish it. not in the long run. 

he doesn’t look at apollo when they come to a more...depressing piece. a more muted one. silent, as they are. he hums, and the thought that that person can be anyone else other than himself causes him to drink more. if he was the subject of it, or if he isn’t – either way, what had been joy distorts itself when he looks at the piece further, and hears apollo’s word like the damning gospel that it is. quietly, he responds, “if you keep looking at me and smiling at me the way you do all the time, people might get the wrong idea.” only then does he turn to his – what? lover? friend? his secret, perhaps, or his entire world, hidden from view. 

“i’d rather you do that when we’re alone.” marcel’s tone carries a finality to it when he reaches the last of his drink, and holds it out for the waiter to come ‘round with his tray to carry it away. he does not reach for another. “i am proud of you, though.” and, at last, some truth manages to worm itself out of his mouth, and a smile crawls up the corners of his lips for it. “do you have time later? or soon? it must’ve been busy lately, what with curating all this, and i was hoping to steal you away for...a bit of time.” 

paris, france – october 1909

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tiintenherz:

“well, not thanks to myself,” hana looks down at her feet, embarrassed, but not before looking at his smile, and what a beautiful smile that is. she almost opens her mouth to say taesoo should smile more, but decides against it. it’s not something she likes to hear from others and hana guesses this can get taesoo thinking she has second intentions when it comes to this new friendship in between them. and that is something she can’t even dream of, taesoo must have countless women falling for him, ready to do everything he wants them to; in comparisson she is just some silly countryside girl who wouldn’t stand a chance.

at his playful banter hana chuckles, hiding her face in between her hands for a moment. “ah, this is so embarrassing.” she peaks a look at him. “but if we’re friends then i should know something embarrassing about you too, right?” hana likes the proximity they’re walking, how their arms brush against each other. “actually, you gave me an idea,” she stops, looking at him. “let me make you dinner, as a way to thank you for everything. i don’t want to brag but i’m a very good cook, what do you say?”

at least he made her smile. that was something, wasn’t it, to have someone do anything other than grimace or tremble before him. she didn’t treat him like a god at all, and though this was what he was afraid of, she knew nothing of the underworld he existed in. she had no obligation to quiver in fear, or pay her respects to him just because he had blood on his hands. rather, she walked with him and talked with him so familiarly that, instead of soothing his nerves, he just found himself all the more worried for her own sake than she was. her kindness was dreadfully naive, and he realised then, belatedly, that he shouldn’t have said that he knew what she was going through. that was a lie.

and why should he be concerned for this newcomer? for this country girl who clearly didn’t learn her lesson? there was nothing extraordinary about her. she wasn’t rich, or carried with her anything that might have indicated high status. she was a simple girl with an incredible smile and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out how that worked. besides, if she was so naive, then she wouldn’t have survived this long, would she? 

“you’re doing decent,” he told her, in an attempt to be reassuring, and in the process forgot how to speak properly. he was usually so eloquent. he may be the boss’ hound, but there was every reason to at least seem respectable with his words, and not just an object of fear. he hoped she didn’t notice. god, he hoped she didn’t. (and why should he care, in the first place?) he cleared his throat, and spoke again, “but if you want to go all-out drinking like that again, at least invite me. or come up to where i’m sitting, if you wanna come back to that club. i’ll even give you discounts,” he added, smiling a little again, half-serious about it. he doubted she’d come back; he hoped she wouldn’t especially after what just happened. but if she did, he wouldn’t object to it, either.

“i – what? uh...” friends. so she confirmed it. and what right did she have to sound so goddamn adorable when she was that flustered? it affected him to the point that his ears began burning in embarrassment without even having to say anything! in his hesitation, he was glad that she brought up another topic, and chose to say nothing more of it when they stopped. “dinner? at your place? not tonight, it’s too late...” and, no, he would not admit that he thought she’d be a decent cook, or that he’d enjoy her food tremendously. he’d dined in five-star restaurants and was taught how to sample wines and whatever-the-fuck-else. home-cooked meals shouldn’t make him so excited, shouldn’t seem like a bone being offered to a dog. 

“but sure,” he said anyway, because he was a fool, an idiot, a country boy through and through. “yeah. so long as you don’t poison me and you let me bring decent drinks this time, and maybe movies to watch after...?” no, not a date at all. “am i the only one you’re having over?”

devil in the details.

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tiintenherz:

and truly, it’s not her fault, she was made of lava and fire as all dragon people, she has quite the temper. hana doesn’t pay attention to his words and gets up, walking towards the man. “hey, leave the girl be.” and she really, really didn’t mean to burn through his clothes as she pushes him away, but hana is still a baby dragon and can’t control her power fully. she looks as the man runs, shirt on fire, the girl screams and hell breaks loose.

maybe she should listen to taesoo sometimes.

it wasn’t his fault that he was so tall and attractive. he liked to think he could be imposing, too, if he tried, and if he was in full armour, and not in the one he travelled with. this was light: just chain mail and a bit of metal and a helmet if he ever needed it, and that was one was left in the room upstairs. his father thought he’d need more of it, but his father also knew that it was to hold back his arrogance. taesoo, as a boy, was much more eager to fight with street rats and the large dogs of owners who caught him in their property than he was fighting with swords and daggers and shields. he found it much more exciting with less rules to weigh him down. no, it surely wasn’t arrogance. he called it eagerness.

eagerness obviously wouldn’t help, in this case. having to ignore someone in distress went against every rule they drilled into him when they taught him how to fight properly without getting anything else but his knuckles bruised from a fight. his mother didn’t want him to fight at all, but of course, with a personality like his, it was vital that he learned to defend himself, and others, just as his father wished for him, only to control him and whatever situation he threw himself into. the entire duration of this journey was something that he would’ve never been a willing participant in, however, had it not been for his station. what controlled him then damned him now; that much was obvious when he saw hana’s hands, and her face, and –

no. it was improper to admire her face. it wasn’t even that pretty. she wasn’t even that pretty, what with that attitude. 

in fact, she reminded him much of what he had been like before as a boy, and it was frightening enough a prospect. no wonder his father wanted him tied down, if not by a woman then by the creed of knighthood. he fought his way to the top and now here he was, gearing to stand as the princess’ shield again not because someone wanted to harm her, but because she meant to harm someone first, which meant that they would inevitably –

“oh, for the love of –,” he grumbled, cut off by the sound of her words as she approached the man. said man was stupid enough to stand against the princess, and taesoo, who did not want his money to go to waste, took a last swig of his drink before bringing the empty mug with him as he stood up as well, and excused himself through the gathering crowd of men, “sorry, excuse me...”

and he wasn’t fast enough. of course he wasn’t. by the time he reached her someone screamed, someone was on fire, and someone was throwing a punch that he only ever saw before his hand reached up to block it with a mug, and hit the perpetrator with it before he could even think. 

he could’ve sworn this had already happened, but then again, with princess hana, it was more impossible that it hadn’t yet happened since they arrived here. maybe he was feeling lucky for the wrong reasons. 

quickly, he reached out to grab her arm, pull her aside, and perhaps hoping that he could pull her against him without setting fire to himself, “why–,” a punch, over his head, and one that he pulled her down with him for, “do you always have to start a fight?” all while trying to reach the nearest wall. 

goblin’s head inn – xx49

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bercevse:

“i would love to check your credentials, sir. but that would require some sort of id number and not just a name-” her patience was running thin up until he said the words ‘hawking three’ along with an ancient sounding name that she would come across her history books. 

“the hawking three? the hawking series have been discontinued for about 900 years now, it wouldn’t be possible for one to still be flying-” furrowed brows and confusion written all over her face. “you’re speaking to adelleta aedyn of crora prime. i’m saying that this is the year 3232 and there is absolutely no way that you could still be driving around an absolutely prehistoric ship without it bursting into flames in one of the atmospheres.”

della shook her head, lips still pursed in thought. could he still be messing with her? 

“but seeing as you do not have any identification to back up the fact that you are, in fact, an actual human, i could not alert the authorities. i would have no choice but to handle your case myself.” 

if flying to the thirteenth quadrant and landing on some tiny moon will be her after-work plans, then so be it, if it meant seeing a hawking ship intact. 

“i can be there in about three hours.” 

he truly did not appreciate the attitude she took on with him – and he assumed it was a woman, all things considered, even though she clearly did not want to give her name. he was no conservative, to be sure. no one was as concerned with politics now when all anyone wanted was to get out of the planet they were stuck in and start their problems anew on another one. and, if mingyu had succeeded, then they could have. it was just that he needed desperately to return, and it simply didn’t make sense that his data was transmitting somewhere but no one had answered his distress calls until now. 

“i don’t know what you’ve been trained to do, then,” he bit back with just the same amount of annoyance, if not more of it. he was entitled to it. “but if you really were a comms officer you’d know my name and you wouldn’t ask me stupid questions. the first thing communications officers are told to do when they get accepted is to know when to recognise a distress signal, i assume.”

no, it really wouldn’t pay to be just as snarky as the woman on the other end of the line. he wanted to blame it on spending the better part of two weeks listening and talking only to himself (and the latter only done in the quietest, most desperate moments) during his impromptu imprisonment on this stupid moon. there was something important to be had from human contact after all, even though most of the human contact he’d had back home was either stupid, boyish or too formal to be comfortable with. in his youth he’d been the one to throw crumpled papers full of correct answers around the room; as he grew older he’d been the one to try and score a basket from across the anti-grav room into a floating bin. the latter was impossible, of course, seen as there was no gravity to make crumpled paper stay in the bin, and now it seemed like he was doing the same thing, just with words, and with his attempt to get home.

he’d never been so eager to get home. hearing her name was not as comforting as it should’ve felt, either. 

“i told you about my id! and what do you mean the hawking three was discontinued – what – no! i’m pretty damn sure that i’m on the hawking mission, ma’am.” he didn’t mean to raise his voice either. even now it seemed much more louder to his own ears, given all those days of silence and static. surely she was the one trying to prank him! 

“look, if you think this is a joke, it isn’t funny. how about you try being stuck on a moon for two weeks without anyone answering your calls, huh?” nothing she said made sense. he was not gone for 900 years. he wouldn’t even be alive – the cryo chambers automatically shut down after a hundred maximum at this point, given their current space travel speed. 

“adelly-whatever. probably a fake name, too,” he grumbled, despite himself, and spoke up again, “listen, if it was a pre-historic ship, then i wouldn’t be here, would i? and how are you going to get here in three hours? del – may i call you del? – look, del, i really don’t appreciate all this. can you just patch me through to the captain? that’d be great. maybe i’d even make sure you got a raise, how about that?”

lost in stars-

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bercevse:

“you need healing.” sungkyung said brokenly, eyes gazing unseeingly at the gash upon his chest. as if not believing that she was the cause of it. “all the masters are gone and i-” 

she squeezed her eyes shut, getting shakily up to her feet with her arm stretched towards him. 

“i wont hurt you. i’m sorry, i-” the princess sorr cleared her throat, a mess in every sense of the word as she looked into his eyes. “i’ll heal you, if you’ll let me.” 

her sabre cut through skin and muscle and patience. savan was not a master; he did not have master luke’s experience or patience or skill. he was still a child, after all, who knew nothing of the worldly pains sungkyung probably knew, and now still felt. that was why he was still not enough to hold her heart, wasn’t it? – and did this prove it now? no, he only frightened her. how could strength do something so terrible? how could anything else hurt more than the wound she inflicted? 

it was the blood, he decided, that didn’t flow freely through him, and instead onto the ground. there was too much of it, and he couldn’t quite tell why it felt so heavy. he frowned, now, at the lack of response to his challenge. now she couldn’t answer his question with the same force she used to let him bear some of the weight on her shoulders, and in her chest. what curled under his skin made it all the more bearable to hold onto his lightsabre, as if this, too, could drive her to the same action she wanted. 

“stop that. don’t pity me.” 

it was impossible, to be true. there was nothing not pitiful about a young knight wounded by his own charge. it was foolish of him to even think that she was his to protect, perhaps (and jedi knights weren’t meant to protect just one, in the first place). she clearly did not feel it so. he wasn’t strong enough, still. he wasn’t –

“you’re not going to kill me,” he answered, half-laughing, as if she asked him a question that deserved one. “you can’t.”

but she kneeled in front of him, and it angered him more than anything else. and yet – despite it all – he took a step back, as if this was an affront to what he believed in, what he was wired to do. the sudden movement caused all sorts of everything-pain to shoot up his bones, his muscles, caused him to stagger and his knees to buckle to catch himself from falling. if anyone saw them like this, he realised belatedly, it would be a terrible sight. the masters, if they returned and heard of it, would hear anyone else’s version before his own. no matter how young he had been he was still a nobody, a nothing, an orphan boy who wanted to be more – and now he knew that even being a knight was not enough.

silver light retracted back into its handle, and he had neither the energy to straighten up, nor to tuck the weapon back in his belt. “i said don’t pity me,” he repeated, quieter this time, gaze unable to meet her own, afraid of what he’d see in them. maybe he’d see himself, his incompetence, his inability to do the one thing he’d trained as a knight to do. childlike, compelled by his elder. her anguish pushed his anger further against his chest, into it, buried it under her tears, and all that could wash it away was all this blood. so much of it was in him, so much of it was lost; so much of hers was gone, too, in a different way, and she didn’t need to admonish him for all his guilt. all of it now had soaked right through his robes, right down his sleeve, down his arm, down his palms, against his sabre. he had to grasp it a bit tighter.

“stop crying,” he pleaded, unable, still, to look at her. “fight me. won’t that make you feel better?” and how could he say her name now, when he caused her even more pain than he wanted to take away? “tell me,” he said again, feeling more like a recorder droid than a knight. it seemed as if he could be anything else but a knight. even now. “tell me how to make it better for you.”

yavin iv – aby 12

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xblackbirds:

they only want her to bleed. they only want her broken over and over, collapsing and dying over and over, shattering and splitting apart. over and over. if she is a monster, they’ve helped make her this way, if she is a mad dog, she’ll carve it over her own skin and form herself to be just as unconquerable. she is not a stallion, she won’t be broken in like a horse. she is a wolf; a free animal, a wild animal, something that never gives up or stops fighting back.

the man above her glares, raises his white-knuckled grip on the baton again, to strike her secondly, and she holds fast, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t cower, black eyes burning with a power he’ll never touch, but then a light beeping sound interrupts him, his communicator vying for attention, and he is forced to pause. he stops, pouts disgruntledly a moment, like a child whose game has ended, before stomping off and slamming the door shut, locking her in this shitty cell of a bedroom, her mouth full of blood, his lip dripping onto the floor between her hands.

after a moment, she collects herself, leans back up, wipes the scarlet away, blinks, closes her eyes, reminds herself to breathe. reminds herself she will escape from this dungeon, from this level of the netherworld. she can already feel her newfound powers manipulating her body disgustingly, to heal the fracture on her face, cold and unnatural, sending shivers down her spine, and finally she can’t keep things to herself anymore. “miles,” she calls carefully through the nearest wall, to the cell just beyond, her bruised lip swelling and slurring her voice slightly. “are you there?”

miles never often backed out of a challenge. 

they came to her one day, curious as devils are, and inquired of her situation, as if they cared. men in suits turning up at a university wasn’t an odd sight at all, and neither was it strange that they asked to see her work on stars and charts and other new things. it should have struck her then that they were not ordinary people who wanted to know about extraordinary things. she was rarely ever at the main campus, if that, and spent most of her time in the observatory nearer the mountains – a new facility, and one gifted by some beneficiary – and made use of this new telescope the university was particularly proud of, though not many used it, or were allowed to go near it. as it was, she was a special case then. they presented her with a challenge, an offer, and at the time it seemed like a good one, and a scientific one. she needn’t do much research because she knew some in a different faculty of science were working on the same theories, and who was she to question that? when she asked why she was chosen the answer she received was vague, at best, but the challenge was like holding a carrot at the end of a stick in front of a donkey, and back then, she was the worst ass anyone could complain about. her talent had gone to her head, or she simply gave off the (right) impression that she couldn’t care any less for others’ affairs.

that life, however, was dangerous to remember. 

now she wished she asked what this girl had trouble with or why that boy felt a particular subject challenging. – no, those were too mundane. miles worked too hard to be that.

then again, a lot of people have called her selfish, in her time outside. even her parents, who, despite knowing all they knew about their own daughter, commented that she could often be too self-absorbed in her own pool of pity or plight or ambition or whatever it was she fixated on. 

here, it paid to keep an ear out. needles and knuckles, needles and knuckles – even when they tied her hands behind her back and bound her ankles together with chains, even when they beat her to choke on the blood on her tongue, it was still useful to hear their insults, and hear the truths within them. people were often most truthful when they were angry, or when they were monsters. either way, miles wouldn’t have any trouble paying them back tenfold for every hit. she wouldn’t mind locking them up in dark, dingy cells smelling of shit and something dead long-gone. this cell had been her home for months. weeks, perhaps, though she counted the days by the number of times they dragged her out. and it was always right before she was ready for it. she would never be ready for it.

and here she thought she had had enough! here she thought she was a fast learner – what a fucking joke. grades didn’t matter here. mundane lives didn’t matter here. they’re all just on the brink of survival and something darker, and even now, it ripples under her skin, and curls like a snake in her gut after every ‘session’. and, after each one, was the same voice, the same comforting presence on the other side of a cracking wall. voices couldn’t be comforting. miles had convinced herself long ago that this was just temporary, wasn’t it; mutual irredeemables scratching at their prison, aching for something to remind them that there was something beyond that door that didn’t involve a world of pain. she had counted the seconds until the voice floated through again, unable to curl up in the corner this time. they were particularly brutal today.

“you sound like shit,” she joked in response, only able to speak with her cheek against the dirty floor. she was past the point of caring why it was damp; only that it was hard, and it put some pressure on the side of her body that they abused. today they didn’t use their fists; today was much worse, and closing her eyes now would – “what’d you say to them this time?”

angry on the outside

[ultracocobabe-blog]

refraction

@twentysixdegrees

sumin didn’t often go on dates like these. it wasn’t as if she was ashamed of anything, but when one had to keep two public identities, it was much better to be careful of the one they bring home after the fighting and the heroism. she made it a policy never to bring her work home, too, to keep things tidy and separated and organised. the world operated this way, and it was a good thing that she did as well, except that sometimes work overflowed to the point that it broke down the doors of her home and invaded on her desk and her room and, most notably, the bathroom that saw one too many wounds nursed on her own. there was a reason why her medicine cabinet was so well-stocked.

but the thing was the emergency was an emergency. work spilled again into her home just before she was about to host a dinner for two, and it wasn’t that sumin particularly liked keeping things from ahyoung, either, despite that they were practically just strangers who happened to like each other. a lot. very, very, very much.

the trick was not to think about it too much while she was preparing dinner and fishing for reasons why a) there was blood on her bath mat and b) there was a line of band-aids on her knuckles just by preparing a nice batch of pasta and garlic bread. it would distract her from the main task, and it certainly wasn’t beating the garlic bread to submission like she did to those robbers in the nearby bank. despite her morals and her beliefs about the law and what she could do to uphold it, it certainly shouldn’t hurt that she took just one night off? oh, but she had to take that particular route, and she really did have to intervene, even if it meant using an old ski mask and looking more like a gangster in her black leather jacket than a hero.

well, she was out of it now, at least. there were no papers scattered on her desk, all neatly put away; there was nothing of her costume that could be seen anywhere, or could be found anywhere, unless ahyoung pressed the wrong button on the remote; the blood could at least be wiped away from the sink; and, most importantly, dinner was as warm and tasted as well as she wanted it to. she didn’t want ahyoung to think she was a terrible cook, god forbid, especially if this was her first time coming to sumin’s apartment.

neat and organised was the impression she was going for, not horny and drunk. 

at least she managed to change out of her ratty clothes too, and into something nicer, even if it was a dress she scrounged up from her closet. her hair could do some work, but at least the immediate signs of overwork could be disguised by a little bit of make-up. and at that, just as she was taking the garlic bread out of the oven, the doorbell rang –

“coming!” and, no, the butterflies knocking about her insides certainly weren’t from, say, fumbling with the tray a little as she put it down, or the knot of the apron behind her back as she tried to undo it, all while walking towards the door. and she was still fumbling with it when she opened the door, like a fool, smiling anyway, “hi.” sumin moved assigned, one hand on the knot and the other at the doorknob. “come in, come in. i was just getting finished – here, do you mind helping me untie this? it’s a bit fiddly. i’m not sure how i managed to do it!”

[ultracocobabe-blog]

“My voice cracking like bones inside the radio. Silly me. I thought love was real.”

— Ocean Vuong, from “Eurydice” featured in Night Sky with Exit Wounds

[ultracocobabe-blog]

bercevse:

“i’m very sorry about that, we’ll get a squad to come to your quadrant soon. but i do need your licence id though, we’re not allowed to launch rescue operations without the recipient’s code. don’t worry though- everything stays confidential within the system, so your parents wouldn’t have to know.”

she snickered, suddenly very glad that she had long left her childhood home and forced to borrow her parents ship for every joyride. of course, she wasn’t the type to venture to far out of the quadrant, she left the rebellious streak to her elder brothers. they kept their parents busy, that much was evident. 

“or maybe the make and model of your ship? we could trace the licence id and at least pull up your family registration?” 

laughter wasn’t the first thing he expected to hear. concern, perhaps, would do much better to soothe him. being alone for the past few weeks with nothing to keep him company but static and numbers was maddening, and it wasn’t that much better when what he heard on the other line was a bunch of gibberish then laughter. he hadn’t been gone for so long that they’d forgotten about him, surely! he was here on a noble mission, a good one, for the fate of all humankind. they gave him salutes when he left and praised him for his effort and promised him valour and glory and a first-class residence on whatever planet they planned to colonise. he wasn’t told that he’d be a laughing stock for trying to save the future. 

“that’s – okay, this isn’t funny,” he told her, with no hint of amusement in his voice; more so annoyance, and confusion. what he needed was assurance, not...whatever mocking thing this was. there was no priosdelt belt, no tay-thea system. he updated his data logs since he first got here and it had taken hours, at first, but he was sure that his information now was the same as it was back home, real-time. he had the star charts, he had the figures, the calculations – he even knew at which time he should launch, in what exact direction. 

all he lacked were the means to do it. 

“i don’t know what you’re talking about, lady! i’ve been here for weeks, i’m sure of it. i’m not wrong.” it was this self-assurance that got him in that ship in the first place. he never second-guessed his answers, not even in class, but this wasn’t a quiz. this was a cry for help, and there shouldn’t be any right answers other than his name and where he was – and he was sure he was in the right place. where else could he be? 

“listen, whoever you are – you clearly don’t work for NASA, or any reputable place. this is not how you talk to a ranked officer,” he snapped. (and, yes, maybe he would feel bad about pulling the rank card – he used to think he had a lot of respect for comms officers until this particular exchange.) “i’m not – okay, this isn’t a joke. whoever you are, seriously...did they bring in a replacement? someone who actually works there wouldn’t talk to someone in distress like this. are you new to the job or something?”

in hindsight, it was probably common sense that people wouldn’t be inclined to help him if he talked to them like this. if he wasn’t stranded on a moon with no way of getting home other than this woman on the other end who thought his situation was the funniest joke in the ever-expanding universe, then he wouldn’t be this agitated either. it certainly didn’t help that she didn’t seem to listen to a word he was saying. 

“look, i’m sorry,” he began again, “but i have no idea what you’re talking about. i’m officer kwon. i came here on the hawking mission. my parents know...” of course they did. they saw him off, didn’t they? surely the years in cryo didn’t mess with his memories. those side-effects were long sorted out before he even left. “they know. can’t you just check my credentials? please, i just – i’m serious. officer kwon mingyu. solo mission on the hawking three. can i at least know who i’m talking to?”

lost in stars-

[ultracocobabe-blog]

goblin’s head inn – xx49

@tiintenherz

then she walks through the door and everyone turns and is astonished –

is how entrances by beautiful women usually go. tales told around pubs, stories about women too gorgeous to even touch, let alone look at, are the ones that always have men in armour aching to protect something that isn’t yet theirs. taesoo has been chosen not to be that kind of man, not anymore, and there’s not a day that goes by that he wishes he can go back to being so ignorant and boisterous and ambitious. instead he’s beside the kind of woman who’d turn heads if they recognised who she was in a way that would be less astonished and more hateful. vengeful, even, or bloodthirsty. 

protecting the dragon kingdom’s princess-heir was exactly the thing they were warned to avoid doing in the first place. as knights, they were for better, more demure princesses, staying by their sides while they picked dresses and princes and happily-ever-afters. knights were to be loyal, gentlemanly, and alert. they were trained to anticipate danger, even if there wasn’t any; paranoia was part of the job. at this point, everything that he was taught might as well be the death of him with this job. his paranoia would have his heart stopped before this princess got what she wanted out of a quest. a quest! princesses never went on quests! knights did that, and at the behest of their charges, but never like...this. granted, it was partly his own fault: he shouldn’t have shown off so much, shouldn’t have impressed her so much. but she didn’t have to pick him, either!

knights didn’t really have to keep their heads down in public places, but he was feeling less and less of a knight lately and more like a mere soldier, a paid hand, a shield that might be thrown away if he wasn’t useful enough. 

dragon people were always like that. it was dangerous to think that she was any different, no matter how astonished he was whenever she smiled – 

besides, it was that some rambunctious non-gentlemen were yelling and touching the barmaid inappropriately that made him really hate having to keep his head down. he had a blade to cut their wrists clean through, and still he had to stay his hand for the sake of the princess. 

“don’t say anything,” he had to remind her, keeping his grip on his mug steady. by now the ale wouldn’t do much to help him ignore it. they were getting louder, and so was that poor maid. “we can’t draw attention to ourselves. there’s still a while to go before you get your treasure.”

[ultracocobabe-blog]

tiintenherz:

at his question she chuckles. that is the exact thing her roommate asked her countless times, although her tone was harsher, like a mother confronting a rebel child. “i moved six months ago or so,” hana can’t stop looking at him, at the way he walks and how smooth his skin looks under the street lights. “i grew up in a small town where everyone knew each other so i’m still getting used to this whole don’t trust strangers thing.” 

despite the good impression taesoo gives her hana doesn’t disclose anything else about where she is from or what brings her to the city, it’s enough that he already knows her embarrassing dating history, he doesn’t need to know everything, at least for now. “so i guess you’re the last stranger i talk to.” she smiles. “but we’re not strangers anymore, are we?” hana wonders what is it about taesoo that makes her feel so comfortable to talk to him like they’ve been friends for a while. “what about you, are you from here or are you some country boy the city turned into a sometimes funny guy?”

any person would’ve called him out on that vagueness. they would’ve pursued it, asked him more questions, encouraged him with that human curiosity to stay the hell away from her and never speak to her again. at least, anyone might be suspicious of his avoidance. but she’s talking about his vibe and he’s never been so confounded by something much more vague than his explanation. vibe – a serious one! at least she’s not wrong in that. there’s nothing wrong with that, either, is there? (is there?)

“i...guess that’s a good thing?” that a girl can make him sound so hesitant, so unsure of his own thoughts, was becoming increasingly frustrating. she probably didn’t mean anything by it, too. there was probably something wrong with him tonight. drinks, perhaps, though he wasn’t a lightweight, or some of those herbs he smoked a while ago, but that should’ve passed already. the come-down had come and gone while he was at work (easy work, for people like him), so it simply didn’t make sense that –

“what?” did she peg him for a country boy so quickly? here he was, park taesoo, wearing the city on his sleeve and running through the streets with blood to cover the first parts of his life. nothing should have given it away. he was the one berating her for her naïveté, and here he was falling entirely for it – wait. no, that wasn’t right. maybe he was just being paranoid. it certainly didn’t hurt to be paranoid in his line of work, but she wasn’t a spy; she wasn’t the police. if she was, then he wouldn’t have to keep saving her. no one who’s seen this life could smile like that.

“i’m not from here,” he answered again, as if he owed her any answers. the night seemed to be full of it. “so i...might know what you’re going through.” wrong. that was a lie. he sought out this life the first chance he got. he embraced it, and allowed himself to be absorbed by it, moulded by it. she was different. “i’m glad we’re no longer strangers, though. at least i can rest easy knowing you’re going home safe tonight,” he joked, half-sarcastic about it. that half-truth had him smiling, too, and nudging her a little. “i hope you know – this means i won’t let you live down the first time we met. it’ll make for a funny dinner story.”

devil in the details.

[ultracocobabe-blog]

yixingxing:

the days in between were monotonous. work, sleep, eat, work, sleep, eat. throw in a blind date here or there - her coworkers and friend’s attempts to get her to date seemingly futile when it never gets past date two. while the week felt long, it wasn’t emotionally taxing. the day after being with chaeyeon, usually takes some coaxing to get her head out of the clouds. it was a taste of a world that would not be permanently hers. so close, but unable to truly touch - that was something she would have to be content. and so she tells herself simply that.

“i didn’t even drink that much. did you even drink that much? let’s take the subway back.” mina’s arms hook around chaeyeon’s, a pout forming immediately.  her words are slurring together and a quick jumble. she stands up feeling confident in her stability after having sat down,  but its only when things stop that she can comprehend how the world spins.  “actually, maybe a cab is a better idea…” 

the longer they stay here, the most dangerous it gets. 

it’s not an affront to her dignity and her image that she’s worried about. mina can cling onto her and stay close to her as much as she wants without it seeming weird; that’s the benefit of having years and years between them. mina is most of her life and maybe that’s why it’s impossible to think of her as being anything else. every night with her, once a week (if they’re lucky), somehow always ends with going home together like they used to before it all went to shit with words and wit time. chaeyeon wishes she didn’t look forward to it; it’s that in-between, that electric, magnetic in-between, played over and over every week, and she’s the one that puts the needle to the record like a masochist. she’s the one who calls mina over, the one who texts first and the one who replies last.

chaeyeon remains herself, despite all this time. she’s still the one helping, still the one sober. seoul should’ve dragged her out of that precarious selflessness; she’d have nothing left to give by the end of it all. despite the stench of sweat and alcohol and lingering smoke from customers already-gone weighing heavy on her lungs, and the dim flashes of entertainment too-loud for a couple of drunks in a single room, there’s only ever mina to give anything to.

whatever happened between them before all this has scarred over. surely, it has. time has been kind to them in that it keeps them apart most of the time, and maybe that’s for their own good, too. it’s that kind of thing, see: the kind that scabs over, the kind that you pick at so it doesn’t have to heal, not always, so it doesn’t scar over and disappear. she’s already standing like her body knows to catch mina before she even falls. it’s that kind of thing, see: the kind that lasts for years and doesn’t go away. 

chaeyeon would rather keep that wound bleeding, would rather run the risk of it festering than have to bear with it disappearing forever.

so she smiles and laughs and says, “i told you. we’ll get some food on the way, if you want. remember that really good tteokbokki place we stopped at last week? do you want some of that?” something, anything to placate the intoxicated. she doesn’t want either of them saying the wrong thing, at least not when both could remember it. but when mina comes close – closer – her lungs stop working for that quick second; a knee-jerk reaction if there ever is one. and, just like always, chaeyeon learns how to breathe again. she always does. 

even more, she manages to remain stable despite the arm hooked around her own – surprisingly – but stumbles a little nevertheless. she slides her arm out of that precarious grip and takes her wallet out instead, placing the bills they owe on the table and mouthing, we’re gonna go, to the ones left behind for the final song. “i’ll get us that cab,” she tells mina when she turns to her again, holds both hands out, “come on. we’ll get you home.” 

replay, replay, replay.

[ultracocobabe-blog]

bercevse:

an ataru user does not dance. not in the way that a graceful princess should behave, no- but in her lightness and speed the aggressive acrobatic movements of the fourth form flowed like choreographed flight. in the princess’ desperate fury her softness still perseveres, infuriatingly strong as the force coursing through her veins. so sungkyung gathered all her adrenaline in the force and used it to shove savan back enough to stagger, but not to fall; her blue lightsaber spinning relentlessly in their wide, powerful swings. 

she choked down a sob, a wretched thing that hurt her heart and blurred her eyes with a touch of tears. ( not enough, still not enough ).

in her blinding fury her stance changed, her right foot slid backwards somewhat to let her body weight rest on the heels of her feet; before she leapt forwards, higher and more powerful than she ever did. the princess spun her hilt downwards so that her saber pointed down towards the ground to form the manoeuvre: vornskr’s ferocity. a juyo technique, a mere step from the dark. 

( no! come back to the light! )

before she could register where the air was bringing her, the eralam beam had found its mark with the assistance of the forbidden seventh form. 

and as if she was in the crumbling halls of her homeworld, droplets of blood began to fall soundlessly against the stone floor. 

the princess gasped. 

her lightsaber slipping through her fingers. 

his intention was never to harm. master luke instilled such values in him. the dark side meant to overpower, not subdue, but what lay beyond that but hope? if what he had to be was a sponge for her anger, why would he want to subdue it? he’d read the old creed; he knew its flaws. one didn’t need to have a master’s experience and time to figure that out. his own loss was subdued by discipline; fury and anguish were always a dangerous mix. but hers was immediate, hers was not a wound that had time to heal yet. 

the comforting ring of his saber resonated as he held it up with one hand. this was confident, learned, but unrefined. master luke often berated him for being young and careless, but he excelled in it nevertheless, though not enough. this was practice, wasn’t it? – and, still, he saw the way she fell into usual form, and saw the moment her mind changed, her feet shifted, shoulders squared with righteous anger. 

he wished he could have said no to it. her assertion – that she ever really needed to demand it – proved that his answer now was no. his body betrayed him. once she shifted, so did he. he would’ve matched her own, of course, but that would mean he intended to hurt her. he had done that enough.

instead of shining before him, he raised the blade; moved, made as little a target of himself as possible; bent his knees and waited for an attack –

only half a second before it came. 

he was not built to be a sponge. he was not a shield. his body fought against her and every other urge to launch a counterattack. it was clunky; worse – cautious. silver met blue, planets crashing against a stream of stars (or perhaps asteroids). her form could only destroy the both of them, and here he was, meeting every screaming blow with silence. he lost his balance in the struggle, felt the weight of her heart in every blow. the thought that he was not equipped to carry this for her caused him to grit his teeth as he pushed her off, regained his balance, found his ground, raised his blade again.

he stood still nevertheless, and waited for her to approach him, as he always had. he would not presume to attack.

“sungkyung –,” he began, between blows, grunting at that last one. no – no, he couldn’t tell her, could he, that this anger only meant that he could not fight her as a knight? “sungkyung, stop that–,” she was toeing the line. this, most of all, frightened him: that he could not take this pain that threatened to consume her; that he could not defeat it for her before it called her to a place he could not save her from. “don’t –,”

hesitation. master luke warned him about his own heart, too. 

it didn’t amount to a second; it didn’t need to. it was an opening he gave that she took, 

and it hurt. (he might have yelled, choked, fallen.)

he fell back not only by the sheer force of her blow but by the blood that felt heavy across his chest. silver receded back into his saber, fell and was displaced from him like a severed limb. it hurt, it hurt – but his shoulder was intact, his shoulder was against the ground, and he could still move his hand. had it been any stronger, had she been any closer, this would not be the case, and still, despite his training, despite the trials, this ran through his veins and struck his chest without having to come close to his heart. his hand came over the wound as if it would stop the bleeding. hot with blood, it was frightening.

“sungkyung,” he managed, despite that, despite tears blooming at the corners of his eyes that he had to blink back, with a frown that settled and did not dissipate. he reached for his saber, but did not ignite it. he struggled to get up, focused on his legs, his feet, and only then did he ignite his blade again. it felt as heavy as his arm. “is that already enough for you? when are you going pick up your blade, and start fighting me like a knight?” he could not even raise his weapon, and still he challenged her, ached for it, and childishly thought – if this is how her pain heals... 

“your anger will not let you among our ranks, if you want it so badly. but i will help you,” his sleeve, his shirt, was heavy with blood. it weighed him down. this challenge might not be one he can meet. “i will help you. give me your anger! fight!”

yavin iv – aby 12

[ultracocobabe-blog]

cwtch

cwtch

home is farther away than it seems now.

there’s blood in the corner of his lips and he kisses her knuckles with it and wonders where he went wrong.

the thing is, he had never been a dog. he stopped being someone’s dog years ago. it’s probably been his way of deflecting blame. it’s a way of keeping sane other than doing what needs to be done for a vision that now seems blurrier than ever. there’s no denying that he has lives hanging on the strings tied around his fingers. they weigh his hands down and they land even heavier on someone else’s ribs, their cheek, their jaw; they get heavier, every single time, and now he supposes it’s only right that some of it he receives in return. karma has a way of biting people in the ass, and for the longest time, he’s been on the darker end of it.

no, he hasn’t been a dog in a long time. he’s been the approaching demon at the death knell. he’s been dragging the blade against the ground without caring for the noise. 

he should’ve listened.

the thing is, carrying around that much weight on his hands only means that putting them on anyone will only ever hurt. no matter how gentle or light he wishes himself to be, there will always be destroyed hearts scratching at their next victim. there will always be the horror, the pressure. 

the thing is, he wishes it could have been different. 

maybe he should’ve just been a boy from a small town going to a big-city club that night. maybe that’s where he went wrong. he would’ve protected her anyway. he would’ve seen her home, tucked her in, made sure that she had her fill of water to lessen the blow of the hangover the morning after. he would walk her home a million times more, though under sober circumstances. he would make sure she’s safe a million times over.

maybe that’s where he went wrong. people who carry greed and fury in the spaces of their fingers don’t deserve to taint life with it. people like him can’t pretend to be good. people like him can’t pretend to know how to protect. 

taesoo has never been good enough for her anyway. ah – of course. another mistake. 

it’s not a matter of worth. taesoo is capable of paying for her every need, and going above and beyond for it if it means she’ll smile more. it’s more a matter of goodness, at its core. see, hana can smile and taesoo wouldn’t notice the world burning. he’d have left this life if the weight of all those lives would let him, if she truly asked him for it, if she wanted his life if he could have hers not to take but to protect. hana could ask anything of him and everyone he knew knew that taesoo would move heaven and hell and the sun and all the stars if it meant that that thing would make hana happy. he would obtain it even if it meant prying it out of dead hands. he would keep her safe if it meant beating the world into submission so that no one would lay a treacherous hand on her.

and here she is, constantly denying that that hand belongs to the one holding onto her heart, too.

(no, it really isn’t right, is it?)

here she is, again, holding onto him, keeping his head still in her arms like she can carry the weight of his shoulders, too. 

“i’m sorry,” comes more like a gurgled apology. 

“don’t – don’t speak –,”

god, even now she sheds tears for him! when he opens his mouth to breathe through the blood, her tears fall on his tongue.

“sorry,” he manages, holding onto her hand. sirens wail even closer. before long he won’t be able to hold on. “sorry.”

and when he can’t anymore, she holds onto him tighter. she holds him and his hand and there’s nothing but warmth here. she’s stronger than he’s ever felt; maybe he should’ve paid attention to that, too. 

the thing is, you don’t really know someplace is home until you’ve left it. taesoo’s stupid. he should’ve remained a dog, he should’ve stayed in the doghouse, far from it – but hana let him inside this home, allowed him this warmth, gave him strength even when he had no need for it. (the sirens rage even closer; they ring in his ears, now.) she let him run around there tracking his dirt with him. and she held him, and held him, and held him – and held the door open for him, all this time, and all he had to do was –

“thank you.” rather than sorry, rather than guilt, this time – next time – every time – it would have to be gratitude. all he had to do was walk through the door. all he had to do was hold on to her, too.