#grief really is an ebb and flow
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IN BLOOM | jisung
first date series. second chance lovers.
pairing: jisung x fem!reader
word count: 13.2k
genre: childhood friends au, angst, fluff, songwriter!jisung, florist!reader
warnings: swearing, minor character death, grief/loss (nothing to do with any of the members!)
summary: it's february. the tulips are in bloom. jisung is back.
chan | minho | changbin | hyunjin | jisung | felix | seungmin | jeongin
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a/n: *taps mic* hello?? is this thing on?? oh good. yes. hi. hello! it's been a while, as most of you can tell. thank you all SO MUCH for sticking around. if you've been reading my asks you'll know that march and april were rough months for me personally. shout out to my anons and mutuals who kept my spirits high and made my days brighter. uhhh, this was originally supposed to be a stand alone fic but i figured hey, what the hell, and made it into jisung's first date chapter. it's pretty heavy stuff. lots of feelings, lots of love. i hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it! again, thank you so much for waiting for me. i'll be back soon with more updates! all the love <3
also thank you kenzie for being such a light during all of this. i hope all my screaming in your messages was worth it!
“All of these had to be pulled.” Hyunjin huffs, dropping a few crates just past the doorway.
“Again?” you ask, hands on your hips as you stare at yet another wasted supply. “I don’t understand, they sold so well last year.”
Hyunjin gives you a sad smile. “It’ll pick up eventually, don’t worry. I mean the holidays just finished and business usually slows down in the months after anyways.”
He’s being sincere, you know that. But there’s a part of you that also knows it’s a lot more than just the usual ebb and flow of sales. He’s being nice for your sake.
“Maybe we could try coming up with other ideas?” he suggests, because Hyunjin is nothing if not kind. Always willing, always finding a way.
He moves past you to grab a fresh pair of gloves. The ones he’s wearing are dirty, pollen-stained and ripped at the edges.
“You’ve always been really good at basket arrangements. We could try to make some for Valentine's Day. Different sizes, maybe? The big ones will probably do well for online orders since they’re more optimal for things like office deliveries and stuff like that.”
You hum in approval. “True. I mean, I was kind of worried we would have to skip out on deliveries this year since we don’t have the manpower to handle all of that, but I think Jeongin’s been looking to pick up hours around here again. He said something about his program giving them a month of independent study, so he’ll be home for a bit.” you say, scribbling down a reminder in your notebook. “I could ask him to help with driving the truck in his free time?”
Hyunjin lights up– he always does when Jeongin is mentioned.
It’s been a lot quieter ever since he left for college. There were so many tears and so many hugs that were met with countless 'you guys are dramatic's in return. But it’s hard to not feel sad when people leave town; when they decide the borders lined with apple trees and rice fields aren’t enough to stop their dreams from blooming into more than what’s capable of being pursued here.
That, unsurprisingly, is something you know all too well.
“Can’t believe he’s driving.” Hyunjin laments as he wipes his floral scissors with a rag. “I used to spend my days changing his diapers and spoon feeding him redbulls– but now? Driving? My baby is all grown up.” he fake sniffles. “By the way, I’m gonna take my fifteen after I’m done snipping these tulips.”
You snort, bending down to take the crates of wilted flowers to the back for disposal. Hyunjin moves to help but you shake him off.
“Sounds good. Also, don’t let Innie hear you say that. I’m about a thousand percent sure he has the strength needed to throw you into the dumpster with one arm now.”
“My baby would never do that to me!” Hyunjin calls out as you round the corner, bumping open the back door with your hip.
February brings a lot of rain in Jeju. Today is no different; fat drops landing on your head as soon as you stumble out into the alley behind the shop. Footsteps heavy on wet brick, you curse under your breath as you run as fast as you can to the dumpster.
There’s still a few supply boxes from yesterday’s shipment laying around. You meant to bring them in, but you were so exhausted that it slipped your mind while you struggled to make sure everything inside the shop was figured out.
Scrambling, you haul them in one by one, shoes squeaking against the floor as you alternate in and out, soggy cardboard pressed against the front of your apron.
Hyunjin’s on break. A necessary one at that. You can’t bother him, especially not when he’s done enough by taking on more responsibility both as a physical worker and a newly actualized business partner recently. A few stacks of boxes and wet hair seem like a fair trade off for what he’s had to sacrifice in the past year now.
“Idiot,” you mumble, cursing yourself for carelessness. Your slip ups have been more frequent lately, evident in the way you constantly forget things and can’t seem to push away the haziness clouding your mind.
If it weren’t for the timing of it all, you’d blame it on the weather. The gloominess. The overcast skies probably have some sort of hand in your lack of clarity. Shrouded.
But it’s February. And in Jeju— it rains.
By the time you make it back inside, you’re drenched.
“You look like you just got dunked in a pool.”
You frown, ringing your hair out into the trash bin by the door. It’ll definitely take time to dry off, both your hair and your clothes are soaked through.
Hyunjin watches with an amused look, arms crossed as he leans his back against the counter.
“Might as well have. It’s insane out there.” you sigh. “How was your break?”
You look up to find that his face has gone unreadable.
“Yeah, about that…” Hyunjin trails off, voice suddenly smaller than before.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah it’s just–” Hyunjin chews at his bottom lip.
You push past him into the supply room to switch out your apron just as he says, “Do you mind if I leave a little early today?”
You scoff, turning to face him. “Hwang Hyunjin,” you scold, lips twitching when he visibly startles at your tone, “You don’t have to ask me that. We’re partners now, remember? We run this place.”
He shifts on his feet, still unsure.
“Besides,” you huff, tying a knot behind your back, “We were friends way before that, too. You don’t have to be all proper with me. Of course you can leave early. It’s slow today, I can take care of it.”
Hyunjin sighs after contemplating for a second. “Are you sure you’ll be okay, though?”
When he stares at you for a moment too long, you know the real reason for his hesitation. It makes something twist deep in your gut.
Guilt, maybe, amongst other things.
“Of course.” you shrug, doing your best to seem nonchalant.
Hyunjin’s ability to read people is kind of intense, a little scary at times. You happen to be one of his favorite subjects in that regard.
“Have fun. Tell Minah I said hi.”
He pales, sputtering around words as he struggles to say something. It’s cute, his plump lips opening and closing, eyes wild.
“I’m not going to see her! I’m–it’s just a movie! How did you—God, you’re so annoying. I should’ve made you trim the tulips. Hah!”
You giggle. “It’s funny that you think I wouldn’t know, especially with the way you love to actually make yourself look busy whenever she stops by to say hi.”
“I am busy.” he mumbles, looking away. “I just emphasize it a lot more when she’s here.”
“Sure,” you roll your eyes, “Let’s go with that.”
He whines a couple more times, trails after you around the shop and laughs when you swat him away with a rolled up newspaper that’s used for wrapping vases.
It’s loud. Easy. Hyunjin is a gentle reminder that normalcy still exists in your day to day, even if it’s hard to find.
When he finally decides to leave, he lingers for a moment, triple checks that you’ll be okay. You roll your eyes for what feels like the millionth time today, but deep down you’re grateful.
“Love you,” he says, one foot out the door. “Call me if you need anything.”
You shake your head, ignoring him. “Love you too.”
And then he’s gone, a skip in his step as he heads down the sidewalk, leaving you with nothing but freshly-trimmed tulips and the sound of rain.
“Herb snips, shears, tape…” you mumble, scanning the supply shelf.
There’s not much to do in-shop right now. Almost all the arrangements have been tended to by Hyunjin already, his specialty being his keen eye. That’s why he handles the appeal of the shop, leaving you to figure out all the logistics. Learning it all was easier said than done.
In reality, it was never your intention to take over the shop at all.
“When I die,” your grandma would always say, ignoring the way you groaned and begged her to stop bringing it up, “Sell this place. Use the money for something worthwhile. A trip to Greece, maybe?”
“Nana,” you would scold, glaring at her where she stood next to you, trimming a batch of roses.
Wrinkled hands that still held all the skill of youth. Fingers moving at a speed others could only ever dream of having– you included.
Your grandma handled flowers with the same amount of care she did everything else. It’s no wonder that when they grew they would lean in her direction, drawn to her like they would be the sun.
“I’m not selling this place. It’s too special, too important. A vacation only lasts so long, Nana. This is forever.”
She would smile, turn petals over in her hand. Sometimes the marigolds would match the glow in her eyes, a testament to the belief you harbored as a child that she had the ability to sprout blossoms from her fingertips.
“The one thing you shouldn’t do, my dear, is rely on forever. Because that, too, is uncertain.”
You wish you hadn’t been so hard headed. Wish that you would’ve believed her, taken the time to listen, cherished the moment a little bit longer instead of relying on the promise of tomorrow.
I’m sorry for your loss.
Your grandmother was a wonderful woman.
She’ll be with you in your heart, forever.
Oh, what a lie forever is.
The shop stays empty for the rest of the day. There were a few passersby, all of whom simply stopped to scan the arrangements along the windows before giving a polite nod and carrying on their way.
Realistically, the shop has no problem with attracting customers. It’s a sight to behold: mid-floor to ceiling windows with various displays, hanging baskets of winding greenery, countless arrangements that fill the shelves and add a pop of color, and a wide assortment of flowers for each season.
The real issue lies in your inability to sell. Most people regard the place as being good for nothing more than window shopping and the usual photo-op.
Business has slowed since your Grandma passed; since you took over as the sole owner and were suddenly face to face with the task of making decisions in the shop’s best interest– both integrity wise and from a business standpoint.
“I know, I know,” you say around the pen cap between your teeth, “You used to be the brains around here, not me. I’m not creative enough for all of this, you know? No matter how much I try to be.”
You look up from where your notebook lays open, dozens of scribbles for arrangement ideas and planning. The picture on the wall stares at you, unmoving, eyes as bright as marigolds.
“Don’t give me that look.”
She stares. A gaze that holds all the answers while also saying nothing at all.
“Ugh.” you groan, leaning your palms on the desk.
You allow your head to hang forward, defeated, exhaustion flooding your bones.
Just as you’re about to speak again, to complain about yet another thing that probably has her rolling around in her grave, the bell at the front counter dings.
The clock on the desk reads 6:55pm, five minutes until close. You hadn’t even heard anyone come in.
“Be right there!” you call out, rushing to grab your apron from where you’d thrown it on one of the chairs.
In your haste, the box of seed packets you’d been inventorying goes tumbling to the floor.
“Fuck,” you mutter, bending down to pick everything up. One more thing to add to the list today.
Off-kilter. Disoriented. Exhausted.
You sniffle a few times, blinking against the sting behind your eyes as you stand up to put the box back in its place.
One deep breath, a shake of your shoulders. Just enough to chase it all away until later.
“Sorry about that,” you say cheerily, pushing past the hanging beads that separate the front of the shop from the back. “How can I help you?”
There’s a stranger, his back turned, attention focused on a batch of tulips. Freshly cut. White, blue, purple.
You realize, belatedly, that you’d forgotten to grab your apron in your haste to clean up the seed packets. Another slip up. Nana always prided herself in her apron, wore it like a badge of honor, raised you to do the same.
Just as you spin around to grab it, the stranger says, “It’s okay. I just, um, I wanted to say hi.”
You freeze. There’s a long moment where his voice rings loud in your ears, reverberates against the walls of your brain until it travels through your blood, the feeling like wildfire in your veins until it settles deep in the pit of your stomach.
Slowly, you turn, heart clamoring in your chest, threatening to stop altogether as soon as you come face to face with the one person you never thought you’d see again.
Because there, at the front of the store, is Jisung.
Jisung, with wide eyes and parted lips. Jisung, with hair that still curls at the ends and falls in shags around his face. Jisung, broader, more actualized, now grown into his features but still undeniably soft around the edges. Jisung, with thick framed glasses pushed up his nose and silver hoops dangling from his ears.
A stranger. But undoubtedly Jisung.
“You look…nice.” he says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly with his free hand.
Three words is all it takes. Ice turns to fire. The blood that had drained from your face returns with the blaze of a thousand suns, anger burning your throat.
You reach forward, grab the remote for the neon Open sign and click the power button. Jisung watches in confusion.
“The shop is closed.” you manage on a shaky breath.
Jisung sighs, something heavy. “Listen, I’m—”
“The shop–” you try again, louder, “–is closed.”
Jisung stares. His eyes are still the same velvety brown; big and round and just as you remember.
There was once a time where the sight of Jisung in your Grandma’s shop made your heart sing. A soft tune, the thrum of a thousand harps, a song only for him.
His heart-shaped smile as he helped her hammer some of the shelves onto the wall. The sound of his laughter whenever you’d enter a sneezing fit from accidentally rubbing your face with a gloved hand. His rosy cheeks, burnt from the wind whipping past his face as he ran on foot to make sure you were okay the one time an angry customer smashed a vase on the floor and you called him crying.
But now, seeing him here, a stranger in a body you once knew like the back of your hand— it feels wrong.
“I…” he trails off, registering the way your fists are clenched at your sides.
“Okay,” he resigns, licking his lips. “I, uh– have a good night.”
He gives you one last look, bottom lip pulled tight between his teeth, and then slips out the door. You watch his retreating figure through the glass panel, dark gray skies muting the sound of your rattling heart.
It’s February. The tulips are in bloom. Jisung is back.
And in Jeju– it rains.
There’s an apple tree in the middle of town where Jisung told you he loved you for the first and last time.
Off the corner, a few minutes down the road from where your houses stand a mere five hundred feet away from one another.
Your grandparents were farmers. Your grandma started her floral business a few years before you were born, a dream she always had that your grandpa urged her to pursue once he decided to sell the animals to a younger, more capable couple that could take care of them.
Jisung’s parents, new residents on the island, looking to settle down and start a family.
That’s how it happens. Yours and Jisung’s story, two authors of the same book, destined since the start.
Jisung was born on the same night your mother left you at your grandparents’ doorstep. One note, an apology, is all you’ve ever known about her. Your grandma never cared to indulge you. You’re glad in a way. She provided more than enough love to make sure you never felt an absence in her wake.
The townspeople used to say you and Jisung were soulmates. Something about the heavens knowing he would need a friend, hence why you were delivered that night. From that moment on, the two of you were inseparable.
Attached at the hip, you and Jisung grew up together. First steps, first birthdays, firsts for everything under the sun.
Jisung was there in the morning to walk with you to school and he was there at night when the two of you tucked into bed, sleepovers a regular occurrence, both of you counting the pale green stick-on stars dotting his ceiling until you fell asleep.
Jisung was always around. He held your hand and walked with you to the nurse’s office the first time you got stung by a bee. He wiped your eyes when the boy you liked told you he only ever saw you as a friend, your first rejection. He sat with you under the stars the night your grandpa died, your face tucked into his neck as you stained the collar of his shirt with tears until you were too tired to cry. In the years that followed, he took care of you and your grandma like the two of you were his own.
Jisung, for lack of a better word, was your first forever.
“You could come with me, you know.”
Under the stars, real ones that time, Jisung had turned to you and offered the world.
The air was cold. The apple tree was bare.
“It’ll be fun. We’ll be together, we’ll experience new things. I can do music and you can study all that history stuff you like to learn about. You know, nerdy things.”
“They’re not nerdy things, Ji. Don’t you know everything we have now is because of what’s happened before us?” you’d asked. “Doesn’t it make you wonder? Learning about the past helps us better understand the present, and ultimately the future.”
Jisung had hummed softly, an agreement. “I don’t care about the future, though.” he’d said. “I care about right now. You, me, this.”
When you turned to look at him, he propped himself up on one elbow and stared down at you from above as the moon casted a halo around his head.
“I love you,” he whispered, “And I want you to come with me.”
Jisung, with all the stars in his eyes and a heart full of dreams. Jisung, with the world at his fingertips and the ambition to make it his own.
You, with all your hopes stuffed tight into a suitcase and chained to a boulder, thrown into the ocean. Sinking and sinking until it hit the bottom.
“I love you too,” you whispered back.
Images of marigolds flashed behind your eyes when you closed them, a tear rolling down your cheek. Jisung’s mouth was soft when he kissed it away, salt on his lips. Burning.
“But I can’t.” you choked.
Under the apple tree, Jisung told you he loved you for the first and last time. He promised that the distance would be no match for him, that he would traverse oceans to find his way back. He promised forever.
It was February. The tulips were in bloom. Jisung left to pursue his dreams with a guitar on his back and your heart in his hands. Your understanding of forever was shot at point blank. The bullet passed clean through you.
And in Jeju– it rained.
“I think you should talk to him.”
The sun is out today. Perfect weather for another field harvest. The distributor had called you early in the morning to ask if you’d be willing to accept a drop off even though it’s the weekend. You’d agreed, calling in your most reliable help for the job.
“And I think you’re not helping.” you huff, snipping the head off another hyacinth.
“Agreed,” Hyunjin parrots from beside you, currently in the middle of putting together an arrangement, “This guy sounds like a total dick.”
Chan sighs from behind the two of you, his knees knocking against the legs of the desk when he swivels back and forth in the chair.
Besides Hyunjin and Jeongin, both of whom moved into town after you’d already graduated, and of course, Jisung– Chan is your oldest friend.
Chan was also a neighbor of yours. Three years older than you and Jisung, he was the one who acted as a role model for the two of you when growing up. Nowadays he helps his parents run the largest orange grove on the island during the day and DJs one of the clubs in the tourism hub at night.
“Jisung’s not a dick, he’s just–”
“An asshole.” you finish, smirking when Hyunjin cackles.
Chan sighs. Again. “Yeah okay, I’ll give you that one.”
“Listen, I know I’ve never met him, but isn’t it weird that he just, like, showed up?” Hyunjin asks, setting down his scissors. You continue trimming the hyacinths, listening halfheartedly.
“I mean, think about it. Dude disappears to pursue music, right? He’s gone for what– three years?”
“Four.” you correct.
“God, even worse.” he grimaces.
“But yeah, okay, four years. And then boom! He just strolls in through the front door without so much as a word during the time he was gone? No letters, no phone calls, not even a damn visit. Nothing! All so he can pop up and go ‘oh, you look nice’? Come on.” he scoffs, crossing his arms.
You wince, caught off guard because you’ve never really heard it phrased as bluntly as Hyunjin put it just then. It’s no surprise that he’s annoyed, having only just heard the full story thirty minutes ago. He’d been shocked, partly because you never told him and also because he just couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Okay, yes, he was wrong for that. But isn’t part of you even just the least bit curious as to why?”
You pause mid-snip, mulling Chan’s words over in your head.
The most frustrating part about it all is that you are curious. You wish you weren’t, though. Not when you’ve spent the past four years trying to convince yourself that you don’t need to know what Jisung’s been up to, don’t need to know if he’s been okay since he clearly held no concern for you in that regard anyways.
“What?” you ask when you realize that both boys are staring at you.
“Well?” Hyunjin pushes. “Are you?”
You shrug. “No, not really.”
There’s a total of five seconds that pass before Hyunjin is stomping over and hauling Chan up out of his chair, pushing him towards the front door as he protests.
“Out! Out, out, out, we have important business matters to discuss.”
“But we were supposed to get lunch—!”
“We’re taking a rain check!” Hyunjin fights back, shoving him out of the shop before he has a chance to answer. He drops the shade to cover the glass, Chan’s sad figure left alone on the other side.
You gape at him. “What was that for?”
Hyunjin scoffs. “You think you’re convincing? Think again.”
He hops up on to the counter and gestures for you to do the same. When you do, he pulls you closer, grabs your hand in his, and pushes your head down until it’s resting on his shoulder.
“Tell me the truth now,” he says, soft. “I know there’s more to it.”
Hyunjin’s warm to the touch. The heat seeps through the fabric of his shirt, igniting the skin of your cheek until you feel like you’re standing too close to the sun. A star. Hyunjin is a light in your tunnel.
“I am curious,” you start, “About him, I mean. I’ve– I don’t know. It’s been so long. I tried to pretend I didn’t care when I saw him, but the minute I looked into his eyes it was like I was eighteen again. Eighteen and happy and looking at someone that I always thought would be there, you know?”
Hyunjin hums but doesn’t say anything. He squeezes your hand once, a signal to keep going.
“I’m scared, though. Part of me doesn’t want to know.”
Hyunjin takes a deep breath. “What are you scared of?”
Through the gaps in the beads you can see into your office, the picture of your Grandma hanging on the wall. She stares at you, unblinking.
“What if he tells me that it’s true?” you ask, lifting your head to look up at him. “What if he says that I was right, that he didn’t care? That he left and didn’t want to call because it no longer mattered to him? That he loves his life there and only came back to clear his own conscience?”
“Oh honey,” Hyunjin soothes, pulling you into his chest. You hadn’t realized you were crying, that the anger and fear had bubbled over until there were tears falling down your cheeks, wetting the fabric of Hyunjin’s sweater.
He lets you cry for a while. It’s nothing new; Hyunjin has seen you break down countless times. He’s been there through the worst of it, held your hand even in the aftermath. He’s picked you up off the floor more times than you can count, has grounded you when you felt like the world was gonna open up beneath you and swallow you whole. Salt of the earth, returning you to its core.
Once you’ve quieted into nothing more than shallow breaths and a few scattered hiccups, Hyunjin speaks again.
“Can you be honest with me?”
You nod, the hair stuck to your cheek with tears rubbing against his shoulder.
“Do you love him?”
It nearly knocks the wind out of you. This concept, so foreign to you now, shoved to the back of your mind to make room for the things that matter most. Hospital visits, labor cuts, wage increases— none of it left any room for love, let alone the thought of someone else. Especially someone as all-consuming as Jisung.
Slowly, you inhale, breath shaking on the exhale. Hyunjin squeezes your hand to remind you that he’s there.
“I don’t think I ever stopped, Hyune.”
The silence stretches thin. The realization is dizzying. Years of suppressed emotions, of telling yourself and everyone around you that it wasn’t a big deal. The sad eyes of the townspeople whenever they’d see you sitting beneath the apple tree. The gentle touch of your grandma’s hand when she’d find you on the front steps alone, staring at the stars. The soft hum of the radio in the shop, set to a playlist of all the songs he’s written, the only reminder that somewhere out there he was doing well.
The final crack in the dam, its water pushing until it gives way.
“Then you owe it to yourself,” Hyunjin says. “You owe it to your heart to get an answer. Free yourself from this pain, love. Don’t let yourself suffer forever.”
Forever. That word again. No matter how many times you’ve tried to escape it, it always comes back.
“It’s gonna hurt.” he sighs, tightening his grip when you sniffle. “It’s gonna hurt so fucking bad, babe. But you can take it. You’ve got people who love you enough to stand in front of you and soften the blow from time to time. But you’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”
He hops down from the counter and moves to stand in front of you, right between your legs. Placing both hands on your shoulders, he pushes until you’re sitting with your back straight and lifts your chin.
“You deserve an answer.” he says, with conviction this time. “Okay?”
He lets his thumb swipe beneath your eyes, smiles softly. Unconditional— that’s what he is. Hyunjin burns brighter than any star in your sky, the heat wrapping its arms around you like it’s too scared to let go, to watch you freeze and die out like so many others.
“I don’t deserve you, though.” you say, laughing wetly when he rolls his eyes.
“Shut up,” he chuckles, pulling you in for a hug, “You deserve everything and more.”
When Jisung comes into the shop two days later, you’re ready for it.
Chan had talked to him. No surprise, really, not when he’s been letting him crash in his spare room ever since he figured out that he was holed up in one of the hotels out in the tourism hub.
If there’s one thing about Chan, it’s that he’d rip the shirt off his back to clothe anyone in need. Housing a friend is nothing, especially when that friend is Jisung.
“I don’t know how much of a consolation this is,” he’d said nervously, watching as you regarded him with an expectant look, “But he’s pretty cut up about you not wanting to see him. Which, I know, is stupid. He is the one who fucked up. But I just– I don’t know. I’ve never seen him like this, I guess.”
It’s not a consolation, not really. Knowing that Jisung is struggling is far from anything you want to hear.
Sure, there’s anger present. Anyone would be stupid to not feel the least bit frustrated with what’s happened. Years lost, time stripped away. But you’ve long since come to terms with it, the anger turning to sadness in the meantime.
“Also, he leaves tomorrow.” Chan smiled sadly. “He really wants to talk to you before then.”
Hyunjin left early again today to give the two of you space. Not before making a show of his own though, threatening to incite violence with his arms that are supposedly ‘shredded’ from years of lifting boxes filled with petunias.
The shop is slow again, not many sales nor a lot of foot traffic. Usually when the sun is out there’s more to do; people to see, smiles to give. But there’s nothing, just the chirping of birds and the sound of cars rolling by.
Maybe the world knows that this is what you need. The calm before the storm.
Five minutes until close. You’ve spent most of the day pacing back and forth. Waiting. Anticipating.
Chan had said Jisung planned on stopping by, trying again. You’d told him that was okay, and his eyes lit up. Too much hope, maybe, that something might come of this.
You’re seated in the back office, staring at marigold colored irises when the front door opens. You hear it this time, ears fine tuned, waiting.
Slowly, you stand, make your way to the front. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until you pull back the beaded curtain and Jisung’s figure comes into view.
He looks the same as he did the other day: curled hair, thick glasses, parted lips. His sweater, fluffy and striped, hangs off of his shoulders in a way that boxes off his tapered waist, one that you know is hidden beneath all the layers. The sleeves are way too long judging by the way it curls over his fingers.
“Hi.” he breathes out, watching as you step into full view.
You blink. “Hi, Jisung.”
His name feels weird on your tongue. Bitter. It’s been years since you uttered it, forbidding yourself from the luxury out of fear that it would make his absence more real. Talking about him in the past tense always scared you off before you could even get the chance.
“How– How’ve you been?” he chews on the inside of his lip.
You want to scold him, tell him to stop the habit just like you always would in the past. He’d make a joke then, tell you to kiss him so that he had something else to do instead. You would laugh, feign disgust, but in the back of your mind you’d wanted it more than anything.
You’d waited for it, the day you could kiss him without warning and melt into his touch as he kissed you back. Another stupid bet on forever; the belief that you had all the time in the world for things to get to that point.
“I’ve been better.” you say, taking a deep breath. “What about you?”
Good, you think. He’s been good. He looks good. He doesn’t need this place.
“Me too.” he says instead. “I’ve been better.”
You don’t know what to say to that. Silence fills the room, heavy on both your chests. The anticipation feels like it might kill you before anything else does.
“I’m sorry that–”
“Is that all you came here to say?” you cut him off.
“What?” he asks, confused. “No, I– no.”
“What, then? What is it you want to say, Jisung?” your voice is firm. He winces when his name leaves your mouth. “Because, honestly, I’ve waited all this time to hear literally anything from you, and if all that comes out of this is that you’ve ‘been better’ I might actually lose my fucking mind.”
The words tumble out faster than you intend. You can’t help it, not with the way anxiety has been bubbling over in your chest since the moment you woke up this morning. You could barely sleep last night, not when you were playing out every possible scenario in your head, the anticipation of it all making your sheets feel scratchy against your skin and the lumps in your pillow more discernible.
“No, no, of course I wouldn’t do that.” he says quickly. “It's just that I didn’t know where to start. I don’t know how much you’ll allow me to say, what the boundary is here. I didn’t want to just barge in and demand you listen to me. You don’t owe me that. You don’t owe me anything. Not after what I did.”
What I did, his voice rings loud in your ears. He’s aware of it, of the pain he caused.
He takes a step forward, and then another, again and again until he’s right up against the front counter, an arm’s length away.
Your breath catches then, when you see him up close for the first time in four years, see the way he’s grown and changed with your own eyes.
Stubble dotting his chin, laugh lines around his mouth, the dip and curve of the bow above his lips that you always loved. Brown eyes, soil and stardust.
“Tell me what your conditions are,” he says quietly, “And I’ll give you every explanation I have.”
The sincerity on his face is blinding. Your stomach twists at the thought of hearing what he has to say, that same fear brewing in the pit of it. You take a deep breath, feel the phantom ghost of a hand squeezing yours and a crescent moon eye smile.
“I waited four years for you.” you say.
“I know.”
“I trusted that you’d be back. That you would keep in touch during the time you were gone.”
“I–” his voice cracks. “I know.”
“You lied to me.”
Jisung tips his head back then. Swallows down a lump in his throat. Blinks rapidly at the ceiling, veins of ivy crawling along the expanse of it.
“I know.”
“So you owe me everything. I deserve that. I deserve answers.”
When he brings his head down to look at you, it’s unreadable. A mix of emotions that you aren’t familiar enough with anymore to decipher. Fear, guilt, sorrow. Hope, too. Maybe.
You stare at him head on, fully letting your eyes meet for the first time in what feels like an eternity. He holds your gaze, unwavering. Determined. The sight makes your heart clench.
“Okay,” he says after a beat of silence. “Okay. I can do that.”
Despite the ever-growing mountain of things to address, you decide that the first thing you want to hear from Jisung is about his time in Seoul.
You’re only human, after all.
Best friends from the start– you can’t stop yourself from wondering what life has been like for him. Jisung’s always been good at storytelling, animated in his features and gestures to the point that you’d be rolling around and clutching your stomach from laughter. It’s one of the things you missed the most, just talking and being present in one another’s lives.
The two of you end up at one of the diners down the road. The owners, an elderly couple, coo as soon as they catch sight of you.
“My flower girl,” the old lady, Mrs. Kim, greets.
“Mrs. Kim,” you beam, moving in for a hug. When you pull away, Jisung is behind you, hands clasped behind his back and feet together like he has his tail between his legs.
“Halmeoni,” you say, gesturing at him, “Do you remember Jisungie?”
His eyes go wide at the nickname, and you try to ignore the heat creeping up your neck, avoiding his gaze and instead watching as Mrs. Kim blinks in surprise.
“Oh! Oh my goodness, our Jisungie? Honey! Honey, look, Jisung is here! Oh you crazy boy,” she scolds, rushing forward to hit his shoulder and pull him in for a hug. “Where have you been? It’s been ages!”
Jisung lets out an oof! as her body slams into him, all of his anxiousness dissolving into laughter as he hugs her back.
“Hi Mrs. Kim, how have you been?”
“Me?” she asks, pulling him away to hold at arm’s length, “Nevermind about me! I’m old! How have you been?”
Good, you think again, a mimic of earlier. Jisungs eyes flit over to yours for the smallest of moments before he answers.
“Better,” he says. “I’m doing better.”
Once both Mr. and Mrs. Kim are done doting over the both of you, they seat you by the window.
The island is always beautiful on sunny days: trees swaying, golden rays painting the rooftops in hues of pink and orange, the indigo shimmer of the ocean off in the distance.
“So,” you say, catching Jisung’s attention, “Tell me about Seoul.”
He hums. “It’s busy. Stinks. Lots of people.”
“Dream come true, yeah?” you joke, taking a sip of your water.
Jisung chuckles. “You could say that, I guess.”
“I mean, it was yours.”
“It was.” he sighs, looking down at the table. “I don’t know. It’s nice. I met good people, made even better connections. I live in this one bedroom studio apartment just outside of Itaewon, so I’m close to where all the foreigners hang out. I’ve learned a lot, gained a lot of inspiration for my music.”
You follow along, staring at him intently. His mouth, still heart-shaped, twitches when he catches you in the act.
You clear your throat, glancing away. “Yeah, I’ve– uh, I’ve heard some of your songs.”
He raises his eyebrows, almost like he hadn’t expected you to say that. “Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, I hear them on the radio sometimes.” A lie. “It usually takes me a second to realize that it’s you.” Another lie. “But they’re good, you’re doing well.”
Pink dusts the tops of Jisung’s cheeks as he turns back to the window, clearing his throat.
He looks younger like this, like he’s still the same boy who would sit across from you all those years ago. Cherry-stained lips and a smile so bright it put the sun to shame.
He talks a bit more about his music, about how he’s with a good company that gives him creative freedom and enough support to pursue more if he desires.
His eyes light up when he tells you about his studio, a small room on the fifth floor of a building in the middle of the city where he does all of his writing. It’s equipped with an entire soundboard, full of instruments that he says he’s been able to get signed by artists that come in and out. Most notably, his guitar, the same one he left with.
Slowly, like a flower blossoming, petals opening one by one, you feel yourself falling back into step with him.
Everything is so familiar: the curve of his smile, the tilt in his voice when he gets excited, the rumble of laughter when he recounts an embarrassing run-in with an A-list celebrity in the company’s cafeteria. He shares stories that fill your heart as the two of you fill your stomachs.
But with the ease comes something more, something you recognize as longing. You hadn’t realized how much you longed to be there through this part of his life, how you wished you’d been the one to answer a video call as he showed off his apartment the first day he moved in, his company badge when it was newly issued, every moment of happiness that you’d been absent for just as much as he was absent for yours.
He seems to share the same sentiment then, when he sets down his fork and stares at his empty plate.
“You run the shop now,” he says, “How’s that been?”
You purse your lips, nodding your head slowly. You knew this conversation would happen, that it was coming.
“It’s good, I guess. Been almost a year now since, uh, it was left to me.” you shrug. “I’m not alone though, Hyunjin is a big help. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
Jisung noticeably bristles. Eyebrows pulled together, staring more intently at a crumb on his plate. It looks like there’s a lot he wants to say, like he can’t find the words to say them.
So, naturally, you do it for him.
“I assume Chan told you so I wouldn’t have to, by the way.”
He looks up then, as if he wasn’t expecting you to address the very obvious elephant in the room.
“He did, yes.” Jisung says after a while. His voice is quiet, gentle, like he’s walking on eggshells. “I– I didn’t know how to bring it up. I assume you’ve heard it all already but– I really, really am sorry to hear about Nana.”
The way her name sounds coming out of his mouth turns your mind to static.
Suddenly you’re in the hospital again, monitors beeping, hands as soft as petals cradled in your own and wishing that you could bury your face in a familiar neck as you cried and watched the marigolds wilt.
“I don’t need an apology for that.” you croak, blinking back tears. Jisung is somewhere in your periphery, your vision blurry around the edges.
“It wasn’t sad. Her life, I mean. It was full. Of love. Of light. She left this place happy. That’s what she told me, at least.”
You take a deep breath. “So don’t be sorry about it.”
Jisung sniffles, and the sound shoots straight through your chest.
“I know. I just– I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I should’ve been. I had no idea that–”
“Nobody did, Jisung. Don’t punish yourself for that.”
He sees it then, when you finally meet his eyes, the acceptance. You’ve come to terms with things a long time ago, have fought tooth and nail to come out on the other side of all the guilt and resentment and grief alive. Scathed, but alive nonetheless.
“You’re right.” he sighs, wiping at his eyes quickly. “She’d probably yell at me for saying that.”
You laugh, suddenly, the noise startling him. Jisung looks at you like you’re crazy.
“I think she has a lot more to yell at you for than being sorry that she died.”
The bluntness punches a chuckle out of him, and you giggle at the thought.
Your grandmother was always such an outspoken person. She always said what was on her mind, speaking it loud. There’s no doubt that if she was here she’d be berating Jisung, smacking him upside the head before pulling him into a hug and cooking his favorite meal. Tough love, but still, love.
“She would’ve loved to be able to see you.” you say once your laughter dies out, the air a bit lighter between the two of you. “She always wondered if you’d grow your hair out without her around to nag you about keeping it short.”
He reaches up to run a hand through his curls, the strands falling around his face in a way that has your heart stammering in your chest.
“Well, clearly I don’t know how to listen.”
“No, you don’t.”
Jisung smiles softly. “Maybe I’ll cut it now. You know, since I’m here. And because I know she’d want me to.”
You watch him carefully, searching his eyes. For what, you don’t know. All that’s in them are stars.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “You’re here.”
By the time the two of you leave the diner, stomachs full and enough bags of extra side dishes hanging off of your arms to last you at least two weeks, courtesy of Mrs. Kim, the sun is almost fully set.
The ocean is calm, the evening breeze just barely brushing the surface of the tide. Jisung walks in step with you down the street, one side of his face cast in a glow from the sun’s fading rays.
“Do you think you’d maybe want to stop by the arcade that Old Man Park runs? Just for a little?”
You snort. “Why? So I can embarrass you?”
“Hey!” he puts a hand on his chest, offended. “I’ll have you know that I let you win all those times.”
“How do you let someone win after spending hours practicing while I worked at the shop?”
“I was being nice!”
“Uh huh.”
“Don’t believe me?” he grins. You try not to look, afraid of how bad your blood pressure might spike from the sight.
“I’ll have you know that I’m one of the best Kart Rider players in the PC Bang scene back in Seoul.”
“Jisung,” you scold, “That’s a computer game. These are coin-ops. There’s way more skill needed.”
“No there isn’t!”
He knocks his shoulder against yours, tucking his chin to his chest to hide his smile when you try to fight back.
It’s easy. Nice. There’s a soft melody echoing in the dust-covered chambers of your heart. You still know all the chords.
Old Man Park’s arcade is a few doors down from the shop. You stop there to drop off the food, spare a glance in the mirror hanging in your office to fix your hair.
Your grandma’s picture stares at you from the other wall, eyes bright.
“Love you,” you say, kissing the skin of your fingertips and pressing it gently against the frame.
Jisung is toeing at a few rocks on the sidewalk when you walk back out. He doesn’t see you, too busy with his eyes casted down at the concrete, hands shoved into his pockets.
It’s still hard to believe that he’s here. Flesh and bone. For a long time it felt like he was nothing but a distant dream, someone who only existed in the memories that you kept locked deep within your heart, the key somewhere on the streets of Seoul.
“Ready?” you ask.
He looks up, his glasses moving when his cheeks round into a smile.
Something passes across his face– a myriad of emotions in just a fraction of a second. Hesitantly, he holds out his hand. Long, delicate fingers.
You stare at it, swallowing roughly around the butterfly wings flapping inside your throat.
The one thing you shouldn’t do, my dear, is rely on forever. Because that, too, is uncertain.
Forever isn’t promised. But even then, there are things you know for sure:
It’s February. The tulips are in bloom. Jisung is here. Living, breathing, in the flesh.
So you take his hand, watch as relief floods his features, and let yourself feel.
The wind in your hair, the calluses on Jisung’s palms, and the warmth radiating out of the smile that threatens to split his face into two.
And with that certainty, the two of you start walking. A silent agreement to focus on the now.
You. Him. This.
“God, I can’t believe everything is only one coin.”
You laugh, watching as the multi-colored lights cast a glow on Jisung’s face.
“Stop acting like you don’t remember this place.”
“I don’t!” he argues, smiling. “We stopped coming here, what, in middle school? Once Chan hyung started driving? We would always ask him to take us to the other one out in the big town!”
Chan’s first car was an old Camry with leather seats and enough room for the three of you to pile into after school. Used, but still with enough juice to satisfy three young kids who felt like they were on top of the world.
You used to sit in the back, the wind whipping your hair every which way while yours and Jisung’s hands lay side by side in the middle seat, pinkies brushing but neither of you willing to take it further.
“Oh, shit!” Jisung gasps, letting go of your hand as he runs up to the space invaders machine.
“Here we go,” you sigh, following after him. He’s like a kid in a candy store, face filled with innocent wonder and joy.
“Aren’t there, like, I don’t know– things better than this in Seoul?” you ask as he shoves a coin into the game.
Jisung turns to look at you with a devilish grin. “Obviously,” he says, “But I can’t beat anyone’s high score over there. Here though? Ha! This place is ancient. I can finally be at the top of the leaderboard in something.”
“We’ll see about that.” you mumble, the noise of the game booting up drowning you out.
Jisung sticks his tongue out when he focuses really hard on things. It’s cute, the way the end of it sits between his lips, spit-slick and parted just a little bit.
He’s glowing, probably because of the lights, hues of red and green and blue flashing across his face. But then again, Jisung has always shined brighter than anything.
The game beeps to signal that he has one life left. He grunts a few times, his fingers tapping the buttons madly as his other hand handles the joystick in a frenzy of movements.
When it ends, he groans, throws his hands up in defeat..
You shake your own head knowingly, watching his eyes bug out of their sockets as soon as the leaderboard appears on the screen, the 8-bit letters blinking at him.
“You’re joking.” he laughs in disbelief, turning to stare at you. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
There, on the screen, is your name. The highest score. Jeongin and Hyunjin’s names sit just below you, respectively.
“What was that again about finally being able to be at the top?” you mock him, smirking.
“Since when did you get good at this?”
You shrug. “Had to find something to do in my free time.”
“No,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. “Nuh-uh. No way. This is not happening. I will beat you.” he holds out his hand for another coin, to which you roll your eyes and place one in his palm.
“You might as well give up now. We’ll be here all night.”
“In your dreams.” he scoffs, assuming his position as another round loads onto the screen.
Jisung has always been competitive. It’s one of his more hidden characteristics.
It persists still, you realize, as you watch him burn through the styrofoam cup of coins that Old Man Park had given the two of you. Free of charge for old time’s sake.
Fort-five minutes. All he’s managed to do is bump Hyunjin down to fourth.
“Ugh!” he groans, kicking the machine lightly with his foot.
“Look at you throwing a tantrum.”
“I’m not throwing a tantrum.” he pouts. You raise an eyebrow.
“Okay fine. I’m throwing a tantrum.”
“Thought so.”
“Can you blame me?” he asks. “This is, like, our first date. And I’m sucking. Hard.”
“Our–” you stop, eyes wide. Jisung mimics you, almost like he didn’t mean to say what he did.
Heat rushes to your cheeks. Your mind goes blank. But the world doesn’t end. Time keeps moving. Jisung is still here.
“I didn’t–”
“I like the sound of that.” you say quickly. “Of this being our first date, I mean.’
He smiles. Slow and sweet like molasses. Blinding.
“And the fact that you suck.”
The moment is shattered, his resulting whine echoing throughout the arcade.
“Come on you big baby,” you laugh, grabbing his hand. “I know a game you can beat me at.”
He lets himself be pulled, pretending that he’s upset, but you can see the smile tugging at his lips when you lace your fingers together.
The feeling is still new, this ease you have with him. The wounds you sported all those years are still healing, some more fresh than others. But with each laugh that comes out of Jisung’s mouth and shared glance, every note that your heart sings, you can feel them beginning to fade. A balm to soothe the burn.
The Pac-Man game is situated in the back corner of the arcade, right next to the jukebox. It used to be your favorite, because Jisung would always use his own coins to play songs for you while you tried to score higher than twenty-five thousand points.
When you get there, he frowns. “The only game you think I can beat you at is Pac-Man?”
“I don’t think,” you say, grabbing a coin before shoving the cup into his chest. “I know.”
The game boots up instantly, and you smile softly to yourself when Jisung moves wordlessly behind you, slips a coin into the jukebox.
“Play something good, Jisungie.”
He freezes. Out of the corner of your eye you watch him stare at you for a long moment. And then he smiles. Stardust.
“You got it.”
In a matter of seconds, Lovers In A Dangerous Time by Bruce Cockburn rings throughout the arcade, the speakers on the ceiling fighting past the static.
An old song. The same one your grandparents would dance to in the mornings, eggs on the stove and love in the air.
Your grandma used to say it was written for them, because when they fell in love the war was at its peak and she didn’t know if he’d ever come home.
After he passed, she still played it, except those times it was Jisung who twirled her around and painted a smile on her face as you watched from the same spot you grew up in. Always there.
Jisung, Jisung, Jisung.
When the game starts, you try your best. It’s hard. You’ve always been terrible at anything involving quick decisions. Focusing on everything at once isn’t easy for you, that much is still true.
“Shit.” you mumble, the top right corner of the screen reading ten thousand points as the ghosts run into you.
Jisung lets out a low whistle. “Harsh.”
“You wanna go back to space invaders and waste the last of our money?” you raise an eyebrow.
He holds his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, sorry. Go ahead.” he says, holding the cup out for you to take another coin.
You try a couple more times, failing each and every one. You can tell that Jisung is growing more and more amused with every attempt, and the smugness radiating off of him is starting to rub you the wrong way.
“If you’re so good,” you say after a particularly sad attempt, turning to glare at him. Jisung has his lips pulled tight to stop himself from laughing. “Then why don’t you try?”
He chuckles then. “I’d rather help you, if you’ll let me.”
“How are you supposed to do that? We only have one coin left.”
Jisung doesn’t say anything. He puts the cup down, the last coin held between his fingers. You watch as he slips it into the machine, move to get out of his way once he’s done, but he stops you by grabbing your hand and spinning you back around, his fingers placed over yours on the joystick.
With your back flush against his front, caged in by his arms on either side, Jisung takes a deep breath.
“This okay?” he asks right next to your ear, the curls on the side of his head brushing your cheek when he leans down to get a better look at the screen.
Warm. He’s so warm. The material of his sweater only worsens the heat, and the faint scent of vanilla makes your head swim.
It’s more than okay. Great, even. It’s Jisung. Everything and more.
“Yeah,” you say, letting him control your hands as he flicks the joystick. “It’s okay.”
The hair against your cheek moves when he smiles. “Good.” he says, and then hits the start button.
The game begins but you’re barely processing what’s happening, too aware of the feeling of his body pressed against yours.
A firm chest, different from what’s observable on the outside, what with the fluffiness of his sweater and soft features. His arms too, encasing you, the bulge and flex of his biceps every time he moves.
It’s all so intoxicating, so much so that you don’t even realize you’ve beaten the highest score in the system by the time he loses his last life.
“What?” you blink. “What the hell?!”
You laugh, spinning to face Jisung who’s grinning from ear to ear. In your excitement, you jump, flinging your arms around his neck. He’s surprised, but catches you nonetheless, circling his arms around your waist.
“Holy shit how’d you do that!” you squeal while he swings you around, feet off the ground.
“Magic, I guess.” he chuckles.
The closeness of his voice brings you crashing back down, suddenly aware of what position you’re both in. You pull back quickly, clear your throat, and watch as his face falls from the loss of contact.
It’s been a long time since you hugged Jisung. The thought transports you to that day four years ago, standing under the apple tree, the future uncertain. Forever promised.
Things are different now.
“Sorry,” he backtracks. “I didn’t– um, I wasn’t trying to–”
You cut him off by throwing yourself at him for a second time. Intentional. Breathless. Tired of running and acting like it’s not the thing you want most in the entire world.
Jisung doesn’t react until he feels your face against the skin of his neck. On instinct, he hugs tight, hands around your waist, breathing in the smell of your hair.
“Hi.” you whisper against him.
One word. Simple. However the weight of it sends a chill down his spine. It feels like home.
He tightens his hold. A silent understanding. The two of you never had much of a need for words anyways.
“Hi.” he whispers back.
The apple tree is much bigger now.
Long, thick branches, a wide trunk, a slight tilt in its shape.
It’s bare. The season is long gone. But it’s okay, because it means that the view of the stars isn’t blocked when you and Jisung lay beneath it.
It’s the same but it isn’t. There’s gaps– periods of time where the two of you grew separately. There are moments and memories tucked away that neither of you know about, whole lives to discover.
But even so, it feels right. His arm wrapped around you, your head on his chest. The stars and the moon. You and Jisung.
It’s nice. Perfect, even. But there’s a conversation that needs to be had. One that can’t be put off any longer.
“Ji.”
“Hm?”
“Can I ask you something?”
Jisung shifts beneath you, tightening his hold. The grass is damp. Neither of you care, too caught up in each other to stress about whether or not it’ll stain.
“Of course.”
“Am I ever gonna see you again?”
He takes a deep breath. “Yes.”
“You said that last time.”
“I know.”
“So what makes this different?” you ask, sitting up. He watches you carefully, eyes trained on every movement like he’s scared you’ll get up and run away.
When he realizes you’re waiting for an answer, he sits up too, pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs.
He doesn’t say anything, just wordlessly reaches into his pocket. Silently, he hands whatever he grabbed to you. A guitar pick.
It’s white, a marbled design. Golden flecks infused into the lines. There, on the front, is a singular marigold. When you flip it over, you’re met with a tulip.
“Do you remember that one time, when you called me crying at midnight because Nana told you that she didn’t know if she’d be able to afford school in the city?”
You nod silently, still turning the guitar pick over in your hand.
It was one of those nights where the rain was relentless. Monsoon season always tagged on to the tail end of the school year, bringing with it a more intense gloominess than usual.
You’d been angry. Stressed. Irritated that other kids at school were making plans to go to the mainland for college and you were stuck helping your grandmother trim foliage and wrap vases in newspaper.
“You told me that you couldn’t do it anymore.” Jisung whispered, staring up at the sky. “That you were tired of being here. That you needed to get out.”
You remember. Jisung had walked through the rain to show up at your window. Had climbed in with muddy shoes and sat on the floor of your room with you until the downpour stopped and your tears dried.
“And I said that I would make it happen, that I would invent a way to live amongst the stars so you could be as far from here as possible.”
“So what?” you ask, looking at him. “Did you finally do it, then? Is that why you came back?”
“Don’t be like that.”
“No, Jisung, I’m gonna fucking be like that.” you scoff, rising to your feet.
There’s a fire in your veins, stoked until the embers are burning hot against your throat. Too good to be true. You should’ve known that there was no explanation left for him to give.
Jisung scrambles to his feet. “It wasn’t like I wanted to–”
“Oh like hell you did.” you say, turning to face him. “Four years, Jisung. I waited four years and you just– you come back and decide to tell me about some make-believe bullshit to save yourself and feel less guilty about the fact that you left.”
“It wasn’t make-believe to me,” he argues. “It was real. Everything I said was real. I left and I tried for years to make something of myself so I could come back here and get you.”
“Oh so it’s my fault? I made you leave, is that it?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“So then say something else!” you yell. The stars rumble, threatening to fall out of the sky. “Say something else, then, Jisung. Why didn’t you call? Huh?”
“Because I–” he stops, licks his lips. “God. Fuck. I couldn’t face you if I had nothing to show for myself, okay? It wasn’t fair to you for me to leave you behind just so I could fail.”
“Ha!” you laugh, running a hand through your hair in disbelief. “So you decided to go radio silent instead? Decided to not only leave me alone but let me suffer and wonder about where you were because that’s so much better than telling me that you were struggling, right? Great choice, Jisung. Really.”
He blinks a few times, watching as you pace back and forth in the grass.
Anger bubbles deep in your gut. This whole time, he knew. It was a conscious decision. Jisung deliberately didn’t contact you because he chose not to.
“Did you ever even love me?”
The words tumble out before you can stop them. Jisung’s entire body goes rigid, his face falling and eyes hardening within a fraction of a second.
“Watch what you say.” he says, his voice low in his chest.
“I wouldn’t have to if you’d just be honest.”
“I’m trying.” he pleads. His eyes are glossy. Big and round behind his glasses. Illuminated by the moon.
“I fucked up, okay? I prioritized myself and the way I felt over you and fucked everything up. But I tried. I tried so fucking hard. And I’m sorry it took me so long but I wanted– no– I needed to make sure that I had everything figured out before I came back. I promised I would.”
“No, Jisung, you promised me that–”
“I’m not talking about you.” he says then, taking a deep breath. “You weren’t the only one I made promises to back then.”
Before you have a chance to speak, Jisung says, “I promised her. I told her I’d get you out of here. That I’d give you a life that you deserved, because she knew she couldn’t.”
You drop to your knees when the first sob hits, the force of it racking your body so hard you feel like you’re drowning. Jisung catches you on the fall, holds you up, lets you bury your face into his neck like he had so many times before.
“She told me you believed in forever. She wanted me to give that to you. I’m sorry it took me so long.”
Jisung lets you cry. He holds you through the storm, your wails as loud as thunder and tears as heavy as rain. Four years in the making; the sky and the earth colliding until the dirt and layers of sediment give way to the molten core that’s been hiding beneath the surface all along.
Pain. Grief. All of it pent up and leading to this moment.
“You should’ve told me.” you cry, beating a fist into Jisung’s chest. “You idiot. You fucking idiot. You should’ve told me.”
Jisung pulls you in closer, takes each hit as long as it means that it’ll soften the blow on your heart. He whispers apologies in your ear, runs a hand through your hair.
When it quiets again, the worst of the storm gone, he shifts so that your head is in his lap, his legs crossed and tucked beneath him. A few stray tears wet the fabric of his jeans, your eyes focused on the field of flowers across the street.
“I won’t ask you to come with me.” he says after a long while, when your breathing has evened out. “I know that things are different. You have a life here that you’ve made for yourself, responsibilities to bear as well.”
He pauses to push a few strands of hair out of your face. His fingers are gentle against the skin of your cheek.
“But I promise it’ll be different. I spent too long away from you, was too selfish for my own good. I won’t disappear again. I’ll call every day. I’ll visit. You’ll get every part of me that I kept away from you all this time, and I’ll get every part of you in return.”
Your heart thrums. The thought of having what you’ve wanted for so long. Of having Jisung.
“And when you’re ready, when you feel like you can’t do it anymore, there’ll be a place for you.”
His voice is firm. Confident. More sure than he’s ever sounded before in his life.
When you turn to face him, he’s already staring back. Jisung, with all the stars in his eyes and a heart full of dreams. Jisung, with the world at his fingertips and the offer to make it yours.
Under the apple tree, Jisung leans down and kisses you for the first time. Twenty four years in the making, soft and slow, his lips a perfect fit against yours. A starboy and his flower girl. His glow is so bright it makes blossoms sprout from her fingertips.
Soft curls tickle your eyelids when he pulls away to rest his forehead against yours. You reach up to run a hand through them, smiling softly when he presses a kiss to the tip of your nose.
“I love you.” you say first this time.
He reaches out a hand, closes it over your fist that’s still clutching the guitar pick. A marigold and a tulip, both working together to make a perfect harmony.
“I love you, too.” Jisung whispers back. “Forever.”
Jisung stops by the shop early to say goodbye.
There’s less tears this time, less of a reason to be sad. But still, when he wraps his arms around you, vanilla filling your nose and curls against your face, you feel your composure crumble.
“Every day.” he says, repeating the same thing he did all night. “I promise. Morning and night. Also at lunch. Oh, and on your days off. Matter of fact, you can call when you’re on the toilet too.”
The last part earns him an elbow to the ribs, his laughter bubbling up and out of his throat as he tries to dodge any and all subsequent attacks.
He kisses you stupid before he goes, Chan rolling his eyes from his car out front. You flip him off blindly, Jisung’s lips still attached to yours, earning a loud honk in response.
When he leaves, the shop is quiet, the only sound being the buzzing of your phone as Jisung blows it up with text messages the second the car pulls away.
You’re too busy replying, giggling to yourself when a slew of cute emoticons start appearing one by one, that you nearly fall over out of your chair when Hyunjin bursts through the door.
“Jesus Christ Hyune, did you have to–”
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, breathless.
“Uh,” you blink, glancing round. “Working?”
“Is Jisung not on a damn plane right now?”
“I mean he’s on his way to the airport. Chan is–”
“Chan hyung told me that Jisung wanted you to go with him.” Hyunjin says, brow furrowed.
You sigh. “He didn’t want me to go with him. Well, okay, he did. But I told him I can’t just pick up and leave. He knows that. Nana left this place to me and–”
“You are so stupid.” Hyunjin sighs.
“Excuse me?” you ask. You stand up, crossing your arms as you walk closer to the counter.
“Come on. We have to go.”
“Go where, Hyunjin? I’m not leaving to–”
He cuts you off, places an envelope on the wooden surface. “And I am not letting you stay here and pretend that this is what you want.”
“What is that?”
“A plane ticket.” he says, pushing it towards you. “To Seoul.”
Your mouth opens and closes, lost for words. Hyunjin is already moving around the counter, pushing past you with an expression the most serious you’ve ever seen on him.
“Hyunjin I– I can’t– where did you even…?”
“Chan hyung has a friend.” he mumbles as he begins pulling stuff out of the office. Your planning notebook, your apron, the picture of your grandma off the wall. All of it thrown into a small box he managed to snag from somewhere off to the side.
“His name is Seungmin or something. Met him out in the tourist hub. Dude’s super rich with tons of miles and apparently owed Chan for a drunken night where he needed to be escorted to his hotel. So thanks to him, you’re leaving.” he explains as he grabs the box with both hands and starts walking towards the door.
“Wait.” you stop him, watching as he turns to regard you with a look that says his patience is running thin.
“I told you I can’t leave, Hyunjin. This place is where I need to be.”
He huffs, places the box on the ground in front of him. His hair falls in waves around his face, a shimmery dark brown beneath the rays of the sun poking into the room.
“Can you be honest with me?” he asks.
You nod, slowly.
“Do you love him?”
Hyunjin watches you with careful eyes. Reads you like a book, something he’s always been good at. You don’t doubt that it’s written on your face. Star-kissed cheeks and eyes as bright as marigolds.
“So much that it hurts, Hyune.”
Hyunjin smiles, eyes watery. “Then you deserve to go. You deserve your chance to be free. Don’t worry about this place, I’ll take care of it.”
The familiar sting of tears sits behind your eyes. Your heart swells full of love for this friend, this light, this beacon of unconditional love in the shape of your best friend.
“I don’t have clothes.” you manage to say around the lump in your throat.
Hyunjin shakes his head, tears spilling down the bridge of his nose.
“I’ll send them to you.”
“There’s a lot to do around here for just one person. What if you need me?”
“I’ll manage.”
You round the corner quickly, throwing yourself into his chest. He catches you with ease, wraps his arms around your body as the both of you cry into each other.
“I’ll miss you.” you say weakly.
Hyunjin’s throat bobs against the top of your head. “I’ll always be here in our little corner of the world.”
The two of you stay like that for a while. Hyunjin’s warmth seeps into your skin, lights you ablaze. By the time he pulls away, his hands on your shoulders, you feel like you’re floating. Unreal.
“I don’t have a way to get there.” you say quickly, glancing at the clock.
Jisung’s plane leaves soon. The airport, the only one on the island, is a thirty minute drive. You’re at a disadvantage the more time you spend not moving.
“Don’t worry,” Hyunjin chuckles. “I’ve got that taken care of.”
You open your mouth to ask him what he means when you’re cut off by the sound of honking from outside. Confused, you run to the door, your jaw dropping as soon as you realize who’s waiting for you.
“Hurry up people we don’t have all day!” Jeongin calls, his upper body hanging out of the window. He’s parked outside in a beat-up truck, arms waving wildly when he spots you.
“Innie!” you scream, pushing through the door to run at him. He jumps out of the truck just in time for you to barrel into his chest, laughter loud in your ears as he spins you around.
“You’re here! Oh my god I thought you weren’t coming for another two weeks.” you say in disbelief once he puts you down.
He looks older, more sophisticated. His hair is rusted and falls past his ears, the ends just barely touching his shoulders.
“Yeah, well,” he shrugs. “I figured I’d show up earlier. You know, see you before you leave, catch up with my parents, help Hyunjin break into your house. The usual.”
“Help Hyunjin break into my what–” you say, but you stop when your eyes fall on the small suitcase in the backseat. Your own bag, the one that’s been sitting in your closet untouched for years now.
“For the last time,” Hyunjin says from behind you, carrying the box in his arms. “It’s not breaking and entering if I have a key. Which, by the way, I told you would come in handy one day.”
He sets the box down next to the luggage and dusts his hands on his pants. When he turns to face you, he’s smiling, eyes disappearing into crescent moons.
With tears threatening to spill once again, you stare at the both of them, your heart bursting at the seams. “I love you guys.”
Jeongin grimaces, opts for getting back in the driver’s seat as you laugh. Hyunjin rolls his eyes and ushers you inside of the truck.
“Yeah, yeah. Save it.” he says. “Right now, you have a plane to catch.”
The airport is crowded.
There are tons of people everywhere, some saying hello and some saying goodbye. Hyunjin explained the gate system to you before you left him and Jeongin on the curb, and you keep glancing down at your ticket to make sure none of the information has changed in the past thirty seconds since you last looked.
Thankfully, your gate isn’t far. With twenty minutes to go until boarding, you can feel the sweat building up beneath the hand that’s curled around your suitcase handle.
It’s scary thinking about the fact that this is it. That you’re finally leaving.
It’s bittersweet, too. There’s an excitement in the pit of your stomach as well as a feeling of dread in your chest, both of them meeting in the middle somewhere.
You let your eyes scan the crowd, searching for wavy hair and thick-rimmed glasses. However, the first thing you see is the familiar neck of a guitar, strapped right on to a back that you would know and recognize anywhere without warning.
Jisung is seated near the gate, his eyebrows furrowed and lips set in a pout as he glares down at his phone. You realize that he’s probably wondering why you won’t answer, why all of his emoticons are going ignored.
Quietly, you come up behind him, reach into your pocket, and say, “Excuse me? I think you dropped this.”
Jisung startles, his eyes falling on to the guitar pick being held out in your hand. Slowly, he lets his gaze follow upwards, wide-eyed and shocked.
“What– what are you doing here?” he asks.
You place the pick in his hand. “I'm on my way to Seoul. There’s a guy there that I’ve been trying to find for a while.” you say.
Jisung catches on quickly. “Oh, really?” he asks, moving over so you can sit beside him. “This guy must be pretty great if you’re leaving for the mainland.”
The rain starts hitting the tarmac outside right as you sit down. “Hm, yeah. He is. He really likes the stars. He says that he found a way for me to live in them, too.”
He laughs, the sound making your stomach flip. “Sounds like you’re excited.”
You nod. “I am. He promised me that we’d do a lot together, experience new things. Apparently he’s gonna write songs and I’m gonna be a nerd.”
Jisung snorts and reaches across to link his hand with yours.
“He’s really lucky.” he says, leaning over to plant a kiss on your lips.
You smile into it. “So am I.” you whisper into his mouth, your heart stuffed to the brim with flower petals.
And when Jisung smiles back, his other hand coming up to cup your cheek and give you another kiss with the force of a thousand suns, you feel the key you’d been searching for finally click into place.
Salt of the earth. Soil and stardust. A boy who glows so bright that his girl sprouts blossoms from her fingertips.
Forever isn’t promised. But then again, with Jisung by your side, there are things you know for certain:
It’s February. The tulips are in bloom. In Jeju– it rains.
And no matter what, despite all odds, you and Jisung will always find your way back to each other in the place where marigolds grow.
[tags: @skzstarnet @snowyquokka @palindrome969 @summergirlsmj @n1staytiny @drhsthl @strwbrrychannie @shays-library @giuliadesu @iknowyouknowminho @linocz @pynchkilledme @jisunglyricist @itsgghowitsgg @alician87 @skzms @meloncremesoda @ilychee08 @allaboutsan @legally-lixs @stayceebs97 @candyquokka @chans1aptop @liknws @realrintaro @beeracha @vxllxnsworld @feelikecinderella @caitxx1 @lilac13 @sebastianswhore13 @classiclitandmemes @hyunverse @linosazuna @lastgreatamericandynasty1 @bubbly-moon @cookiesandcreammy ]
#skzstarnet#han x reader#jisung x reader#han jisung x reader#han angst#jisung angst#han jisung angst#han fluff#han jisung fluff#jisung fluff#han au#han jisung au#jisung au#han imagines#han jisung imagines#jisung imagines#han scenarios#han jisung scenarios#jisung scenarios#skz fluff#skz angst#skz au#skz imagines#skz scenarios#han#han jisung#jisung#han fanfic#han jisung fanfic#han fanfiction
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happy birthday to the guy i've been drawing nonstop for the past several months - here's proof!!! he's a lot of fun to draw!
vivia is also a very important character to me for very personal reasons... (cw: family death)
it didn't take long for me to realize he was gonna be my favorite character in the game - seeing him lounging in places he shouldn't be cracked me up, and so did his morbid catchphrase... i totally related to his autistic tendencies, and his eagerness to dwell on depressing philosophical thoughts. i especially love and relate to his love for literature and literary analysis, especially because my eighth grade english teacher was my dad, who introduced me to so many of what are now my favorite books, and showed me how to look closer into what makes them so good. his story structure classes were unforgettable.
my dad passed away in 2020 and i've been going through fluctuating stages of grief since. it ebbs and flows but never really leaves. a lot of my art and stories from the past 3+ years have been ways to process and try to heal from that trauma (especially my pokemon sword nuzlocke comic, which i'm hoping to finish this summer)
so seeing the strange way vivia deals with death - in general, and the death of a loved one - fascinated me and destroyed me. i've spent many nights curled up in bed sobbing myself to sleep thinking about the heartbreak he goes through in the story, the regrets, the destructive cycle of grief, the depths of the emotions he feels in such a unique way (he's so desensitized he never cries once in the whole game!) and the ways he is able to start to grow and heal from it afterwards.
exploring the queer romantic angle of vivia's character arc is also so so so important to me, not only because i'm a queer person who's wanted to tell queer stories since i was a teen, but because my dad was also a queer person, who didn't get to come out as bisexual until the tail end of his too-short life. i know he connected to a lot of the same Boys In Love stories that I did, and i wish we'd had the opportunity to explore that common ground further. but since i can't, all i can do is the next best thing - making art about it and inspired by it. i think my dad would really like vivia and the stories i've been trying to tell about him. (harold and maude was one of his favorite movies - and if you're a vivia fan and you've never seen it GO WATCH IT RIGHT NOW. suicidal teen forms an unlikely friendship with a cheerful old lady. you will cry your eyes out. you will want to LIVE)
so, i guess... thanks kodaka for making this specific character that spoke so deeply to me at this specific time in my life and letting me use him as a vehicle to process my own grief in the gayest ways possible. and happy birthday veeva <3
#rain code#master detective archives#mdarc#vivia twilight#abcd art#also a personal story about queer grieving
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youtube
Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc
The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!
#ACLA24#ACLA24HighSchoolStudents#youtube#youtube video#climate leaders#climate solutions#climate action#climate and environment#climate#climate change#climate and health#climate blog#climate justice#climate news#weather and climate#environmental news#environment#environmental awareness#environment and health#environmental#environmental issues#environmental education#environmental justice#environmental protection#environmental health#high school students#high school#youth#youth of america#school
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❝EBB & FLOW❞ + KISHIBE.
+. CWs —» f!reader, age gap, mention of death and loss, angst and grief undertones, smut [lactation k!nk, f!ngering,f!receiving]. 1kish wc
+. PRECIS —» “i don't smoke except for when I am missing you.”
+. NOTES —» partly based on this. \\ REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED \\back to blog navigation
Kisibe takes a strong full drag from his freshly lit cigarette as he stands before the grave. It is littered, cans and plastic bags have accumulated nearby yet wildflowers, grasses, and lush moss have sprouted from the plaque hiding the name of the dead. He does not even know why he is standing here or taking the smoke break at this particular graveyard, in front of this particular grave. A man with a profession like his should not dwell on collateral damage. He does not even know the name. He just knew that this dead person was one of Quanxi’s partners before he came along. He wonders, if death makes people forgetful, is it okay to forgive too? He wonders if death comes so easy, so abrupt and so unexpected, then why won't it take him? Would he be forgiven if he no longer visited this grave with two cigarettes in his hand: one burning and the other intact in the memory of someone?
The wind is heavier today. The cigarette is burning faster than it does when he is usually around you, in your small yet cozy apartment — spending hours on paperwork and training you. A smile breaks like a plague on Kisibe’s face stretching his scar, haunted by the memories of his last training session with you. How you pecked on his cheeks, looked at him with so much yearning in your eyes when he was getting too worked up about the pattern of Makima's recruitments for devil hunters.
He asked, “What was that for?” and you stammered, smiled bashfully, and failed to come up with a proper answer to his satisfaction.
“I just. . .I don’t know. . . intrusive thoughts . . . maybe—” It distracted him so quickly, so unexpectedly, and so deeply that he ended up grabbing your cheeks and kissing you back because it is really troublesome if you get intrusive thoughts like this around everyone.
You let him like the whirlwind gushes into the corners of a building, even the loneliest corners of it and thus crumbling it into pieces. Your heart shattered moments ago, a panging pain building up inside your chest knowing full well how stupid it was to kiss him, to want him. But those thoughts start to whither as you feel his strong grab over your cheeks, his smoky bitter, tobacco-tasting lips. You feel like crying, knowing what you did was wrong and what he is doing is wrong too.
But when Kisibe effortlessly drags you onto his lap, you start drowning in maybe(s) and what if(s).
Maybe he knew all along . . .
What if he wanted this all along . . .
Maybe he is doing it because he is lonely. . .
What if he stops your training . . .
Kisibe starts kissing down your neck, his lips trailing soft and dry kisses all over your chest before he licks your collarbones. He can recognize the scent of your body lotion, it's sweet and candy-like, has a nice essence to it, and makes him wanna bite you but all he does is to proceed further down your body making you whimper. The more he goes down on you, the longer your moans elevate like a progression of a piano, not loud just prettier. When he finally has his lips near your boobs just along the lining of your dress, he peppers kisses around your perked nipples over the cloth that makes you bite your bottom lip, and you stop moaning.
Raw and pure pleasure radiates out of your body as his fingers roam all over your body sneaking under your tunic, touching you between your legs. To his surprise, you are wearing pants. He has always known; and felt that you nurtured certain affection towards him and by that, he was always under the impression that you would at least try to sleep with him within the first two months of your training. But that did not happen, not even when he took you out for drinks to celebrate your first mission after completion.
Still, it was a memorable night.
maybe. . . what if. . .maybe . . .what if. . .
Those thoughts come and go, like the ebb and flow of sea-waves on a stormy night but die as background noise as you hear him groaning as his kisses trace back from your boobs to beneath your ears. Now, his kisses are wet, strong, and full of soft groans. When his fingers dive into your cunt he feels how aroused you are. It makes his scar stretch with a sense of odd triumph blending with curiosity. The prolonged groan that escapes from his mouth makes him pull away, taking a breather as he ravishes the sight in front of him: you, on his lap, clothed too much in this summer heat, eyes closed and lips warped under your teeth as his fingers dig further inside of you. His eyes trail off down to your body, over your bosom, the white tunic that perfectly pronounces your perked nipples. A short whimper from you reaches his ears like a piano key on a high note and the next moment his lips circled around your taut nipple, his other hand that supported your waist has now curled and moved upwards to remove your tunic exposing one of your boobs. You moan, loud and shameless, like piano keys being played at a stretch all at once.
Your chest heaves at a faster rhythm, breathing heavier than before, hands that rested on his shoulders are now awake, palms curling into fists, wrinkling his shirt as you start wetting and biting your lips every now and then. Kishibe realizes that this is what you have been so melodious and outspoken about. You are feeling it to the fullest, not even bothered by how rough your grip is on his shoulders. His mouth on your nipple, lips sucking with full might, tongue flicking it while the other is being neglected. It tastes different than your lips; your lips have flavor, sometimes candy, sometimes strawberry, and sometimes minty; but your nipples? they have your taste, your scent;
He knows it is gonna taste different, he thinks he knows this because you always offer him toffees and chocolates. Kisibe takes it after protesting a little... He does not wanna create a crack in your heart. Because when there is a crack, there is always light, a hope. He keeps saying that he is too old for shit like this yet he takes it. He might never get to confirm how your lips taste, given that this would be the only intimate moment he shares with you.
A shrill screech from his own mouth pulls him back into reality. He watches the fire of his cigarette dying as it lies on the ground beside the grave. “Geez! what’s gotten into me,” he mumbles in frustration feeling his slacks tighten as he walks out of the graveyard. He should not have kissed you back. He should not have pursued his curiosity. He should have just left you, right there, breaking your heart. Too much light burns everything. Yeah! why didn’t he think of that? But
maybe. . . what if. . .maybe . . .what if. . .
—
#csm smut#angelshubnetwork#kishibe x reader#kishibe smut#kishibe x you#kishibe x y/n#kishibe csm#csm kishibe#chainsaw man kishibe#csm x you#csm x reader#csm x y/n#csm x fem reader#chainsaw man x reader#chainsaw man x you#chainsaw man x y/n#chainsaw man smut#csm fanfic#csm spoilers#tw age gap#tw tobacco#tw smoking#smut fic#smut fanfiction#smut#chainsaw man#csm#smut drabble#angst drabble#one shot
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things yttd has taught me
grief never really goes away. it ebbs and flows.
YOUR FRIENDS DON'T HATE YOU!!!! I PROMISE I PROMISE I PROMISE THEY LOVE YOU
autistic 12-year-olds rule the world
there is no one singular "human experience." there are so so so many uncountable things that make us human.
trust in each other and be vulnerable and tell your friends you love them. it's the only way we're gonna get by in this world.
IT'S OKAY TO BE WEAK!!! nobody can always be strong all the time. please please please give yourself some grace.
im kinda glad my sister and i didn't grow up together. we just skipped the whole "sibling rivalry" thing and went straight to being best friends.
it doesn't take a killer to murder, it only takes a reason to kill!
the only good cops are fired cops
PEOPLE IN POWER WILL TRY TO MAKE MINORITIES TURN ON EACH OTHER. THEY WILL TELL YOU THAT A CERTAIN PEOPLE-GROUP IS EVIL AND THAT YOU SHOULDN'T TRUST THEM. THEY WILL TRY TO PUT YOU IN A SITUATION WHERE YOU'RE FORCED TO TEAR EACH OTHER APART. THEY ARE TRYING TO SEPARATE YOU SO THAT YOU'RE EASIER TO CONTROL.
alice is a boy name
#poggay rambles#i think there may be some good advice in here#yttd#your turn to die#yttd spoilers#your turn to die spoilers
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i know i probably sound deranged but . hear me out . charlos pacific rim au . so … jaegar engineer carlos, who was dragged into becoming a pilot even though he could just strategise & build as the brightest to come out of there in years ( even though there’s nico & daniil & mitch & he can only drive himself mad watching them fall from the sky, crash into the water in graves that he designed, scribbles on notes & plans scattered across the table & grief scrawled into the margins of yet another design ).
but the higher–ups are looking for anyone & everyone — & he winds up being drift compatible with lando ( except it’s not the first person he’s compatible with, having paired with redbull’s starboy max years ago & broken their link himself at the last possible minute to avoid being forced into the field, knows how fragile these things are ), made to don an orange uniform & convince everyone that it’s fine, that their meagre efforts are going to stave off the end of the world sooner rather than later. & that’s easy-going & nice, but it’s a stop-gap all the same ( he knows they want someone better, the mclaren unit has a bone to pick & determination to prove they are still the best at this, that they want someone proven to kill & take down kaiju & get the job done in a way he’s only slowly, unbalancedly & fumbling through, figuring out how to ). & though they have great success, he’s also terrified about why it feels so deliberate, why everything feels like such a process, why they say you can’t hide anything in the drift & yet lando has not seen half the things that haunt him in his sleep.
on the other side of the world, there’s ferrari’s star pilot, charles, fresh off a partnership that had initially gone so well but ended so badly that even though they were trying their absolute best, sent their jaeger out of control & into the sea & seb with a patchwork of scars to some strategy related posting in sydney ( pardon the implied sebmark, i had to ) & him to fend off the cameras & questions about what’s wrong with the unit again. & there’s so much speculation, so many people wondering who will work wth charles — he can barely breathe ( not that he ever really could, because to don the colours he does also means some commitment to the bit, to burning til the very end ), runs the tests mechanically, as they put one person after another in front of him & everything comes up empty & he’s pleading every day to just let him solo pilot even though it’ll probably get him killed ( he just wants to go out, to prove himself & keep their shatterdome from falling apart, no matter how impossible it seems ) — but they’re so desperate that they’re testing other pilots, even the ones who are already drifting with someone else, because they can pull those pairings apart in a moment if they needed it somewhere else. thing is, he doesn’t really remember much about the first time they sparred — dark eyes and bracing against an immovable object and some dim recognition that oh is this lando’s co-pilot, moving back and forth like some sort of ebb and flow just like the surface of the ocean he’d slammed into all those months ago — or about the first time they’d attempted to drift in the simulation — blurs of colours and images and something weightless and effortless, opening his eyes and wondering why his mouth tastes like salt, like sea, like tears & the faintest hint of guilt and it feels like all the air’s been sucked clean from his lungs. ( congratulations, you’re compatible. congratulations, hope you hang in there longer & come out of it in fewer pieces than all the ones before you did. )
there is only so much space in this shatterdome. there is only so much space in your mind. & even though it goes so well, carlos a perfect co-pilot & the two of them are completing mission after mission successfully — it feels like they’ve never been able to fully close the space between the pons systems separating themselves when they drift, because after that first time, it was like everything vanished & drifting was only ever something smooth & easy. ( as though charles is very much rooted here, in this moment, and somehow carlos is reading the signal flares from a thousand miles away, and it drives him mad in the process, how someone so outwardly warm & emotional could feel so cold & always armed with a perfect distance in his mind. ) but the first advice they give to any pilot is to never chase the rabbit, to seek the memories & people in others’ minds ( to look into file after file and find them curiously blank and empty, trying to contact people long dead & gone ) — it’s advice that, in the end, charles doesn’t heed. ( i am rambling so much bc rip the meds & idk if this makes any sense but !! idk just want angsty charlos, fluorescent lights & the warmth of another person at the end of the world & just . learning to Understand™️ & be okay with being Perceived™️, that you could fall into the water together & feel like you're never coming up for air & still live, somehow )
first of all, i can’t tell you how excited i was when i got this. thank you so much for sharing your ideas.
“& grief scrawled into the margins of yet another design” FUCKED ME UP. engineer carlos getting used to the feeling that to create a machine is to get ready to grief. i would like to imagine a daniil that can’t pilot anymore because of a major injury and carlos writing to him every chance he has just because he feels like he owns that. he was the one that built the jaegar that daniil was in. maybe if he has changed this, or done that, or was just a little better here—
i love how you paired lando and carlos. imagining a very young and eager lando who grew up admiring pilots and dreaming of his own jaegar and taking down his first kaiju, and on the other side carlos, who didn’t want to be there, who was not supposed to be there, but it’s hard to find good pilots and the investments are getting scarce. so, as you said, they need to get help anywhere they can. “ yet lando has not seen half the things that haunt him in his sleep” YES. lando being to excited and so young that carlos is there mostly to help and guide him rather than create a real connection. lando doesn’t stop to Look at carlos’ mind.
“charles, fresh off a partnership that had initially gone so well but ended so badly” ooooh how i would pay bucks to see this written. i would die to see this. this would be amazing. your whole idea. your whole concept. everything is top notch. also, do not apologize for the implied sebmark. i love the implied sebmark. give me more. “not that he ever really could, because to don the colours he does also means some commitment to the bit, to burning til the very end” here, as soon as i read it, i had to stop and walk around the room. charles is a sacrificial lamb to ferrari in every universe. wearing rosso corsa as if it is blood on his hands. charles not feeling anything. mechanical. work. proving himself. red, red, red. then, sea. then salt. then other colors. then brown eyes. then something else. then another’s feelings in his chest. everything is so fast and then it just stops. just for a moment. then is fast again. i love how you described it, their first ride together, the way it’s nothing magical at the same time it is. it’s very mundane and routine like until it’s not.
i feel like charles has the knife here, he has the power to seek the rabbit, he has the upper hand, he has the power to use the knife to hurt carlos or to hand the knife for carlos to fend himself out of his little cave. but he can’t do anything with his knife. because carlos needs to let him in. and carlos can’t do that. carlos has lost too much, has too many names he carries as a reminder of his failure and he has read charles leclerc file, he knows about his dad, about the pilot that was his mentor, about sebastian, he can’t be another tale mark in the count of grief this boy has to carry.
and charles is having none of that. i don’t think it would be because he cares for carlos, at the begging, but mostly because he thinks that to be a better pilot to be the best one out there the biggest better jaegar and to take down kaijus, they need to know everything about each other: this was a problem with sebastian, he was too far away from charles, always keeping him on the brim. he won’t let it repeat again. he keeps pushing and pushing and pushing just to get to know Something. he needs to know. all while, forgetting that if carlos lets him in, charles will also be open. i don’t think charles would be realizing that until is too late. until he learns that to see someone bare open, with their chest exposed, is to also be vulnerable. the knife cuts both ways. you and i are one tear, one flesh and blood, one painful memory of the world, shared, like a grave. your heart beat in my ribs and mine in yours. intimacy in visceral violence but intimacy is sewing each other up after. to be perceived hurts, at first. you are forced to look at something you would rather hide. but then you are seen. it create a bond that transcends all other types of love, thus acting as the sole point of understanding for the other person in a world that cannot fathom what they’ve been through. you are in a room full of people and you feel like falling down. there’s a arm around you, supporting you, keeping you away from all the eyes, as you do so.
“that you could fall into the water together & feel like you're never coming up for air & still live, somehow” yeah. i need to sit down. this is— just. amazing. thank you so much, from the bottom of my heart, for sharing this.
#charlos au anon#ceu asks#PART 1 BECAUSE THERES MORE FUCK YEAH LETS GO PEOPLE LETS GO CHARLOS AU ANON#charlos pacific rim au#charlos#carlos sainz#charles leclerc
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I THOUGHT YOU WERE JOKING ABOUT THE 'ELROND CALLING ELWING A CUNT' thing. But here I am, a newbie just going through fics one after the other of Elwing being called so many names and being humiliated, while the kidnap fam is uplifted. WHAT IS GOING ON. I could smell misogynistic from a mile away holy moly.
But I have read your fics (I FUCKING LOVE IT) and I want more. May I also ask for some ELWING FIC RECS.
Oh no, that was a very literal example. My heart goes out to you in this difficult time of unfortunate realizations, anon.
But I am delighted to share some quality Elwing fic! ╰(*°▽°*)╯ (And thank you, I'm glad you liked mine!)
And by their blazing signify that a great princess falls, but doth not die by TheLionInMyBed is an absolutely phenomenal look at Elwing's last moments in Sirion.
The One with All the Birds by clothono and yes I know this one comes up every time I'm asked for Elwing recs, but it really is so delightful, and all the other characters who appear in it are so well-characterized and engaging. The bizarre connection that Elwing and Nerdanel share, both waiting for their children to return, is so interesting!
Elwing's Strategy by lifeisyetfair is another examination of why Elwing chose as she did in Sirion. Both Elwing and Maedhros are characterized so well, it's delicious.
The Carriage Held but Just Ourselves by StarSpray is an exploration of the line of Melian and Thingol's relationship with death. The whole fic is fantastic, but chapter 3 specifically deals with Elwing.
Elvenkings by am_fae is such a beautiful and sad look at the Doriathrim after the fall of the kingdom. It focuses on several characters, but Elwing is one of them and it handles her so well!
A Fish Hook, an Open Eye by simaetha is a tasty, dark Elwing/f!Maglor where things don't go quite according to plan when Maglor comes to negotiate with Elwing in Sirion.
Après Moi, le Déluge by HerenorThereNearnorFar is such a heartbreaking and tender look at Elwing's relationship with her children.
The Longed For That Cometh Beyond Hope by am_fae does an excellent job capturing the energy of the moments just after Earendil and Elwing secure the Valar's aid against Morgoth.
Was Dancing There by StarSpray is a quick, sweet look at Elrond's childhood with Elwing in Sirion and what remains of the heritage of the Doriathrim.
A Fiend in Feline Shape by Aipilosse deals with the house of Dior and Nimloth generally; Elwing is not the focus, but she is in it, and it's a delightful fic.
Less Flesh than Stone by crackinthecup is the confrontation in Aman that Elwing deserves with Maedhros.
Ebb and Flow by swanmaiden. Elwing is feeling the strain of her pregnancy and Earendil is so gallant as to help her out how he can. I really love how this fic shows the support these two had from their community in Sirion.
Joy is a Bird, a Fragile Thing by estuarie is a deeply touching reunion between Elwing and Elrond in Valinor TT_TT
Friendship and Stern Demand by polutropos is a fantastic look at the correspondence between Elwing and Maedhros prior to the Third Kinslaying.
From the Ones Who Came Before by Kirta is a great look at Elwing and Earendil's life growing up in the Havens. I am always a fan of childhood friends-to-lovers Starwing.
How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful by swanmaids is a great series of scenes of Earendil and Elwing and their life in Sirion, and dealing with the trauma of their childhood.
A Light Burns in the Forest by tinnurin is about how Elwing escaped Menegroth during the Second Kinslaying with Oropher and Thranduil. Really captures how terrifying and chaotic the assault on Doriath would have been.
We Build Castles with Our Fears and Sleep in Them Like Kings and Queens by TheLionInMyBed is more about Idril, but it does also take a look at Idril's relationship with Elwing.
So Summer Comes by potatoesanddreams does a beautiful job of exploring how Elwing's trauma and grief sometimes make it hard for her to be present for her kids while remaining sympathetic.
A Loss of Something I Ever Felt by Arriviste is a fic about Finarfin, but section 4 has his meeting Elwing and Earendil, and it is overall such a beautiful and well-written fic.
At the Water's Edge by crackinthecup takes a look at Elwing's relationship with Idril and what they share in terms of traumatic experiences.
Coastin' by swanmaiden. Heather handles these characters with such love and it really shows! Earendil is always looking to please his wife ;D
Beacon by polutropos has that yummy Starwing reunion smut after Earendil returns to port. A really fun married couple dynamic here!
For Elwing positivity in general I have to @swanmaids because she is the #1 Elwing stan that I know of, so if you want a blog to follow which is 100% pro-Elwing, there she is!
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youtube
Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared
The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!
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What makes me sad about DA is that i can’t bring myself to replay the series after playing other games over the years, dao doesn’t work without mods, da2 feels weird without dao and dai is just empty? I used to love this series in my early 20s but now in my late 20s the series is just slowly dying
You may feel that way currently, but it doesn't mean you might not return to it at some point with reinvigorated passion. Interests can ebb and flow, that doesn't have to make them any less special.
Or you may lose it and move onto something else. That's fine too. Again, doesn't mean you wasted your time enjoying the series while you did.
But I can sympathize; I used to be really, REALLY into Star Wars when I was younger. And when The Force Awakens came out, it re-enthused me greatly... only for me to then be so disgusted with The Last Jedi that I lost all interest in the franchise practically overnight. And sometimes I feel grief over that, as if I lost a friend. But I know the friend has been lost and come back before, so it may do it again.
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Beauty and the Boss | austin!elvis x oc (part 9)
plot summary: Laura Jean Walker is the daughter to Louisiana’s most powerful mafia boss, but to her, he’s just her jail warden. When she sneaks out to the Louisiana Hayride with her friend she sees Elvis Presley perform and instantly knows something is special about this boy. Especially when he saves her from being assaulted by a townie. She thinks she’s on cloud 9 until she gets kidnapped in the middle of the night by the Memphis Mafia led by Elvis himself. Will Laura Jean try to free herself or will something hold her back from finding her way home?
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8
pairings: austin!elvis x oc
word count: 1845
warnings/notes: Hey guys! Sorry it's been so long since I posted a part, but I finally got some time today :)
Chapter 9
The funeral of Gladys passed in a blur, and before we knew it, the wake was upon us. A steady stream of visitors flowed in and out of the house, all eager to pay their respects to the departed soul lying in the casket. It was a somber sight, made all the more poignant by the fact that it now occupied the very spot where Elvis's grand piano once stood. Beyond the threshold, amidst the ebb and flow of visitors, a throng of journalists and the flicker of camera bulbs stood poised, anticipating Elvis' emergence and any utterance he might offer. The dogs were ravenous, and they seemed intent on exploiting his grief. In the interim, Elvis had not crossed my path since our return from the church. He vanished up the stairs, never to return. I empathized with the agony he was experiencing and yearned to offer solace with my words. However, I was aware that words would be futile in this situation. The death of my mother continued to linger in my mind even after all these years, and it was not an unexpected heart attack like Ms. Gladys.
Perched upon the plush velvet carpeting of the steps, I observed the bustling crowd from a safe vantage point. I was disinclined to respond to inquiries or receive expressions of sympathy that were rightfully intended for Elvis. The memory of Mama's funeral flooded back to me, overwhelming my senses. Hollow utterances emanating from individuals who lacked sincerity in their speech. It was precisely the phrase one utters to console those who have suffered the loss of a cherished person. Their assistance fell short of your expectations. With a firm grasp on the hem of my black dress, I attempted to free myself from the labyrinth of my own thoughts. I found myself being pulled into a recollection that I had no desire to revisit. I felt a sense of gratitude as Colonel descended the stairs, his expression conveying more than just dissatisfaction.
The Colonel grumbled, “He won’t come out of that closet.” Though he averted his gaze, I sensed that his words were directed towards me. He leaned against the wall adjacent to my position. “There are some fine folks from the press waiting outside. A few questions, pictures, and they will leave us alone.”
With a cool gaze, I observed him closely, and his subtle response indicated that he was aware of my piercing stare. “You want him to go talk to the reporters? After his Mama just died? The person he was closest to in the world?”
“I know, I know.” The insincere tone of his voice sent shivers down my spine. “He trusted her like nobody else, and now she’s gone and who does he have now?” He finally looked at me.
“You’ve picked the wrong person for an ally, Colonel. I ain’t forcin’ him to go talk to nobody.”
“No, no. That’s not…that’s not what I meant. I care about my boy whether you believe that or not, Ms. Walker. I tried talking to him but it’s really not my place. You, however, have his heart perhaps just as much as his dear Mama did. He trusts you. Despite our differences, you and I, we have one thing in common. We want what is best for that boy. And today, you are what is best.”
The art of deception is often employed by conmen, who skillfully blend elements of truth with their own ulterior motives. The art of perception was a skill passed on by my father, and it allowed me to easily discern the true intentions of the Colonel. Perhaps his interest in Elvis was genuine, but it was overshadowed by his preoccupation with his own celebrity and public persona. As the reporters continued to exploit Elvis's sorrow, the Colonel's pockets grew increasingly lined with cash. Despite the presence of the man standing next to me, my adoration for Elvis remained paramount. I rose to my feet, delicately smoothing out the fabric of my skirt.
“I’m not makin’ him come down if he don’t want to,” I declared, preceding my ascent up the stairs towards the room that was once occupied by Gladys.
Not a single thing had been disturbed since her passing. The room appeared to be suspended in time, a poignant tribute to a person who would never again occupy its space. The faint sound of Elvis's subdued weeping emanated from the depths of her closet. I advanced cautiously, mindful of the potential for startling him. My trepidation stemmed from a fear that he might bolt from my presence, much like a skittish cat. The door of the closet was slightly ajar, allowing a breath of fresh air to seep through. With a hesitant hand, I gradually pushed the closet door ajar. Inside, I was met with a heart-wrenching sight - Elvis was seated on the floor, his thin frame huddled amidst his Mama's dresses. Tears streamed down his face, his sobs wracking his entire body with each passing moment. He stole a quick glance in my direction before turning away, pressing his cheek against the soft fabric of a dress.
I lowered myself onto the ground, maintaining a safe distance from him, as I positioned myself directly in front of him. “Hi, baby.”
“She’s gone…”
“I know. But all your friends and family…they’re wonderin’ where you are.”
A deep sob escaped his lips. “I can’t go out there, Laura Jean. I can’t. I just want to stay in here forever.” Tears streamed down his face as he buried it into the soft fabric of the dress's skirt.
My heart shattered into even smaller pieces for him than it had for myself when I experienced the same misfortune. With a deep breath, I closed the distance between us and enveloped him in a warm embrace, my arms encircling his broad shoulders. He maintained his grip on the garments, yet refrained from deterring me. “I know how you feel. When my Mama died, all I wanted to do was crawl into the ground with her. I felt like my whole world was in pieces and the person who usually picked them up wasn’t there anymore.” I gently massaged his back. “No one could ever replace her. Why, Ms. Gladys was a one-of-a-kind woman who raised a one-of-a-kind son. I wish I could be half as strong as she was some day.”
Elvis buried his head in my shoulder and embraced me with such force that it became difficult to catch my breath. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do without her. She was everythin’. All this…all this was for her.”
My fingers glided through his hair. “You cry now. You cry your little heart out for as long as you need to. And day by day, you just keep on movin’, keep on livin’. Cause that’s what your Mama would have wanted. For you to live your life as fully and as happily as you can.” I gently pressed my lips against his forehead. “And I’ll be here for you, too. Whenever you need me. I’ll work and I’ll worry in your Mama’s place. Okay?” With a nod, he buried his face deeper into my shoulder. To hold him felt like I was holding a baby who was twice my size. Gradually, I rose to my feet, pulling him up alongside me until we were both standing upright. With a gentle touch, I wiped away the tears that had gathered on his face, my fingers softly caressing his cheek. “Now we’re gonna go downstairs and you’re gonna go say goodbye to your Mama.”
With a sniffle, Elvis enfolded me in a warm embrace, pressing my head against his chest. He clasped my head firmly, as if he feared that I might vanish into thin air. All the while, I listened intently to the rhythmic thumping of his heart. “I ain’t never gonna let anyone take you away from me, you hear? Not your Daddy, not the Colonel, no one. I don’t care about money or stupid mafia business. I just care about you.”
“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” I vowed.
With tears streaming down his face, he whispered, “I love you, Laura Jean.”
“I love you too.” I grasped his hand firmly and led him out of the bedroom, descending the stairs in unison. Silence fell over the room as Elvis made his way towards the open casket of Gladys. No expense had been spared for her funeral, from the casket to the flower arrangements and every detail in between. As I gazed upon her, she appeared serene and undisturbed, nestled within the soft and luxurious velvet that lined the interior of the casket. Elvis gazed intently at her, his grip on my hand unyielding. He parted his lips, as if to utter words to her, but they were abruptly stifled by a wrenching sob. I rested my head upon his shoulder.
The Colonel shuffled up behind us and placed a hand on Elvis's shoulder. “I can’t even begin to understand what you are going through, my boy. But you have comforted your friend and your family. You need to go comfort your fans too, hmm? They are worried about you. And if you don’t go do that all that your mama sacrificed for you will be for nothing.”
The desire to expel acid from my mouth consumed me. Using Elvis at this time? How could he? He was in no position to have a conversation with anyone. He needed the freedom to simply exist as a young man who had suffered the loss of his mother, rather than being burdened with the weighty expectations of embodying the iconic figure of Elvis Presley. In spite of my innermost insults directed towards Colonel Parker, Elvis gravitated towards him and sought solace in his embrace, shedding tears upon his shoulder. I yearned to persuade him that the presence of the elderly gentleman was superfluous. The Colonel hesitantly rubbed Elvis's back.
“You stay with my through thick and thin, okay?” he asked, his eyes searching for reassurance. Elvis expressed, “You’re like a father to me.”
My eyes locked onto the Colonel's, and he met my gaze with a smug expression that made me itch to wipe it off his face. Despite my constant challenges, he relished the sense of power he wielded over Elvis. I persisted in my efforts to liberate Elvis from the clutches of the snowman, refusing to give up until my mission was accomplished. As Elvis withdrew, the Colonel offered a reassuring pat on his shoulder. “Just a few questions and some photos and we will be done.”
“C-Can Laura Jean come with me?” Elvis sniffled.
The Colonel's gaze met mine, but I refused to back down, my expression daring him to confront me. I was determined not to leave Elvis, even if he forbade my presence. He let out a deep sigh and replied, “Of course. You need her now.”
With a nod, I followed Elvis as he led me through the throng of microphones and cameras outside.
Stay tuned for part 10!! Click HERE to view!
#austin!elvis#austin!elvis imagine#austin!elvis fanfiction#austin!elvis fluff#austin!elvis x oc#austin butler#austin butler elvis#austin butler fic#austin butler fluff#austin butler fandom#elvis 2022#elvis baz luhrmann#baz luhrmann elvis#elvis presley#elvis presley fanfiction#elvis presley fandom#elvis presley fic#elvis presley imagine#austin butler fanfiction#austin!elvis fic#austin butler imagine
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𓆩 ღ 𓆪 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐢𝐧
( so take me with you as a reminder
that this present moment will one day be gone. )
synopsis : in which you & miguel o'hara are fated to be the heroes of your respective universes, but fate has always been the cruelest being of all, knows that there is no coexistence in the love you share.
you do not belong in each other's lives, and you both know this.
chara : miguel o'hara
fandom : spider-verse
quote cr : sheila heti
╰ PROLOGUE :
& HOW DANGEROUS THIS WEB OF FATES WEAVES : VICIOUS, UNKIND, NONEXISTENT & EXISTENT AND SO HORRIBLY KNOWN UNTIL THE PATH OF FALSE GLORIES IS SET IN STONE, THE RESIGNATION OF ONE'S LIFE AND DIVERGENCE GONE ROGUE.
THE COLLISION OF UNIVERSES IS A BEAUTIFUL THING, the choir sings, but they won't know of the wool pulled over their eyes, naivety both a blessing and sacred curse that one should protect and tear asunder.
( yes , the collision of universes is a beautifully wretched thing, but a spider / a tragedy / a vessel of what could have been and what was never meant to be will learn the hard way that he is fated to destruction and tragedy and sacrifice, but it will be right and it will be righteous and it will hurt, but it will be worth it.
it will be worth it. it will be worth it. IT WILL BE WORTH IT.
── ALL OF THIS PAIN, IT HAS TO BE WORTH SOMETHING, DOESN'T IT? )
╰ ACT I :
miguel o'hara does not know if your universes were meant to collide. they shouldn't have, he thinks, and when everything is all said and done, end game in sight, anomalies eliminated and stability restored, he knows goodbyes will be spoken. they will be bittersweet, and so he will take the sorrow and rid of it because that is the only way he knows to cope with grief.
because it doesn't matter anymore : the things he desires, the things he cherishes, wishes to protect, wishes to hold close to the rot in his chest that everyone deems as his altruism, his kindness, his heroism, and they'll call it a heart-- they will, but he'll call it something dead.
it doesn't matter anymore. it shouldn't. it's not supposed to.
but you are an anomaly in itself, your presence entirely warranted yet unwanted at the same time. it is a push and pull, an ebb and flow, the way you have become companions. how much time have you spent together, fighting side by side, minimizing damage and saving those affected by the consequences of another's actions?
because you are the same but different -- two sides of the same coin : dealt with the same losses, carried the weight of your own worlds, tried to shoulder everything for everyone. you have traveled the same path, the twists and turns a slight deviation in a life already set in motion.
it doesn't matter anymore. it shouldn't. but time unravels the ache and the hurt, and inside, there is a solemn vulnerability and loneliness that slowly reveals itself. and he doesn't know of it, not really, because it's better to keep yourself occupied than to dwell on the past. better to swim before you sink. better to jump before you fall.
there is something brewing inside his chest-- a wanting of some sort, something unidentifiable but still entirely known. and when the realization hits, it hits hard. it shows itself when things go south, the mission goes unplanned, and it's the first time he's ever seen you gravely injured.
the way your jaw clenches, the way crimson runs down your temple, your suit ripped and torn in haphazard places. it's the way you look at him, that slightest bit of horror and worry in your countenance, and if he searched your eyes any harder, he's sure he would have seen the same in his own reflection.
but you break away, ignore that flicker of fear that you shouldn't allow yourself to feel, and you keep moving.
miguel o'hara knows his emotions run rampant-- the anger, the fury, the rage-- but this is something different, something familiar, something akin to the feeling of loss and a nearing grief. he does not like it.
this shouldn't matter. you shouldn't matter, not this way.
please, he thinks, and he warns himself that he is doomed to repeat the hurt all over again, this shouldn't matter anymore. it shouldn't.
it's not supposed to.
╰ ACT II :
time does not heal all wounds ; he has learned this by now, known it all too well with every attempt, every verse, every single time he has ever tried to force a belonging in somewhere he was not meant to be. the sorrow follows him ever so, longing buried in the depths of a blackened heart that beats just enough to mean something.
it grows, roots into the soul, and it is beyond his control once again.
he tries to ignore it, tries to ignore you-- you can sense it in the way he is so careful of you now, almost afraid, so alert & aware of your presence. but there is always something in the end that draws you together, and neither of you can deny this.
it is another quiet night-- time ticks into the late hours, and you find yourselves mapping out the next plan, the next move, going over the many possibilities of new instabilities that could suddenly appear. in the silence there is something else that survives, and it is no longer just peace, but a heaviness of sorts. he feels it, he does-- in the way your gazes lock, neither of you looking away. he feels it in the way the words die down on his lips, and then there is something so bittersweet that lingers on his tongue when he looks at you.
this is something that could grow and bloom into something both wonderful and terribly tragic. something of worth that would be cut down so easily because it is an absolute necessary. you are not sure if it would be worth it, and he is not sure, either.
it will hurt. maybe it will be worth it. maybe it won't.
he doesn't know, and neither do you.
& that is a very cruel thing, you muse, and it is almost laughable. you study his eyes intently, tilt your head ever so slightly, lips curving into the faintest of smiles. you take a step forward, close that distance between two souls that are disconnected yet united in limbo. it is a very cruel thing, knowing that the person you care for-- the person you would give your heart to, is the one that will tear it apart, and it will be so excruciatingly slow and so excruciatingly gentle when it happens.
that's the way it'll work. that's the only way it'll work. finish the mission, achieve your goal, and that's it. it's over.
that's all.
because there's no chance, no what if. miguel has done everything in his power to get the life he wanted, to be with the ones he loved the most, and it only ended in despair.
there is no chance, and you both know this. no happy ending, no winning. but the heart is a powerful thing, and in the way it dulls his senses, his logic, he cannot seem to pull himself away. he sees that flicker of reluctance, that conflict, that longing in your eyes, and he instinctively finds himself leaning down, further closing the gap between you two.
he will come to regret this moment of weakness. he will regret this eventually, but not now. not now.
"migs," your voice is barely above a whisper, and oh, how his heart aches when it wavers just the slightest bit, "this will hurt in the end."
but you don't move away, he notices, and his hand rests on your waist, gentle.
"yeah," he murmurs, and his lips are so close to yours, a mere ghost of a touch, "it'll hurt."
his lips finally meet yours-- careful, tender, and it feels right, feels like it belongs, like this is what should be.
but it's not. it's not, and even in the way you pull him closer, a quiet desperation and solace in your touch, you both know that this is not something that will last. it can't. it isn't meant to.
it is a very cruel thing, the web of fates woven in every and all universes. and it is such a terribly beautiful thing -- this moment of peace you share, and you both know that in the end, there is no happy ending for either of you.
( it will hurt, and you wish you knew if it’ll be worth it in the end.
── ALL OF THIS PAIN, IT HAS TO BE WORTH SOMETHING, DOESN'T IT? )
#miguel o'hara x reader#spiderverse x reader#across the spiderverse x reader#atsv x reader#atsv miguel#.: writing#he is just so . im like . yueah .....................
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Are you okay with writing death? If yes could you do something where reader’s (surface dweller but now lives in Talokan with Namor cause they are married) Aunt dies (and Aunt raised reader)? and like how Namor would comfort them through it?
hmmm oddly specific but ok (you ok nonnie?)
Summary: You were grieving and Namor had centuries of experience in that category. He wasn't going to let you face it alone
Hurt/comfort
He watched from the water as you looked out toward the land. Namor had told you to return home upon receiving the news of your aunt's passing. It had been a week, and the preparations had been made and your aunt had been laid to rest. It was time for you to come back to Talokan.
Namor approached you as you waded into the water. You glanced one last time at the shore then turned to your husband.
"Are you ready, in yakunaj?" Namor asked as he pulled you into his arms.
You nodded quietly against him, tears still leaking from your eyes. Leaving the surface to be with Namor had been the best decision of your life but not being there for your aunt as she passed was your greatest regret. The King rubbed your back comfortingly then lifted the breather up to your face to put you to sleep.
In the coming weeks, Namor noticed that you were still grieving. He knew it was a process but he was worried for you. Your appetite had grown weak and you had been spending more and more time in the tent in the caves. He had given you enough space and now wished to see if he could help.
When he entered the tent, after allowing you to make it your escape the last few weeks, he was in awe of the painting you had added to the wall. It was a portrait of a woman cradling a child that looked very much like you.
"In reina," Namor began as he came to your side, "It is beautiful."
He wrapped his arms around you from behind and you leaned back against him, treasuring his warmth. "Do you think she would have liked it, my aunt?"
"I think she would have loved it. She raised you, right?" Namor asked as you both took a seat at the small table in the center of the tent. He stayed close, holding your hand in his.
"She was practically my mother. You remember, she was the only one who supported me running away with you. She was the only one that really understood me," Tears welled up in your eyes and Namor wrapped an arm around you, "I should have been there. We knew she was getting old. We knew that she wouldn't last. Why didn't I go to her?"
You began sobbing in earnest and Namor pulled you into his lap, brushing your hair and rocking you. "Shhh, my love, do not blame yourself. She would not have blamed you. As you said, she was elderly and knew it was coming."
"But I should have been there," you wept, your hands covering your face.
Namor gently put his hands on your wrists and pulled them way from your face, "Oh, my queen, would she have held it against you? It was sudden, no one could have known that she would pass in her sleep."
The King rocked, humming a low and slow tune as your sobbing died down. You clutched onto Namor, taking comfort in his presence and that he was allowing you to mourn in your own time.
"Do you think I am silly for still crying?" You asked, knowing it was a stupid question but still wanting reassurance.
Namor sighed, "There are some days that I still shed a tear for my mother and her people. Grief takes time. It ebbs and flows like the waves. You will be able to handle it better some days than others. You will learn the methods to travel through it without stumbling as much as you did in the beginning. But it will never leave. And that is beautiful."
You listened intently to his words, "Beautiful?"
"Yes, grief is beautiful. It shows the world, me, and yourself, that you loved someone so much that even with them not beside you, you still hold a place for them in your heart. And that is beautiful," Namor concluded. He kissed your temple but did not relinquish his hold.
"In ajawo, I know she was proud of me. l also know how happy she was when I told her about you. I don't ever want to forget her," You admitted, remembering her immediate love and care for the man that became your husband.
"I have an idea," Namor said, smiling at you.
"An idea for how I won't forget her?" You asked, curiosity piqued through your sadness.
"Whenever we bare a child, whether it is tomorrow or years from now, I hope you would honor that child and name them after your aunt," Namor replied, absentmindedly laying another kiss to your temple.
You felt a tear slip from your eye down your cheek. Namor wiped it away with his thumb, looking at you expectantly, "I would love that, my love. I think she would have been so excited to hear that."
"You'll remember her and every time you see our child, call their name, show them love, her memory will live on. And hopefully in that time, your grief will be less deep and replaced by love," Namor kissed both your cheeks before capturing your lips in a gentle and loving kiss.
"Will you hold me for awhile longer?" You asked him, worried he might have some kingly duties to deal with.
"Of course, in yakunaj, you have me for as long as you need me," Namor said, clutching you tighter and continuing the humming of a song.
.....
so cheesy and fluffy. hope you liked it nonnie.
reviews, comments, and replies. feed me.
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Do you have any advice on how to cope with antisemitism online? I’m really overwhelmed by the sheer amount of it, it’s just so much worse than I ever imagined. I also feel weird talking to jews by birth about it bc they had to deal with this for their whole lives while I’m first experiencing it as an adult. Still, it’s got to the point where it’s really affecting my mental health
Hi anon,
I'm going strongly encourage you to do a few things:
Take a step back. No one benefits from you stressing yourself out to the point of it affecting your mental health in a significant way. Find someone you trust to keep you up-to-date on anything that actually has a bearing on your immediate safety, and otherwise block it out. Set a specific amount of time within which you are going to avoid looking up news or reading articles or posts about antisemitism. This isn't even my suggestion: I learned this from a rebbetzin who had her husband keep her informed of any immediate safety issues but otherwise intentionally stepped back from secular news and social media entirely for a full year during 2020. She said it was one of the best choices she made, because she was stronger and ready to deal with it when she started tuning in again. You don't necessarily need to take it to that extreme, but taking a step back can really help.
Take comfort in your immediate community, and be intentional about seeking out the company and companionship of other Jews. We have so much strength together, and it helps get you out of your own head. It also really helps to remind yourself of all the people, communities, traditions and culture that you love and are why you're here. Be intentional in finding joy in the Jewish life you are building.
Take solace in the fact that Am Yisrael Chai: the People Israel Live. The Jewish people has survived persecution and unrelenting horrors since practically the beginning, and we're still here. You are part of or joining something eternal and indomitable - a people that many have tried to break or destroy in a multitude of ways, and it has never worked. Never. The persecution is unlikely to end, and yet we will outlast them. We always do.
Think about the best possible outcome: that we will receive peace and justice speedily and in our days, and you will be there to share the simcha. Now consider the worst possible outcome: our persecution will increase to the point where we have to flee for our lives, and many of us don't make it; perhaps you survive alone, or perhaps you don't. Now consider the most likely outcome: things continue much the way they have, with fluctuations that come from the ebb and flow of politics. You stick with our people in our joy and sorrow, in terror and in peace. We survive and our Judaism is passed l'dor v'dor. Now. Even in that worst case scenario, history says that some of us will still make it. Judaism and the Jewish people will continue and rebuild. Your name is forever tied to ours, your fate a collective one that is greater than your individual life or mine. And that is something that will survive.
Remember that you don't have to personally end antisemitism. I know that sounds obvious? But part of the overwhelm that comes from the burden of oppression is feeling like you are individually responsible for solving it. You are not. In the words of Rabbi Tarfon, "Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world's grief. Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it.”
Anon, I hope this helps. You are not alone. B'ezrat Hashem you find some comfort here and with your community, and may we all merit to see the day when the hard work of generations comes to fruition in peace and justice.
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Birds of a Feather (AstarionxTav)
Author's note:
Hey folks, this fic contains spoilers for the Kahga questline in the emerald grove. This is a Part 1 of 2, I split the fic up to make it more readable. Part 1 is SFW, Part 2 will be NSFW. I have another fic I'm still debating on posting that's a fix it of the scene with Gandrel but im not sure it's really my place to be posting that, LMK what you think.
Gale, Karlach, Astarion and Tav had returned to the Druid’s Grove for supplies. Tensions were still high, the ritual still being performed, and the four had split up. Karlach was doing squats with several children on her shoulders while Gale was preoccupied picking apart the tiefling apprentice wizard. Astarion wandered the grove seemingly aimlessly. His eyes scanned every inch of the camp for barrels to pick food from and loose gold. He’d taken a turn around the sacred pool when he heard the melodic twang of plucked strings.
Curious, Astarion followed the sound to find Tav playing their lute beside another tiefling. She was delicate and young, and the tiefling looked so natural together. Tav always felt so out of place among their bunch, but beside the other bard, Tav fit perfectly into the world. Tav had their eyes on her as she worked through lyrics, her voice slow and off beat as she found their place. Tav played slow, waiting for her to lead the beat and chiming in with another line when she’d find herself stuck.
He hid in the brush and watched as they worked it all out, the two started from the beginning once more. This time the beat was more steady, though still slow. Their shared focus on analyzing each other and gently building a fuller picture of the sound. It was a somber song, a requiem, and as they finished the pretty stranger smiled bright.
She gasped for air as if she were coming up for air from under water, turning to Tav who was sitting beside her, one leg propped up on the seat to help support their instrument and let them sit turned towards her. She sat very close, but the two didn’t touch. “This is the first song I’ve written since my teacher passed.”
Tav relaxed the neck of their lute, letting the instrument rest across their lap as their arms relaxed. “I’m glad to help. She wouldn’t want your grief to rob you of your passion, Alfira.”
Her dark ashen cheeks flushed as she leaned a little closer. “Are you working on anything?” Her tail flit nervously behind her as Tav’s swayed happily, beginning to keep a beat.
“I am. Would you like to hear?” There was that smile, the one that threw Astarion off with one word, the one that had Gale so enraptured. It was seductive, addictive, and that strange feeling in his gut returned. It was as if someone was twisting his innards as he watched his mark play with another’s heart.
“P-please?” Alfira practically moaned. The two turned just a little closer as Tav took the lute up in their hands once more.
“It’s still a work in progress but,” Tav’s grin grew wider, sure and arrogant. Astarion knew the look, he made it all the time. They were lying, toying with her for the thrill, but was that so bad? Just some harmless flirting with a pretty girl, it wasn’t like Tav had any loyalties, but that made Astarion panic more. His plan was getting less and less simple.
Tav began to a gentle and bright melody, nodding along to instruct Alfira on the tambourine beat. Once she had it, they focused on the strings once more and began to sing at Alfira. This was a finished song, one Tav kept in their pocket just for moments like this. There was a melancholy to the dissonance between the lute and their voice. The song was drenched in regret and yearning.
She was drawn in closer as Tav played, the softly somber longing in the tune was hypnotic as their gaze, the steady beat and shift between staccato and legato notes made for an ebb and flow as trancing as the tide. For most of the performance, Tav’s eyes had been on Alfira, closing them only as they got into the rhythm for a moment and returning to her just as quickly. There was an attentiveness to their gaze, it made the rest of the world fade away.
Just watching it made Astarion feel like he was in the back of a dark theater watching the lead seduce their co-star. How he wished it were him on stage with them instead. The thought made him prickle, why would he long to be in Alfira’s place? Perhaps there was more magic in their voice than he realized, he convinced himself as he covered his face with a gloved hand. That must have been it, Tav must be using magic on the poor girl. He could appreciate the sadism, and surely these strange feelings were simply an unintended side effect, a charm Tav thought only Alfira was present to be placed under, perhaps that was his punishment for snooping.
Astarion was lost in thought and hidden away as the bards played on. Alfira joined in with her own voice as the verses repeated, the two harmonizing pleasantly. Tav’s voice drew Astarion’s attention back as the tune shifted, slowing as Tav came to the end.
The two tiefling sat nearly nose to nose, the song slowly pulling them closer together and as the last line repeated, slowing to a finish. Alfira lingered in Tav’s breath. Without a word she leaned in, closing that small distance to kiss them and Tav followed in turn. It was chaste, simple, and sweet. Her voice breathed out against Tav’s lips as they stared into each other’s eyes.
“Thank you.” Her lips still brushed against Tav’s before the two sat back. Alfira fixed her hair and let her hands settle back in her lap while Tav still held their lute in their strange seated legs, relaxed and satisfied. “I feel… Inspired.”
Tav’s tail wiggled in delight behind them and out of sight of Alfira, but it was all too in view of Astarion. They placed a hand over their heart and bowed with the lute. “I’m honored to be your muse.” Their words melted the girl with ease, it was starting to be cruel, especially towards him. He could have played along with this, the two of them toying with the girl together, it was frankly selfish of them to have kept her to themself.
Tav stood, swinging their lute over their shoulder with their pack. “I should find my companions, but I hope the next time we meet you’ll play something new for me.”
Alfira nodded, her cheeks still dark as Tav made their heart race. “Yes, I’ll be sure to have something, perhaps… I’ll even write a song about you.”
“I’d be honored.” Tav bowed, their performance so smooth and convincing, they were good at this. “Until then, take care.” Tav saunted off towards the sacred pool, their tail now composed as their back faced Alfira while their face gave away their boyish cheer. “Still got it.” They hummed as they licked their lips, remembering the sensation, the thrum of their heart, the look in Alfira’s eyes. It was intoxicating to bring so much life to someone. Tav was so lost in the intoxication of it all that they walked straight into Astarion, who had simply stepped out from behind a tree.
Astarion didn’t budge as Tav stumbled back, almost losing their balance from the collision. They blinked a few times as they recovered, a snide smile greeting them from Astarion once they had. “Well, Looks like you were having fun.”
Tav’s confident smile lingered as curiosity joined their expression. “I did. Sorry for not inviting you. You were having so much fun hissing at the children, I didn’t want to disturb you.”
He’d not expected an apology and took it as a slight, his tongue clicking sharply in response as he crossed his arms. “A bit cruel, don’t you think? Playing with the poor girl’s heart like that. I can appreciate the sadism but to say I’d expected it from you,” He shook his head, tsking sharply three times as he did so.
Tav sighed, tilting their head in response, almost disappointed. “I don’t expect you to get it,” They said as they walked, waiting for him to follow. The two found a place to sit, watching the druids at work as they spoke. “Was I being a hollow flirt, sure, but I don’t mind being that to give her a moment that makes her remember that life can be beautiful and musical and magic again after such great hurt.” They were being honest, but he refused to believe. “It’s not cruel, I’m a healer. It’s healing via performance.” Their deflection faltered though. Sure, maybe it was cruel, they tried not to think about that.
His eyes turned to Tav as they tried to talk their way out of it. He’d caught them in a truly tender moment they were trying to brush off as nothing, and had only indulge in for indulgence’s sake. They really weren’t so different, Tav just brought their feelings into it. They’d learn not to eventually. He let that thought go, and hoped it never came back. He didn’t want to think that they might be birds of a feather, that he might not have the advantage in this. “That’s a bit delusional, don’t you think?” He prodded back, poking at the mound and hoping an owlbear wasn’t underneath.
“Delusion comes with the trade.” This was worse, not something that could overpower him with awful force, but a peer on equal footing in the world of deception and power hungry monsters. There was an absence of fear that one might mistake for foolishness, but the flash of a hidden tiger’s eyes is not a foolish tell from the tiger. It is a warning. “I did no harm, if anything I was stocking the dying embers of her creativity. We will go our separate ways and she will have a nice moment to think back on with a fellow in her craft. Tell me how that’s cruel?”
“Is it not cruel for you to fake such a thing?” His projection was peeking through and Tav could tell.
They shook their head. “It wasn’t fake, it was just fun and we both knew it. Nothing serious, nothing deep, just comfort for comfort’s sake.” Their eyes were still out on the ritual, coming back each time to the door to Kahga’s chambers. “Say… remember what you suggested the other night?”
Astarion’s interest peaked. “About… the druid?” His fanged smile grew wide. Of course he remembered suggesting they kill her.
“I just… have a feeling something else is going on here. This whole ritual just… smells wrong.” Their eyes turned back to him. “What would you say about maybe… sifting through her valuables?”
“Darling,” He leaned closer, planting a hand just behind them on the bench. He was playing with them now, seeing how well they liked their own poison. “If you wanted my forgiveness, you could have just tilted your head. But how could I say no to blackmail?”
A hint of a flush came to Tav’s cheeks as they stared at him, captivated by the act but not believing it. “I should get changed then.” They said as they snapped their fingers and cast disguise self. They didn’t change much, their horns vanishing and sclera turning white. Their scars and tattoos vanished, leaving them plane faced. The now Elven looking Tav had warm skin now, though just as dark, they were simply a slight alteration of themself. “That should be easier.” They beamed.
Astarion stood, offering his hand to them. Tav took it in a show, playing along, before the two made their way into the underground chamber. Astarion held a hand out to stop Tav as they lingered in the shadows. A finger pressed to his lips as he cast invisibility on them and pulled his hood up, the magic cloaking him as well. Shielded from the gaze of the druids, the two began to look through the back rooms, finding bedrolls and books, cups and bowls, but nothing too worldly.
As the magic began to vanish, Astarion pulled Tav into a small nook behind a bookcase. The two pressed into the shadows as a druid passed. Once the coast was clear and they’d each began to look around for their next move, Tav noticed a chest tucked in the dark. They tried to open it but it was locked. The sound drew Astarion’s attention quickly and he wordlessly knelt beside the chest. It was so easy for him to crack open the most difficult locks, they’d come to like that about him even as he cracked open a few of their own.
The chest popped open loudly, the druid on the other side of the room squinting in their direction. “Is someone there?”
Tav and Astarion looked to each other and without a word, Astarion stood and pinned them to the wall. The way they stood blocked the trunk from view, while his arm pressed against the wall beside their face shielded Tav’s illusion from scrutiny. He quickly leaned in towards them so the first the druid saw was him pulling away from what looked like a much more intimate scene. “Do you mind?” His tone was enough to drive the druid away, the man recoiling and exiting the room quickly in irritation.
With a soft sigh of relief they each relaxed from their posing and turned their attention to their spoils. Tav opened the chest to a book and a letter, reading them quickly. “This…” They scanned the letter before passing it back to Astarion and opening the book. The letter was an invitation for Kahga to meet a writer whose name was unfamiliar. As Tav read the book they fell silent, their concentration breaking on the illusion before they silently passed the book back to Astarion. It detailed the ritual Kahga was in the process of doing. It was a baneful ritual of shadow druid magic.
Tav stared up at Astarion, worry clear on their face. Still silent, Astarion pointed to the location on the letter. They both knew it, near the hag’s tea house. He’d offer them his hand and they’d take it, the two vanishing from the druid chambers.
Outside the grove Astarion paced about as Tav sat on a rock. “We could just leave it be?” Astarion suggested, smiling back to them as they shot him an unamused look.
“Or,” They nodded back towards the grove. “We expose her for what she is and collect a reward. I’m sure these druids have some pretty magical items.”
“You have a treasure problem.” He said with a bit more of a serious look. “Karlach can’t carry everything you find in her pack.”
Tav pouted. “But Astarion,” They bat their eyes as they tilted their head, giving him a pretty view of the curve of their neck. “You’re the one that suggested we kill her.”
His jaw shifted in a circular motion as he pondered his reaction. “... Fine.” He sighed, turning towards the path back to the bog. “Step quickly!” He’d call back, Tav hopping off the rock and running to catch up to him.
The two scampered off towards the bog, both light on their feet as they hopped from broken docks to muddy banks. They found an abandoned camp along the way, the blood of those who’d set their things there still visible in the grass, yet there Tav went looking through their packs.
“Please explain this to me,” Astarion gestured to them as he leaned against a tree. “You’ll take a deadman’s valuables, and you want to save some refugees from a corrupt druid too?”
Tav laughed a little as they took the strings off the lute by the fire, picking the instrument apart for parts. “Dead folks don’t miss things like lute strings and potatoes, and if I can ruin a racist’s life, why not?” They looked back at him. “Besides, exposing her will gain us trust with the druids. They might reward us with gold or arms, or healing aid once this goblin mess is over. Either way, it’s beneficial for us to make friends, even if it's just the kind of friends you call for a fight.”
The logic was sound, but it was so much effort. He rolled his eyes in exaggerated annoyance as he groaned. “Don’t make ‘do gooding’ make sense to me, you witch.”
“Then don’t think about that,” They said as they stood, sauntering over to him. “Focus on all that frustration you’re going to take out on my neck later.”
“Is that a promise?” Astarion’s mischievous grin had returned. He was easily bought.
“You deserve a good drink after working so hard.” They were so close now, if he just reached out a little he could reach them, but he didn’t. He fought the impulse, not wanting to invite their touch in return. He would lean in, practically nose to nose with them, teasing Tav in a desperate attempt to regain the power between them.
“Then let’s go. I’m starving.” They two slipped deeper into the bog, to a set of islands and a dead tree. They followed the instructions in the letter, finding the hiding spot in the tree and waiting for the creatures of the island to turn their backs. Astarion pulled his hood up again and cloaked himself from view. He spun past the weird little creatures of the bog, some sort of plant thing and these long nosed winged pests, holding himself back from making sound in disgust of them.
Tav would watch the nook in the tree open, some papers slip out and vanish and then there was nothing. They couldn’t even pick up his footprints as he came back to them. A slipped around them holding their mouth shut as the spell ended and Astarion took form again. He held their face firmly, pulling their head back against his chest as his other hand held out the letters. Tav silently nodded back the way they came, and the two ran back to the blighted village before ever looking at their prize.
Once they were out of the bog, Tav looked over the letter Astarion had pulled from the tree. It was damning alright, plain proof of Kahga working with the shadow druids to massacre the grove. Tav shook their head as a smile bloomed across their lips. “This is perfect.” They tapped the page before looking over to Astarion.
He’d been watching them, but was taken aback as Tav reached around him, grabbing the back of his hair and pulling him in to kiss his cheek. There was something innocent and joyous about it, like athletes celebrating a goal.
“You were brilliant!” They cheered against his cheek before he pulled away sharply.
Astarion didn’t push them, but the look on his face told Tav to let go, and they did. He looked embarrassed, confused even, Tav had not intended that. “Don’t just kiss a man without warning. Where are you manners?”
Tav studied his face as they tilted their head, leaning over to get a better view of the expression he was trying to hide. “Sorry, I’ll ask next time.” Their voice was soft and true if not a bit playful still. They were just as much of a flirt as him. Tav stood with new found enthusiasm, still holding the letter. “We need to go back to camp and tell the others what we’ve found.”
#bg3#bg3 spoilers#baldur's gate 3#astarion bg3#baldur's gate 3 fanfiction#astarion x tav#fanfiction#astarion#bg3 tav#enby#alfira bg3#tiefling#bard#jealous astarion#slow burn
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steam visual novel fest sale recs
i like visual novels and there's a vn fest going on, so here's a thread on titles i like:
ELIZA
https://store.steampowered.com/app/716500/Eliza
i recently finished this title and while the topic is certainly relevant, what drew me more was how it depicted the traumas of tech startup culture. whether intentional or not, the dreams and aspirations of tech workers to solve problems become tainted by capital and hubris.
the protagonist is jaded as fuck because she's seen her creation take over the world. but she's not as melodramatic as dr frankenstein; she is still gauging how things are going. her alienated view on the world around is intoxicating and i really found the pov very charming.
the experience of playing this game made me feel like i've returned to my unpaid internship days for better or for worse. it's a story that will forever remain relevant until silicon valley and the tech industry as we know it are over. wonderful title.
SeaBed
https://store.steampowered.com/app/583090/SeaBed/
i have personal stakes in seabed since i'm one of the two non-translators credited to bringing this yuri vn overseas. my bias aside, i think this is one of the most unique video games of all time.
you follow a bunch of adults aimlessly wandering around as the world around them reflects their mental states. things just happen, but everyone takes it in the most matter-of-fact fashion. the writing is intentionally tedious at times because it is in love with the mundane. it's a story all about grief, but it is also about how to approach the ebb and flow of life.
as a friend once said, "it's a mystery where the characters don't realize they're in one." or as i like to put it, "a mystery in search of a mystery".
Christmas Tina
https://store.steampowered.com/app/1049100/_/
set in the notorious bubble era of japan, this may look like a romantic encounter between a chinese dude and a japanese girl at first glance. however, it drops that premise by having them squabble forever and not learn each other's languages.
the game is instead about minorities struggling to survive. the chinese guy left china for various reasons and wanted to make a name for himself while the japanese girl got into a car accident with a person engaged in the sex trade because she was looking for money to pay for her sister's surgery. later on, you'll read about different chinese members, a woman raised by a chinese-japanese couple, and other interesting people that make up japan today.
if there is a game i like to credit for inspiring my interest into connecting with my traumatic chinese history again in my own writing, it's this title. there's a section that surprised me because it was, after all, a title mainly developed in china and it's still very recent history. but i'm glad the developers took the risk and it's an impressive episode.
i'd seriously recommend this game if you haven't tried it. it's seriously a sleeper hit.
Chuusotsu
https://store.steampowered.com/app/630870/Chuusotsu_1st_Graduation_Time_After_Time/
the first of an ongoing series, chuusotsu 1st is about a bunch of middle school graduates who can't graduate into high school for various reasons. stories about their traumas are interlinked with the chaos of japanese social media.
likewise, it's also about trying things that they are scared to try. the protagonist is an anxious girl who wants to do art, but she keeps failing at socializing. she's cute.
The Great Ace Attorney Chronicles
https://store.steampowered.com/app/1158850/The_Great_Ace_Attorney_Chronicles/
since this was featured in the festival, i might as well give it a shout. this is more an adventure game in the Ace Attorney series, but i consider it to be the best game and everyone should play it.
it explores a historical period dear to my heart: the era of meiji japan and victorian england. here are two imperialist nationstates, but the latter is stronger than the former and is secretly dictating how japan should behave.
not only does the game explore this colonial dynamic but it also looks into how racism functions in the british justice system. any pretense of democracy and fairness is ultimately failed when the british jury sees the protagonist and calls him an ape.
i credit the final chapter for changing my dissertation thesis when i was still doing my masters. if i ever do a phd, i'm going to continue studying the history of international students and what it reflects about us as a humanity.
Return to Shironagasu Island
https://store.steampowered.com/app/1156990/Return_to_Shironagasu_Island/
a surprise doujin hit in japan, this visual novel written by an ex-mystery writer is very old-school to a fault. you are exploring one of those MURDER ISLANDS and there's orthodox mystery tricks, but it's well-executed.
the main star is neneko who's a little cringe beast. she's cute.
games i've heard are good but haven't played yet
Bustafellows
Taisho x Alice
The Flowers series
Symphonic Rain
Tangle Tower
Fatal Twelve
Furikake Spacy
A Year of Springs
Narcissu 10th Anniversary Project
2064: Read Only Memories
Analogue: A Hate Story
if you are looking for more recommendations on steam, i have a curation page.
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thank u for the tag @alrightbuckaroo @orchidscript @birdclowns 😙😙😙
If he cranes his head enough, he can see the abandoned half-empty containers on the island, and he finds no errant urge inside to scoop them up and wipe down the counters as he normally would after dinner. There’s no timeframe on tucking away the leftovers for a simple lunch tomorrow they can share. He’s too focused on what’s really important, like the man in his arms, and the gentle sweep of his eyelashes, and the way he nuzzles subconsciously into Carlos’ chest, momentarily calm in the ebb and flow that is his grief.
no pressure tagging @paperstorm @carlos-in-glasses @theghostofashton @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @safeashousespdf @rosedavid @inflarescent @beautifulhigh @rmd-writes @chaotictarlos @heartstringsduet @freneticfloetry @tailoredshirt and leaving an open tag for whoever would like to participate!
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One the first anniversary of Master Chief Petty Officer Spartan-117's actual death, Roland found Cortana lost in a sea of data over media coverage. He found her drowning in her guilt, really.
"Cortana?" He reached out to her, a tendril of data reaching for a vibration of whispers of grief.
"Roland?" The sphere finally creating shape into the shape of a human, versus the ebbs and flows of tears.
"I'm just checking in on you."
"All systems are nominal in Infinity Science," she replied, hiding the fact that she had been, for the closest way to describe it, crying.
"Thanks for the update. How are you?"
She paused for a moment, her data spiking as she ran through fractional simulations to come up with a good excuse. She wasn't going to be like Catherine, who blamed her entirely for John's death.
"Fine."
"Really."
She sat down, cross-legged as she tried to open up. She waited for a moment, her eyes unable to meet Roland's.
"It's okay."
This was the closest that they could "hug". Her own data, becoming small into her sphere as she drew her legs up to her chest and Roland's own tendrils wrapping around her.
"I can't cry tears, Roland." She said, "I am unable to cry, or my throat get tight. I just get to feel things without the resolution. Without the catharsis."
"I know."
"I just get to sit here, and be angry with him that he broke his promise to me and be in grief that he's not here. Humans? Humans can cry. They weep. They scream so that their bodies readjust. What do we have?"
"We have each other. And I hope that for now, that's enough."
Oh I love this. I am going to harm you. You want grief? I'll show you grief.
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History is a set of skills rather than a narrative.
- Hilary Mantel
Growing up I was not a huge fan of the Tudor Age as I was of other historical ages such as the as Ancient Classical world or modern history. I don’t know why that was exactly. Perhaps it was the way history was taught at school. With the Tudor Age it was: divorced, beheaded, died; divorced, beheaded, survived. Those six words, resonanted with almost anyone who went to school in Britain, to become shorthand for the extraordinary story of Henry VIII and his six wives. But I credit Hilary Mantel for pulling me back into that crucial period in Britain’s history to what it is today. As much as the curmudgeonly Cambridge historian, David Starkey, was annoyed by historicital value of Hilary Mantel’s writings (claims made by her fans not her), it was she who led me to his historical works. And I love David Starkey.
The story of Henry VIII and his six wives is one of the most potent historical brands in our collective consciousness, but its combination of outrageous drama with intense familiarity means it can morph all too easily into soap opera.
It almost felt there was nothing new to say about the period. And, for a long time, there wasn’t. Then, in 2009, Hilary Mantel published Wolf Hall, the first volume of a trilogy set in the 1500s. But instead of treading well-worn ground – Henry VIII’s shenanigans and the sad yet ultimately one-dimensional stories of his six spouses – Mantel offered something new: an intricate look at the extraordinary rise of Thomas Cromwell, from boy soldier to one of Henry’s most trusted advisors.
Hilary Mantel had this ability to get deep within the minds of her subjects, capturing the essence of a voice in a way that somehow profoundly intertwined a character with you as you read. And really, she wasn’t writing about royalty in the way that other historical fiction authors had in the past: she was writing about the people behind the figureheads, the power struggles, the calculations of history, grief, love, anger, revenge – all themes that resonate throughout the ages. She wrote with feeling, but also with a precision, clarity, and wit that was unparalleled.
It’s worth recalling that, before Mantel, Thomas Cromwell barely inhabited the public imagination: if recognised at all, he was often conflated with his distant descendant Oliver Cromwell. Today, he has supplanted in our imagination that “man for all seasons” Thomas More, in whose conviction and execution for treason Cromwell himself played a key role.
Mantel said that, before she wrote Wolf Hall, Thomas Cromwell was “under-imagined”. She’s entirely right but, strangely, I think the same has also been true of the period’s marquee names. Because we know in advance exactly how the plot will unfold, we tend to overlook its strangeness, its horror, its unpredictability, its astonishing complexity. Hilary Mantel changed all that.
Readers and critics alike found Mantel’s approach an original and welcome addition to Tudor fiction, as it offered something genuinely different and unfamiliar. Historian Thomas Penn, author of Winter King: The Dawn of Tudor England, says that while ‘the Tudors have always been box-office… Hilary Mantel’s novels have allowed people to imagine them in a new light’.
Mantel had a lyrical sense of the irreducible strangeness of the world, with its vivid moments of beauty and threat, but this was never removed from her understanding of the moral imperatives of our shared responsibilities. She was never a neutral observer of the ebb and flow of history.
It is striking that in the many well deserved obituaries of Hilary Mantel they all pay tribute to her ability to transport the reader to another time, but they often fail to appreciate that Mantel never treated history as a set. Rather, the past in her novels is alive, a place with real implications for the present. What I mean to say is that Mantel approached her subjects not only as a novelist, but also as a historian - demanding of the past not merely scenery but also meaning, an argument, something that might help us explain who we are today.
The trilogy composed of Wolf Hall (2009), Bring Up the Bodies (2012), and The Mirror and the Light (2020) concerns Thomas Cromwell, Henry VIII’s chief advisor from the early 1530s until his execution in 1540. He was also the great-great-granduncle of Oliver Cromwell. For a long time, historians thought of Cromwell as a goon, Henry’s henchman who battered down the doors of English monasteries and engineered executions of the king’s enemies (until he himself fell beneath the axe).
But in later works of history, especially those by the doyenne of Tudor period history, the historian Sir Geoffrey Elton, Thomas Cromwell came to be seen as a more sophisticated operator, someone who fundamentally rethought the English monarchy and, in a certain sense, invented the modern state with all its peculiarities. When Henry wanted a divorce from his first wife, the Spanish princess Catherine of Aragon, his chief minister Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, at the time Cromwell’s patron, could not provide it. Cromwell could. Working through parliament, he severed England’s ties to the Vatican and, a firm proponent of the Reformation, set about creating a Protestant Church of England under the monarch. In so doing he affirmed royal supremacy in government while building new bureaucracies to oversee the Church and the revenues it brought to state coffers. Here, goes the argument, are the origins of our modern state, in Henry’s need for an heir and Cromwell’s desire to reform the Church.
This is the argument of Mantel’s trilogy, too. Following the course of Cromwell’s life, she gives us a shoulder perch to his rise from blacksmith’s son to European mercenary to lawyer to member of the privy council to, briefly, Earl of Essex. He’s a commoner, though, which the lords and ladies of court never once let him forget. His use to the king must be distinctive, then: his command of numbers, his talent for getting people to do what Henry wants. And, yes, his willingness to plunder the riches of the Church - its fattened abbeys and monasteries - to keep the state solvent.
Sinister is one word for Cromwell. Mantel doesn’t deny it. While he needs the Boleyns to force the break with Rome, he is happy to later take revenge against them for their role in Wolsey’s downfall. Of Anne, he thinks to himself, “If need be, I can separate you from history.” With an equal coolness, he soon separates her from her head. There’s something positively Hegelian about Cromwell’s perspective. Indeed, the philosopher once wrote of how great men of history “fall off like empty hulls from the kernel” after “their objective is attained.”
But Mantel is not Hegel. It doesn’t do justice to her empathy. It’s not only that she is arguing that the modern state emerged from the Tudor court, it is also that it emerged from the very particular constellation of individuals and their peculiar desires. It’s one thing to say Cromwell invented the modern state by codifying England’s territorial sovereignty, rationalising government through bureaucracy, and elevating parliament’s legislative role. It’s another to understand his grief at Wolsey’s demise, to comprehend his rage against the Boleyns, to feel his anxiety that if he cannot satisfy Henry’s whims, he may be next on the scaffold. Mantel has a deep sense of the past, the ability “to feel history through your skin,” as she once put it.
Thus, we care about Thomas Cromwell and what happens to him not only because Mantel portrays him in such vivid detail, but also because we sense the world-historical purpose he drags behind him. We sense that there is a reason to his actions that continue to shape the world we inhabit today. And after decades of neoliberal reforms that have lopped off the wings of the state, we have need today for figures like Thomas Cromwell who perceived in the state its vast human potential.
This is what the best historians do. It’s a way of thinking about the past that Walter Benjamin described, while on the run from the Nazis, in ‘Theses on the Philosophy of History’ (1940). Today, some still consider history to be nothing more than the dry recitation of facts - “telling the sequence of events like the beads of a rosary,” in his withering formulation. Benjamin instead advocated for a kind of historical writing that would “blast open the continuum of history,” one that would put the present in “constellation” with earlier eras in the knowledge that “even the dead will not be safe.” It’s writing history with fire. I can agree with the spirit if not quite the practice. But so often those who try it do it with clumsily and with ideological baggage. Mantel painted her prose with a light brush.
Hilary Mantel’s genius was that she knew instinctively where a historian couldn’t go, and consequently where she, as a novelist, could. This is just one of the reasons why she was able to summon up a fully realised world, and why the Wolf Hall trilogy is one of the great fictional achievements of our modern age.
#mantel#hilary mantel#wolf hall#thomas cromwell#tudor age#henry VIII#history#tudor period#literature#author#writer#books#reading#british history#british#icon#culture#arts
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