#ive read her backstory more times than i can count
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#redraw of that one scene#bc i am obsessed#i have a lowkey yosano obsession#its quite drastic#ive read her backstory more times than i can count#you know damn well i cried when it was animated#shes just a queen what can i say#yosano is love yosano is life#she is everything to me#yosano#yosano akiko#akiko yosano#bsd#bsd manga#bsd s4#akiko#bungou stray dogs#bungou gay dogs#its me im the gay dog-#yosano queen#i love you yosano#bsd art#art#fanart#bsd fanart#yosano art#yosano fanart#yipppeeeee
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hey can we get a part 4 on Crash
angst to tooth rotting fluff
in case you need ideas :
shinobu tell her back story
reader tells theirs
or they tell each other something that happend during mission
Crash Prt IV: Comfort
Shinobu Kochou x They/ Them Reader
A/N: PrtIII I always go re-read previous parts when people ask for sequels and I noticed that they kind of already had a bit of a sharing of backstories in the previous part so I kind of went the mission route. Hope you can find something to like about this, thank you for reading! Word Count: 1,641
Shinobu noticed something was off after she had read the latest letter from (Y/n). Not only had it come a few days later than it usually would, but the words were also lacking their usual cheer and the letter itself was a bit shorter than what was normal for their usual correspondences. It was hard not being able to see each other. Sometimes for weeks at a time.
Being Hashira, they had little free time and even when they did, that free time almost never seemed to coincide. They would still come to visit the other if they weren’t downright exhausted, but since the other had to work, they still weren’t getting the quality time they both desired.
Shinobu briefly sat back in her chair. If she remembered correctly, (Y/n) should be scheduled for a period of rest soon. She leaned back over her desk and retrieved a fresh piece of stationary and began penning a response, inviting (Y/n) to rest within the Butterfly Mansion. Even though Shinobu found herself with more work than usual, it would be nice to at least be in proximity of her beloved. A sentiment she was sure (Y/n) could agree with.
She rolled the letter up and secured it with En. She made sure to thank her crow and promise her extra seed when she returned, noticing how the usually content bird looked a bit ruffled having to leave (Y/n)’s crow, Unmei, so soon when they had only just arrived from their long flight. Having been spending more time together themselves, the crows had become quite the couple as well. Literal love birds; It was rather sweet.
If all went well, they would all have a good three or four days together within the mansion.
Shinobu was surprised to see En return with a response early the next morning, showing yet again that she was one of the fastest Kasugai Crows in the corps. She plopped the letter in Shinobu’s lap and promptly went to roost with Unmei until the other crow had to return to (Y/n).
Shinobu opened the letter, finding the same lack of cheer as the previous message, but at least they had agreed to come and had expressed that they were looking forward to seeing everyone. The poor slayer must have been really going through it as of late. Hopefully a little time off would help them perk right back up.
***
On the morning that (Y/n) arrived, Shinobu was much too busy to greet them right away. She assumed it was fine since she knew the other girls were more than qualified to help (Y/n) settle in as they had done a handful of times before. (Y/n) would probably be exhausted and want to sleep anyway, so she didn’t think too much about it until they came knocking at her laboratory door.
“(Y/n), good morning love. It’s so good to see you. I would have thought you would want to nap.” Shinobu could afford a brief pause in her work at that moment, so she looped around the table to greet (Y/n) with a quick peck on the lips and what was supposed to be a brief hug, but (Y/n) kept her close even after she moved to let go.
“I just really wanted to see you. Is it all right if I hang out in here with you?“
“I suppose that will be fine. As long as you promise not to distract me,” Shinobu teased. “There is much to be done.”
(Y/n) managed a half smile, “I’ll try to stay out of your way.”
That was a bit strange… but Shinobu chalked it up to them being tired from their trip. She gave them another quick peck and cleared a small spot at the table for them before diving right back into her pharmaceuticals. An influx of patients had really put a dent in their supply, so Shinobu had been working overtime to restore it, one drug at a time.
(Y/n) silently watched Shinobu work, slowly slumping over in their seat until their head was resting on their arms over the table. Their eyes dropped shut and their breathing slowed. Shinobu’s eyes flickered to them briefly and she smiled to herself while she continued to grind some dried sage into a fine powder.
It was some point after she started measuring the powder that (Y/n) started to become restless, a sudden sob pushing past their lips startled Shinobu and made her knock over the measured powders over the table. She was not annoyed in the slightest however, she was much more worried about whatever nightmare was plaguing her beloved’s mind.
“(Y/n), darling, it’s only a dream,” she soothed, stepping over to their hunched and quaking form in hopes of waking them before they could experience anymore sorrow, “come back to me, wake up.”
Shinobu looped an arm around the and used the other to lightly scrape her fingers up and down their back. Her cheek rested high between their shoulders blades, but she quickly had to readjust when (Y/n) jolted in their seat, back now pin straight. Even so, they still weren’t quite awake yet.
“(Y/n),” Shinobu called their name more sternly now, hoping to bring them back sooner, “wake up!”
She then noticed (Y/n)’s eyes focus on her, and after a tense moment, they slumped back against the table, exhausted and breathing just a bit erratically.
“I’m sorry.” They croaked.
“Shhh, just breathe for a minute. You’ve done nothing wrong.” But the sentiment only seemed to make (Y/n) feel worse, their back trembled violently beneath Shinobu’s hand.
Shinobu coaxed them to breathe between light touches and after a time, (Y/n) quieted. With tender care, Shinobu lifted (Y/n)’s head and dabbed at the corners of their eyes with the sleeve of her haori before cupping their cheek with the palm of her hand, skimming her thumb over their damp skin.
“Are you going to be alright? That must have been an awful nightmare. Poor dear, you’re still shaking.” She shrugged off her haori all together to give them an extra layer. “It was only a dream, let the feeling pass.”
“But it wasn’t just a dream.” (Y/n) whispered, “Those people really died because I didn’t get there in time.”
“We can only do so much, my love. You did the best you could. At the end of the night, that’s all any of us can say.”
“They were newly weds. They looked like us.”
Shinobu pulled them in to rest their head against her chest, stroking the back of their head, they continued speaking after a moment.
“There was nothing I could do but lay them together in their final moments, help them hold each other’s hand. They were too weak to even speak, they just, stared at each other until they were… gone.”
“I’m sorry, darling. You did help them stay together in the end. I’m sure putting them next to each other in those last moments meant more to them than you will ever know.”
Shinobu held (Y/n) until they pulled away on their own. Their eyes caught the mess of powder on the table, but Shinobu was quick to bring their attention back to her.
“It was only an accident and wasn’t even your fault. Don’t worry, I have plenty more.”
“Still…”
“No.” Shinobu tapped the bridge of their nose, then kissed it for good measure, “How about we take tea in my room?”
“You don’t have to let your work suffer because of me. I’ll be fine.”
“You are my priority as well. Kanao and Aoi are plenty capable of doing this task and will probably be happy to do it just to make me step away from the lab for a bit. The only thing suffering right now is you, and I cannot have that,” another kiss and a gentle tug of their hand, “come with me now.”
(Y/n) squeezed Shinobu’s offered hand, grateful for the warmth and the unique feeling of those lotion smoothed calluses. They could hold her hand forever if she’d let them.
“Okay.”
They saw Sumi, Kiyo and Naho in the hall as they left the lab and they were eager to lend their assistance. One went off to make tea, one to get Kanao, and another to get Aoi to help with the medicine demands while Shinobu took a short break.
It didn’t take long for (Y/n) and Shinobu to be cuddled up in front of Fugu’s tank, watching the fish lazily swim about while they sipped the relaxing tea brew Sumi had whipped up with some help from Aoi.
“I wish it could be like this all of the time,” (Y/n) murmured behind the rim of their cup, “I wish I could be with you every day, that demons didn’t exists and we could just live like normal people.”
“We will just have to make the most of the time we do spend together. Just as anyone else. No one truly knows how much time they have. Even if demons were out of the question, there are many other factors at play,” she leaned back from her position sat between (Y/n)’s legs and let her head rest against their chest, “No matter what we may face, every second I get to spend with you is a victory. I feel like I’m really getting away with something when I get to be with you like this.”
(Y/n) put their empty cup back on the table so they could hug Shinobu closer to their front and hide their face against her neck. They took a moment to burn the feeling into their brain, the comfort of Shinobu’s bedroom, the wisteria scent that clung to her, and how her fingers ran over their own. They really were getting away with something special, weren’t they?
“I love you.”
“And I love you.”
#demon slayer oneshots#demon slayer x reader#kny oneshots#kny x reader#shinobu x reader#shinobu kocho x reader#shinobu kochou x reader#requests#anonymous
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I Will Always Love You
summary: this is the story of eddie munson. from the meeting of his parents, to the bonding with his mother, and much more. it's time to reveal what his life was like before hawkins, and why the term 'freak' has a deeper connotation than to just describe his appearance.
word count: 14.5k
warnings: fluff, flirting, pet names, make out session, allusions and mentions of sex (but no actual smut), unplanned pregnancy, mentions of birth control, mentions of religion (specifically christianity), virginity loss mention, self-doubt, arguing, mentions of contractions + giving birth, hospitals, emotional manipulation, swearing, criminal activities (stealing - hot-wiring cars), school struggles, physical abuse (to eddie and his mom), gaslighting, yelling, domestic violence, homophobic slurs, mentions of feminism, sexism and racism, mentions of leukaemia + symptoms, blood (cut on forehead), calling an ambulance/911, fainting, paramedics, mentions of IV + looking sick, death, grieving, panic attacks, allusions to autistic traits, bullying, trauma from experiencing death, mentions of drinking, police, social workers, arrest, jail, moving + travelling,
authors note: hi everyone! this is my first ever fanfiction and i've decided to explore the backstory of eddie who's life got cut very short in season 4. there were multiple hints in the show such as having a bad relationship with his dad, living with his uncle, knowing how to hotwire, and having a lot of respect towards women that i decided to say 'you know what? this is never going to get explored canonically, so i'm going to develop this for the duffers!' there's a lot of heavy hitting themes in this which i've included in the warnings (i think i got them all but if i missed any, please do let me know!), so just keep that in mind whilst reading. i really hope you enjoy this, i tried my hardest to include a mix of both canon and non-canon (my own and others) ideas, so i hope it turned out okay! right, that's enough from me and onto the fic!
Evelyn Boyd: a woman in which was described as care-free, honest and kind-spirited by her friends. A country-loving girl one may say, her heart belong to the city of Nashville, Tennessee. Graduating with a 3.9 GPA, she continued her love for nature — working on a local farm just outside of the city, and doing her best to help anyone that needed it.
James Munson: your typical country boy from Mobile, Alabama. Growing up with his mom, dad and little brother (Wayne) in the heart of the county, he had a successful school life; his family was loving, creating a peaceful atmosphere when at home. In the summer of ‘65, he moved to Nashville, Tennessee to pursue the life of farming.
MAY 24TH 1965
It was a typical Nashville summer day; the birds were chirping, the sun shining and the crops growing beautifully. Most days on the farm were quiet for Evelyn, customers would come and go once in a while, but that was a rarity, once a week at most. But today was different. 9am on the dot, the bell rings, signalling the entrance of a customer, or so she thought.
“Hi, welcome to Greenfields Farm, how can I help you today?”
James stared at the woman with wide eyes, he had never seen such beauty in his life. Coming back to reality, he coughs and says “Uh, hi ma’am, I must’ve spoken to your colleague last week about working here, today is supposed to be my first day”.
She admires the way he talks, a thick country twang supporting his polite manner.
“Yes, John did mention you to me last week, I must’ve forgotten the day, excuse me! Come back here, I’ll show you around”. A wide smile graced her face as she led him to the back of the small barn, naturally making the young boy weak at the knees.
She has a spring to her step, her body language matching her bright personality: a ray of sunshine.
“Welcome to the farm!” she says as she outstretches her arms and displays the biggest smile, presenting her sparkling teeth. And at this moment, James thinks he’s died and gone to heaven as she lets out the most beautiful laugh he’s ever heard.
He chuckles, “It’s beautiful, everything is demonstrated so perfectly! I definitely chose the right place to work!”
She smiles once again, “Thank you, I try my hardest, but John makes everything look as neat as it does”.
He feels saddened by the girl’s lack of self-confidence, “Oh I’m sure that’s not true! A young lady like you should start giving yourself some more credit considering how hard it is to manage a place like this”.
She feels flattered. John would constantly belittle her with phrases such as “Pick up the pace lady!” and “Why do things always go wrong when you’re on the job?”, but with James, he made her feel welcome and appreciated on the farm.
A blush crept upon her cheeks, “As I said, I do try. Anyway, enough about me, how much about farming do you know?”.
The next few weeks at Greenfields Farm went amazingly. Word of mouth spread fast amongst the small town and they were getting more customers than ever asking about their fresh produce. Customers were not the only thing growing on the farm, James and Evelyn had hit it off almost immediately, the two sharing intimate memories from their childhood one moment before creating silly inside jokes only they would understand. But their mutual love for each other still remains a secret… until today.
The date is July 8th 1965, both Evelyn and James arrived at the farm bright and early to restock the barn. Today would be the day James asks Evelyn out on their first date.
“And over there you put the gree- yes, you’ve got it!” she beams, “You know, you’ve picked up things very quickly for someone who had little experience in this field — excuse the pun there”.
God, does she know how to make his heart flutter, “No need, and thank you, I learnt from the best!”
She lets out that gorgeous laughter than he’ll never get tired of hearing, “Oh stop it, you’re very easy to teach, great listener and communicator, say your girlfriend must love you!”
He froze. This was his shot, now or never. “Um.. I actually don’t have a girlfriend, well at least not yet. That’s what I was going to ask you actually”.
She looks up at him with the softest eyes, thinking: “No way is this about to happen”.
“Gosh, I didn’t think this was going to be so difficult”, he nervously chuckles, “Would you like to go out with me sometime? Like on a date?”. This is it, time for the stab of rejection from the prettiest girl in Nashville.
But the complete opposite happens, she beams, “I would love to! There’s this cool diner down in the centre of town if you’re interested in that sort of thing?”.
“She accepted?” he thought and shortly replied, “Sounds perfect! How does Saturday at 7pm sound? I’ll pick you up at your place”, he nervously awaits an answer.
“Sounds good to me! I’m not on shift tomorrow so after today, I’ll see you for our first official date?”
“I guess you will!”. Man, what was his life right now?
Saturday came and went, and so did the date, which was beautiful. 7pm on the dot, James picked Evelyn up and drove them to Danny’s Diner. Everything from the decor, to the food, to how they viewed each other was beyond perfect. Conversation came naturally to them thanks to their blossoming friendship and the date allowed for both to understand each other more intimately.
It became a routine for them; 7pm every Saturday, a dinner date, followed by some romantic gesture, and back home. Their first kiss came on the 3rd date. James took Evelyn to a local park in the centre of Nashville, secluded and quiet, it felt like it was them against the world. The birds chirping, the (frankly uncomfortable) picnic blanket scratching against their bare legs, and the taste of gorgeous fruits, picked freshly from their own farm. Their shared love language of physical touch was slowly becoming comfortable for the two of them; both laying their heads upon one another, the sounds of their breaths prominent in the air. Evelyn looks up at him, eyes pouring with love and admiration, thinking “How did I get so lucky?”.
James notices her staring and speaks up, “What are you looking at?”, a slight chuckle joining his question.
“Nothing, just admiring your beauty”, she says, a soft smile attaching itself to her face.
God, did she have a way with words. James stared back at her with an equal amount of adoration, but this time felt different than the others. Usually, there would be subtle flirting between them, typical compliments such as “You look beautiful” and “Looking handsome today”, but the physical closeness changed the atmosphere. His eyes divert to her lips, hoping this is the moment, something he’s been wanting to do since he first laid eyes on her two months ago.
“Can I kiss you?”, he asks, a wavering nervousness present in his voice.
She nods back, a one word answer that would change everything: “Yes”.
He leans in, one hand on her cheek, the other supporting her neck as he leans in. She copies his mannerisms as their lips connect. She thought that when people described kissing as “sparks” and “fireworks”, they were over-exaggerating, but oh how she was wrong. The feeling was indescribable, it felt like the world around her went silent, it was just her and him, the tall country boy who swept her off her feet just by existing. They bump noses as they part, a small giggle erupting from both of their mouths.
“Wow”, James lets out, a sigh escaping in relief of what just happened.
“Wow indeed”, she replies back, a gracious smile appearing once again, something he will never get tired of.
Both of them so caught up in the moment, they fail to notice the small droplets of rain landing on their respective cheeks. They look up to see the sky dawning a grey colour and a downpour beginning to start.
“I think that’s our sign to get going!” he shouts, as if the rain was a major blockage in their communication.
“I agree!”, she yells back, giggling at his loud demeanour.
OCTOBER 23RD 1965
Sex wasn’t something Evelyn had full expertise in, or any for that matter. Growing up in Nashville, Christianity was a religion that 80% of the community held, and very strictly. Her parents followed the faith too, which meant “No sex before marriage” was a value instilled in her throughout childhood and more prominently, her teenage years. Abstinence was taught alongside reproduction and conception, she still wears the purity ring her parents got her at 12 years old.
Evelyn wasn’t too sure where she lied on the religious spectrum. Sure, she believed in God and that sinning was wrong, but was everything that was written in scripture correct? If the core values of Christianity are love, compassion and respect, why were so many of the Bible verses judgemental of others behaviours?
“No sex before marriage” was one of the values she constantly contemplated. If she loved someone that much, why did a legal bonding and ceremony have to dictate when she decided to participate in sex? Was the mutual love and respect for each other before marriage not valid enough?
James on the other hand, was far from a virgin. He lost his virginity to Mary Rosenberg at his senior year graduation party. His parents still believe he was waiting until marriage, but James knew he was never going to live up to that belief.
Today was the first time James was coming over to Evelyn’s to stay the night. They’ve spent hours staying up late, talking about everything under the sun in the past, but James would always drive Evelyn back home before the clock struck midnight. But today… today was different, something new for their relationship, something Evelyn could’ve never imagined.
She ran to the door excitedly the second she heard the bell ring. Opening the door with great force, she leaps at him, pulling him in for a tight hug. Voice mushed by her face buried in his shoulder, she says:
“Hi darlin’, missed you”.
He wraps his arms around her waist, “Missed you too doll face”.
The night went like any other: Evelyn cooked a delicious spaghetti meal, sprinkled with cheese and fresh herbs from the farm. To follow, they sat on her green couch and watched “The Lawrence Welk Show”, but neither of them were paying attention, catching up on the week’s shenanigans.
“You know, I got to say you were my girlfriend publicly this week”, a proud smile plastering his face.
“Wait, why?”, she asks, confused on what situation that could’ve been brought up.
“Well, I was hanging out at the bar after work on Tuesday and some woman was trying to flirt with me, had to tell her I was taken by the wonderful girl sitting in front of me right now”, he replies, smirking.
She blushes in return, “Well, I’m glad you pushed her away, I know some of the women around here can be kind of… persuasive”.
“I would never have let her do anything, I love you too much for that-”. He freezes, not meaning for those three words to come out so casually.
“Wait, you love me?”, she says, a blush creeping onto her face.
“I, uhm, well of course I do, I just didn’t know when to say it. Like is now to early on or should I have said it earlier to reassure you-”
He never got to finish his sentence as her soft lips met his in a loving kiss. He falls into her motion as he grabs both sides of her face with his hands. They separate, both breathing heavily.
“I love you too darlin’” she says as she pulls him back in for another tender kiss. He places one hand behind her head, the other behind her back; her hands are placed delicately on his cheeks. The kiss begins to become more heated as James’ hand slides up the inside of her shirt whilst hers settle behind his neck, slightly pulling on his hair. He lays her down on the couch tenderly as he hovers over her small frame.
They both part for air, James breaking the heated silence by saying: “Sweetheart, if this is where I think it’s going, I don’t have any condoms on me”, looking at her lovingly.
She smiles back and reassures him, “Don’t worry my love, I’m on birth control, I trust you”.
Those last three words were all he needed to hear as he swept her up into his arms and took her to the bedroom.
NOVEMBER 13TH 1965
A week late.
Her period was never late.
Evelyn’s cycle was very regular thanks to her birth control. She’s never missed a day of taking her pill and was very aware of her menstrual cycle.
Which led to her one worry: pregnancy.
Although birth control has been widely accessible across the United States for nearly 15 years, it was still not fully reliable in preventing pregnancy.
A thousand questions began racing through her mind: “What if James doesn’t want a baby?”, “What if there are any complications?”, “How am I meant to financially support a child?”
James and Evelyn had not had sex since that night. It’s not that they didn’t want to, they were just more of a romantic gesture couple rather than a sex driven one. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t have gotten pregnant from her first time.
She had no choice but to make a doctor’s appointment. Since James was staying around hers for the day, she left him a quick note telling him she was going into town, grabbed her keys and headed out the door.
They thankfully had an appointment free that afternoon. The doctor was very kind and instructed her through what to do and that she would hear back from them in two weeks with the results. Although thankful for the advances in medicine, two weeks was still a long time; much more time to overthink, and especially to blame herself for the situation.
NOVEMBER 27TH 1965
Ring, ring.
James picks up the phone whilst Evelyn is practicing guitar in her bedroom.
“Hello?”
“Hi sir, is Miss Boyd there to speak?”.
“She is, yes, I’m sorry, may I ask who this is?”.
“This is the doctors calling regarding her results from the pregnancy test she submitted two weeks ago”.
Pregnancy test. A fucking pregnancy test. A surge of anger rises in his body which he supresses as he calls to his girlfriend.
“Honey! There’s someone on the phone for you… says it’s the doctors!” he yells into the other room, teeth gritted with frustration.
Shit. She throws her guitar onto her bed and rushes into the living room, quickly grabbing the phone from his hand.
“Hi, yes, this is Evelyn!”, she speaks into the receiver, a slight tremble in her voice.
“Hello Miss Boyd, you’re expecting a call informing you about the results of the pregnancy test you conducted with us, yes?”.
“Uh, yes.. yes I am”. She avoids all eye contact with her boyfriend, who’s sitting on the couch, arms folded across his chest.
“Well I am delighted to inform you that the results came back positive, you are pregnant miss!”.
Pregnant. The word ringing around in her head like a deadly whisper.
“Um.. wow, well, thank you so much”.
“You are very welcome ma’am, I wish you a smooth pregnancy and pray that everything goes well for you!”
“Thank you once again, bye bye now”. She puts the phone down. A silence fills the air.
James breaks the uncomfortable nature with words she wished not to hear: “So, is it positive?”, showing an annoyed expression.
She take a large gulp before admitting the truth: “Yes”.
James stands up from his spot on the couch and makes his way over to Evelyn.
“’I trust you.’ That’s what you said to me! You promised you were on birth control and that everything would be completely fine, well look at you now, pregnant with a child neither of us want!”
Evelyn avoids his eyes as she spills out the sentence that she knew James would never want to hear: “What if I do want to raise them?”
He lets out a laugh, but not the one she came to love on their first day of meeting, no, this laugh had a much more sarcastic tone.
“You? Raising a child? At 19 years old? You’ve got to be joking! Evelyn, listen to me, you cannot raise a child. You do not have the strength in you to do that! You can barely lift 2 crates at the farm without asking for my help, let alone give birth and mother another human being!”.
Tears began to form in her eyes. This was not the James she grew to care and love. The James she knew would constantly congratulate and lift up her efforts at the farm, saying “You’re so strong!” and “You’ve got this!”. This James was an entirely different person. Someone she would not have associated herself with if he was like this the whole time.
“What did I do for you to suddenly belittle me like that? You’ve always told me how strong I was and how I was capable of anything I put my mind to. Why are you suddenly doubting my efforts as a mother?”, she says, tears starting to stream down her face.
“Well look at you right now! Crying your eyes out just because I admitted the truth! Do you think a good mother would do something like that? Did you ever think I was just being kind because there were customers around?”, he yells, towering over her small frame.
“So what you said was never true? It was all just an act to seem polite at work?”, she questions, the tears leaving stains.
“Now you’re just putting words into my mouth!”, he sighs, “I’m going home, we can talk about this another time, when you’ve thought this through”. He grabs his coat before slamming the door behind him.
This was the reaction she hoped to have never happened; the self-doubt that kept re-playing over and over in her head, it was becoming a reality.
It took an entire week for James to even speak to Evelyn. Whilst working, the two ignored each other completely. Evelyn proved to him that she was capable; she didn’t ask for help when carrying crates or re-stocking the barn, she completed all of her tasks by herself.
Early one Saturday morning, Evelyn heard a knock at her door. As she cautiously opened it, outside stood James.
“Now before you say anything, I am so incredibly sorry. What I did was completely wrong, and there’s no excuse to justify my actions. You are strong, capable and beautiful, you always have been, ever since I met you 6 months ago. I shouldn’t have spoken to you in such a demeaning manner and I think I was just scared, scared of becoming a father. But I really do want this, I want to be in this baby’s life, I want to support them in any way I can and live up to the role model that my father was for me. I really hope you can forgive me Evelyn”.
She stood there in shock. After not even looking at her for a whole week, he visits her apartment to apologise. Self-doubt starts to run through her head again: “If you do turn him away, are you capable of raising a child all by yourself?”, “If he’s in the baby’s life, he could be an amazing father, just look at the way he’s treated you up until last week!”, “He said he was just scared, you’re scared too! His reaction to the news was just different to yours!”.
She takes a deep breath before breaking the silent atmosphere: “I forgive you James. I understand you were scared, hell, I’m terrified. But we need to get through this together, and if you’re in for this, you need to be in 100% of the time. I can’t have you walking out on me like you did last week”.
He nods, “I understand doll, I’m 100% in for this. I promise to not walk out on you again”.
She smiles in relief, “Okay, where do we go from here?”.
James followed through on his promise. Throughout her pregnancy, both of them continued working on the farm, and towards the end, James took on more of Evelyn’s shifts so she could rest in time for the delivery. At 6 months, James and Evelyn decided to move into a new place together: a 2 bedroom apartment, enough room for both them and the baby. James was a constant support; he took various trips into town to buy any food for her pregnancy cravings as well as buying all of the baby’s toys and furniture out of his own pocket.
On July 26th 1966 around 8pm, Evelyn started to feel contractions. These lasted mildly for 4 hours before James had to take her to the hospital in the centre of Nashville. Another 8 hours later and Evelyn was ready to push. After 10 minutes of pushing, a beautiful baby boy was welcomed into the world at 8:26am. He had a gorgeous set of curly brown hair, exactly like his mothers. He resembled her a lot, from his eyes to his rounded chin, the only striking resemblance from his father being his nose. They decided on the name Edward, Eddie for short, after Evelyn’s baby cousin who she admired dearly.
After two long days of recovery for his mother, Edward James Munson was brought back to the small plant-filled apartment on the outskirts of the city. His room was decorated with blue wallpaper, scattered with rocket ships and astronauts, with a wooden crib situated in the centre of the small room. A tiny bookshelf, a box full of toys and a playmat were also featured on display. It’s safe to say that Eddie would have a wonderful new life filled with love and care from his parents.
FEBRUARY 18TH 1967
Eddie was nicknamed by his mother “little rascal”, and quite suitably too. Ever since he learnt how to crawl 2 months ago, Eddie’s favourite pastime was to explore their single floored apartment, ignoring every toy that was in sight. Today, Eddie has decided to make his way into his parent’s room.
“Come back here you little rascal!”, she calming shouts as she runs after her small boy. She turns the corner and finds him mesmerised by her acoustic guitar perched in the corner of her and her boyfriend’s room.
“Have you found my guitar mister?”, she says softly. Eddie’s eyes are still fixated on the mysterious object as his hand begins to reach out towards the strings. “Oh, watch your fingers little guy, don’t want you hurting yourself. You wanna watch mommy play?”, she asks, a smile gracing her face in awe of the young boy. The way his eyes turn to her and glisten with excitement behind the chocolate orbs she gifted him give her confirmation on the answer. “Alright, let me play you a tune”.
She grabs the 7 month old and places him on the fluffy cream rug on the floor, thankful that her son can now sit up without her aid. She sits directly in front of him, guitar in lap. “My dear Eddie boy, today I’ll be performing a little song for you by the incredible Connie Smith called ‘Then and Only Then’”, she announces in a presenter-like voice.
She begins to strum the chords to the song and an angelic voice escapes from her mouth as she sings along to the guitar.
“All that's left inside my heart is just your echo”
“And the tiny thread of hope to which I cling”
“But if I keep holding on maybe some day”
“You'll remember where you left me and come back for me again”
Eddie looks up at her in utter astonishment, he is so intrigued by the instrument and the sound of his mother’s voice. “Come closer my love, help me with the last verse”, she says, guiding the boy closer to her. She grabs his small hand in hers and guides it towards the strings. Holding the chord in place with her left, she pulls Eddie’s hand down the strings, making a beautiful sound. A small gasp comes out of his mouth, surprised at the beauty of the guitar.
“For then and only then will I stop crying”
“And this aching breaking heart of mind will mend”
“Not until I feel your arms around me”
“Will I be happy and I live for then and only then”
“And I live for then and only then”
As she finishes up the song, Eddie lets out a giggle, causing Evelyn to laugh along also. During this memorable activity, James had returned home from work and followed the sounds of the music. He was shocked to see his girlfriend and son playing the guitar together. But this was not a shock of happiness, more like a shock of irritation. He thought, “How dare she be teaching him guitar when there are toys such as trucks and cars which would much more beneficial to him”. He left the two of them be, deciding it would be easier to deal with the situation later on in private, away from the young boy.
It was 9pm that evening. Eddie had been well fed and gone to sleep for the night. James had to be up bright and early to work on the farm tomorrow, but he wasn’t letting an important conversation being left another day.
Evelyn was changing into her pyjamas when James began to question her.
“So, guitar huh?”.
She turned around and looked at him confused, “Yeah? You know I play guitar darlin’”.
He looks her dead in the eyes, “No, not you, OUR son”.
A confused expression remains on her face, “Yeah, he crawled up to it, so I thought I’d play him a song”.
He mumbles: “Looks like he was doing more of the playing than you”.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”.
He speaks more clearly, “I said: Looks like he was doing more of the playing than you”.
Evelyn begins to stand her ground, “And? Is that such a bad thing?”.
James can’t believe what he is hearing right now, “Such a bad thi- how is it not a bad thing? We bought him plenty of trucks, cars, boy’s toys to play with and not only does he completely ignore them all, but you enable that?”.
She begins to become agitated, “Because he doesn’t want to play with them James! I’ve tried over and over again, he just doesn’t look happy playing with them! Today was the first time in weeks I’ve seen him so excited to play with a “toy”. Could you not see how happy he was?”.
“You’re overreacting! He was mildly comfortable at best. I played with those cars with him last week and he was incredibly happy! You’re obviously not trying hard enough”, the words slipping out of his mouth easily.
Evelyn tried to keep her emotions in, but his personal insults hit her right in the gut. “I look after Eds five days a week. Every single day I try with those toys, every goddamn day, and not once has he looked happy. Today has been the first time in a long time that he has remained focused on something for more than 2 minutes. I can’t believe you’re doubting my efforts baby!”.
He scoffs as he sees tears begin to fall down her face, “And there’s the emotional woman again! You question why I doubt your efforts when any time I criticise anything slightly wrong with OUR parenting, because remember, it’s a joint effort, 100% you said, you start crying like a little girl. If we’re in this together like you stated almost 2 years ago, then I am allowed to make our son into a proper man, and damn well make sure you help with that too”.
The tears were flooding down her face now as she demanded: “Get out. I won’t have you insulting me, not again”.
He chuckles, “Fine, I’m off to the bar. Hopefully you’ll get yourself in check and be ready to properly raise our son tomorrow morning”.
He walks out of their room and slams the front door. She hears faint cries from the room next to her: Eddie. She clears her throat and wipes underneath her eyes before going to attend to her son.
SEPTEMBER 20TH 1967
Eddie had recently turned two, so James and Evelyn agreed it was a smart idea to upgrade to a bigger truck for their family of 3. This past week, Evelyn went and got a new key cut as an emergency spare in case one of them lost the original. She decided the best option was to store it in their safe. The two didn’t keep much in their safe, just some important documents such as prescriptions, Eddie’s birth certificate, and family heirlooms passed down through generations.
Eddie was pre-occupied in his playpen so Evelyn took the opportunity to leave her son for a few seconds to put this simple task out of the way. She typed in the code before opening up the silver door. However, something stored inside was very out of the ordinary.
Evelyn and James earned a decent wage between them. Enough to pay the bills each month and keep them alive and healthy. But not even a pay rise would equate to the thousands of dollars stored in their safe.
She began to take it out and count through the piles of cash: $5500. Her mouth spoke her mind, “What the fuck…”.
“Mama!”, she heard Eddie cry from his playpen, her two year old obviously unsatisfied from the lack of attention.
“Comin’ sweetheart!”, she yelled back shakily, piling the cash up as neatly as it was before and chucking in the key, before locking it back up and putting it back in its safe spot.
AUGUST 9TH 1970
As Eddie grew older, Evelyn knew that she was right to assume he was never going to be interested in trucks and cars like his father continued to persist.
Recently, Evelyn had started to notice James had been becoming more persistent in his parenting techniques, ignoring hers completely. He was so persistent that she agreed to take on some of his shifts at work, now spending 3 days at the farm instead of a mere 1.
Evelyn didn’t fully trust James’ suggestion to work more so he could “spend more time being present as a father”, but there had been no complaints from Eddie so far, who was naturally very open with his problems to her.
Today was Evelyn’s day to take care of Eddie. This upcoming year would be the final one before Eddie would be starting elementary school, something her mind could still not fathom.
Throughout the years, Eddie remained a curious and excitable kid, always “bouncing off the walls” she’d like to say. His father not so keen on this behaviour, the words “calm down!” being shouted a lot from him. Evelyn was much more open to his energetic manner, letting that side of his personality run free. Today was no different as she heard his tiny footsteps come running into her room.
“Mama! Mama!”, he yelled to her.
“Yes, my love”, she said, putting her book on her nightstand.
Suddenly, his demeanour became a lot more shy as he asked: “Can you teach me how to play guitar?”.
She beams with happiness, “Of course honey, I would love to! Why were you so nervous to ask sweetheart?”
He looks down to the floor, “Because daddy says it playing guitar is wrong”, a sad expression on his face.
She crouches down to his level and lifts his chin up so his eyes meet hers, “Hey, daddy doesn’t know what he’s talkin’ about, this can be our little secret, okay? Daddy doesn’t need to know”.
He slowly nods, “Okay, mama”.
“That’s my boy! Okay, come sit on mama’s lap!”, she says as she pats her legs.
He jumps up onto her bed as she reaches over to grab the guitar off of its stand. He perches himself on her legs as she rests the guitar in front of the two of them.
“Okay baby, this guitar is slightly big for you now, but I’ll teach you the basics of what are called chords. I’ll teach you the chords to a song fresh in my mind called “Let It Be” by the Beatles, do you know them?”
He shakes his head, “No mama”.
She smiles, “That’s okay honey, the Beatles are an amazing rock band who use a lot of acoustic guitar in their songs, perfect for you!”.
Throughout the day, Evelyn teaches Eddie the basic chords to the song, checking on the time to make sure she can put everything back and pre-occupy her son with another “suitable” activity before James arrives home.
At 3:45pm, Evelyn and Eddie finish up for the day. Her boy is a fast learner, already managing to play some clean chords without duding a single string. Now her next job was to make sure Eddie didn’t spill their “little secret”, else she would be terrified of the outcome.
AUGUST 2ND 1971
“Alrighty son, put your shoes on, we’re going out!”, James exclaims as he ties up his own shoelaces.
“But why daddy?”, Eddie says looking disappointed as he stops playing with his toy truck.
“I have a very important lesson to teach you today Eddie boy which involves us heading into town. Although we do have to walk, so I hope those little feet of yours are ready for a trek!”
Eddie stands there, a forced smile appearing on his face, although his tone of voice still presenting as sad, “Okay, daddy”. He paddles into the porch as he puts on his sneakers before taking his dad’s hand and walking into town.
Evelyn was at work today, doing shifts on Monday through to Wednesday, leaving James to take care of Eddie at the beginning of each week, something he was very excited about.
However, in a few weeks time, Eddie would be starting elementary school, something the both of them couldn’t believe, but for very different reasons. For Evelyn, she couldn’t believe her baby boy had grown up so fast, but for James, he couldn’t believe that so much time had been wasted in his early years.
James took Eddie to the nearest grocery store, but stopped near one of the cars at the back of the parking lot. It was a bright, hot summers day, so many cars left their windows open to let in the cooler breeze.
“Alright son, I’m going to get in through the window and I’ll help you in afterwards okay?”.
Eddie felt this was wrong, this did not look like their big truck back home, and no car he’d ever seen in his life.
“But why are we getting in daddy? This isn’t our car”, he said, a worried expression gracing his face.
His son was smart, something he got off of his mother, he would have to lie through his teeth to get his 5 year old to believe him. “Don’t worry Eddie, this is cousin Carol’s car, she said to bring it to her as she left it at the store last night, now c’mon, jump in!”
Eddie reluctantly lifts his arms up so his dad can lift him in through the window. Now sat in front of his dad in the driver’s seat, his dad opens up the glove box and grabs a screwdriver situated there.
“Okay Eddie, grab onto my hand, and twist the screwdriver left”, he states to the younger boy.
He does as his father asks of him, but questions, “Can I tell mama we helped out cousin Carol with her car today?”.
James almost freezes as the plastic cover comes off, he takes a quick peak around the parking lot of the store, making sure the coast is clear before replying, “Oh no son, this will be our little secret”.
Eddie stopped as he had a flash of deja vu, his dad repeating the same phrase his mom once told him when he started to learn guitar:
“Our little secret”.
His father pulls him from his worries, “You with me boy? We don’t have all day!”, a slight agitation to his tone.
“Yes daddy, sorry”, he replies, snapping back to reality.
James ruffles his hair, “Good boy, now you want these two red wires here and what I’m going to do is strip some of what we call the insulation from these two wires okay? Just watch and learn for this part”.
Eddie watches his dad, still having a feeling of uneasiness in his stomach. “Okay, now twist these two orange end bits together very tight”. Eddie repeats his father’s commands, successfully tying the wires together.
“Good job son, now I’m going to strip this wire as well, this is called the starter wire”. Once again, Eddie watches his father strip the end of the wire, before he says “Okay now take the red wires in your right hand and the starter wire in your left, okay?”
“Okay daddy”, he says as he takes them in each of his hands.
“Now, lightly tap these two wires together, but be careful now, once you hear the engine start, immediately stop, okay?”
“Alright daddy”. Eddie pokes his tongue out as he lightly taps the wires together, however, he does not hear the engine start as he does this.
Five minutes later and Eddie has still not successfully started the engine. James is beginning to get worried, the longest he’s ever taken to do this, even as child, was a maximum of two minutes, not long enough to get him caught. “Hurry the hell up son, we don’t have all day!”, he says, beginning to raise his voice.
“I’m trying daddy, it’s difficult”, he says, a slight panic wavering in his voice, afraid of his father speaking louder than usual.
Another five minutes pass, still no sign of the car starting. In the distance, James sees a woman begin to walk in their direction, towards the very car they are perched in.
“Eddie, get out of the car”, he says, trying to keep his cool.
“But you said we needed to help-”, he asks worriedly.
“Get out the goddamn car!”, he yells into Eddie’s ear.
Scared for his life, Eddie drops the two wires and scrambles up to stand on the seat. James lifts him back onto the concrete floor before sliding back out the car window. He picks up his son and runs back home, hearing a voice in the distance yelling, “Hey! What the hell did you do to my car?”.
James unlocks the front door to their house. He steps into the front porch and puts Eddie on the ground. Before Eddie can run more than five feet in front of him, his father yells, “Get the hell back here!”. Eddie slowly turns around and walks back over to his dad, his eyes looking directly at the wooden floor.
James lifts Eddie’s head up, but it doesn’t feel like the same soft hand his mother uses, no, this felt rough. Before Eddie could even apologise, James lifts his hand up in the air before..
Slap.
Eddie felt a sharp sting on the side of his cheek. Before he could even process the pain, his father grabbed the collar of his jacket and brought him to his eye-line.
“What the fuck do you think you were doing back there?”, he screamed in his face.
Before he could even think, the words he would soon regret spill from his mouth, “I thought you said we were helping cousin Carol with her car!”. A few tears started to spill down his face, a mixture of sadness and pain.
“Oh man up boy, you really believed that? I’m teaching you how to be a real man, not some fairy like your mother is teaching you to be. Now next time, you’ll learn how to be faster, and not be some screw up like your mother’s side of the family”. He throws his son to the ground before storming past him into his bedroom.
Eddie sits there in shock. He slowly gets up, a pain shooting through the side of his body and his cheek. He walks towards his own room and closes the door softly behind him. Throwing his shoes onto the floor, he climbs into his bed and crawls under the covers. He lets out the loudest scream he could and balls his eyes out. How could his dad ever treat him like that for such a simple mistake?
APRIL 6TH 1972
It took Eddie a whole 7 months before he finally revealed the truth to his mom. He was off school for Spring Break, his dad taking him out to hot-wire another car the past weekend. His brain had sadly memorised the steps and he has successfully managed to hot-wire 3 cars in the past month. He knew at this point it was wrong, James took Eddie with him to trade in the stolen cars for thousands of dollars. He learnt how wrong it was when the teacher in school taught him the word “stealing”. Miss Dolly said stealing meant: “Taking something that wasn’t yours and not giving it back”. His dad did exactly this.
It was a lovely Thursday in spring when Eddie decided to tell his mother what had been going on, feeling it was a safe time since his father was at work.
“Mama, can I tell you someting?”, he asks shyly.
“Of course baby, you can always tell me anything”, she replies, a sweet smile gracing her face.
“Um.. when you’re working, daddy takes me to the stwore and he gets me to start cars”.
A confused look on her face, she says: “Start cars? What do you mean honey?”.
“I think it’s called steawing, taking someting that isn’t yours and not giving it back”.
James was taking him to steal cars? Before she can respond, Eddie continues, “And sometimes he takes tese cars to a guy and he gets lots of money for it”.
Her blood is now boiling. Her own boyfriend is not only stealing cars, but teaching their son how to steal them too? She keeps up a soft attitude for her son, not letting her anger towards James be brought onto Eddie, she knows this isn’t his fault.
“And how do you feel about all of this baby?”, she needed to ask him this, she needed to know whether Eddie thought it was right, whether he was told it was right.
“I don’t wike it, it feels wrong. I don’t wike steawing cars, but daddy tells me off if I don’t do it. I don’t wanna do it mama”.
Her anger for her boyfriend takes a backseat for a moment as a wave of sadness strikes her in regards to the 5 year old boy standing in front of her. He looks guilty, like he shouldn’t be telling her this. “Okay baby, I’ll talk to daddy later on okay? I’ll tell him you don’t like it and to do something else with you when I’m at work okay?”. She crouches down and takes his small frame into his arms, wrapping her arms around him. Evelyn hears quiet sniffles coming from her son, “Hey, hey, why are you crying my love?”, she asks as she strokes the boy’s hair and wipes the tears falling down his face.
“I-I’m scared mama, I-I don’t want daddy to hurt me again. He said it’s our secwet and n-not to tell you”.
“I won’t let him hurt you okay baby? Mama’s got you, I promise. You’re such a brave boy for me, so incredibly brave, like this brave”, she stretches her arms out as wide as they can go, making Eddie laugh.
“Now, wanna play some guitar before daddy gets home? You’ve almost mastered “Let It Be” baby!”, she suggests, trying to distract her son, and herself, before she lashed out her anger towards James later.
Later that night, Evelyn was storing her clothes fresh from the dryer as James walked out of the shower. She was going to wait for him to change before admitting to him what her son had told her a mere 6 hours ago. Eddie was pre-occupied in room with his toys, dragons becoming something that Evelyn found kept him entertained, a surprising approval from James.
“Honey, we need to talk about something”, she kept her nervousness to a minimum, avoiding to let herself becoming too emotional, she’s going to stand her ground this time, she’s going to do it for Eddie.
“Sure, what is it doll?”. Her favourite pet name, something she loved, but she was not going to let that get in the way of her goal: to get James to own up to his mistakes.
“Eddie told me earlier what you two have been up to whilst I’ve been working: stealing cars. He said he really doesn’t like it James. I know I can’t control what you do with your life, but I’d appreciate if you leave our son out of your hobby”.
He scoffs, “Oh so what? You can teach him how to braid girl’s hair and let him play with dolls? Let him act like a girl, become all soft, not learn any values of what it takes to become a man? Yeah, sounds exactly like your parenting”.
She keeps the tears in, she’s not letting him get to her this time. “I’m not letting you insult my parenting James, not again. This is what Eddie personally told me earlier today, this is not a result of me, he came to me. He told me he didn’t like it and wants you to stop taking him”.
“And why do you think he thinks that way? My father taught me as a kid how to hotwire cars and I never once complained. I realised what it took to be a man through that experience. You should be thankful it’s not something worse”.
Thankful? She couldn’t control her anger any longer, she was fed up of being the quiet housewife. “Is that why you’ve been hiding all that cash from me?”.
He looked her dead in the eyes, “What did you just say to me?”, he says with a stern expression on his face.
“I kept quiet for months, but I can’t hold it in any longer. I saw the stacks of cash in our safe. I wondered where you got all that money from in such a little amount of time, but I think you just gave me the answer”. She may regret saying this, but she had to tell the truth, her truth.
He towers over her, but she stands her ground, an angry look gracing her face. “You ungrateful little bitch! I’ve been earning that money through hard work so we could live in the city, away from this shithole and the first thing you do is complain about it?”. Evelyn remained as calm as possible, but the emotions could not stay in after what James did next.
Slap.
From the next room, Eddie sat up in his bed. He recognised that sound. The sound he had been hearing nearly every week for the past 7 months. His dad was hitting his mom. He jumped out of his bed and rushed into his parents room.
He could not believe the sight in front of him. James had one hand tightly gripping Evelyn’s chin and the other holding her hair with a strong grip. Tears began to roll down Eddie’s face.
“You think you own this house but you don’t! Everything I do with my son you complain about, but everything you do is apparently right! Now you have the fucking audacity to get angry at me for earning money that could get the three of us a better life!”
Slap.
“You speak about me like I treat my son like shit, but I don’t. I teach the ways of hard work and discipline, something that will get him much further in life than what you’re teaching him! You never take the fucking blame for anything and always pin it on me! Now you stop being an ungrateful brat and shut the hell up, or I’ll hurt you much worse than what I’m doing now!”.
James tugs harshly at Evelyn’s hair, a cry of pain escapes from her mouth. Eddie couldn’t stop the words that came out from seeing his mother in pain:
“STOP IT!”.
It’s as if you could see the fire burning in James’ eyes. He throws Evelyn out of his reach, her using her hands to stop her tumbling into the closet behind her, as he storms over to his son. Like before, he grabs him by his shirt collar, before raising his hand to deliver the hardest hit he’s ever thrown at Eddie.
“James stop, don’t hurt him-”, Evelyn cries out, the tears now streaming down her face.
But it was too late.
Slap.
“I told you this was our little secret, and you go spilling it to your mother! You should be ashamed of yourself boy! If I ever see you do one more thing out of line from what I’ve told you, I’ll hit you a lot harder, you understand me?”. Eddie is frozen in fear, he slowly nods, not wanting to upset his dad more.
James threw his son off of him and onto the ground, thankfully the landing being softened by the green rug on their floor. James walks out of their room and into the hallway, grabbing his jacket before spitting at them: “You’re both fucking disgraces”. A loud slam of the front door echoes through their small apartment.
Eddie and Evelyn make eye contact with each other before she rushes to her son’s side. He falls into her arms as she shushes him and kisses his brown curls.
“It’s okay baby, shh, it’s okay, mama’s here, mama’s here”, the tears still falling down her face despite putting on a brave and supportive attitude for her son who was screaming out in agony, a mixture of sadness and pain.
They both stayed in the middle of her bedroom hugging each other to death for what seemed like hours, recovering from the event that had just happened.
JUNE 14TH 1974
Evelyn really wanted to leave. If she could, she would. But with her only working 3 days a week, she didn’t have the money to just up and leave. As bad as it sounded, she relied too much on James.
It was currently summer break, Eddie finishing 2nd grade in May. He was having trouble fitting in with the boys, however, he had a few friends which were girls. Although, not many of the other moms were fond of this, trying to keep their daughters away from the curly haired boy. Eddie had talked to Evelyn about this, how he didn’t fit into school, only enjoying activities such as English and Art, struggling with Math and History. She had no idea whether James knew about this, but she highly doubted it, Eddie was fearful of his father, and rightfully so.
Now that it was summer, Eddie could spend a lot of time with his mom, something he enjoyed a lot, he was very attached to her.
“Eddie my love, I have a new song for you to learn!”, she shouts calmly from her bedroom.
“Coming mama!”. The boy was now a lot taller, reaching the height of her waist, and his curly brown hair reaching his shoulder.
“Hey baby, this new song came out recently called “I Will Always Love You” by Dolly Parton, do you remember me showing you her other song “Jolene” not too long ago?”, she asks politely.
“Yes mama, the one that goes ‘Jolene, I’m beggin’ of ya please don’t take my man’?”
“That’s the one honey! C’mon, I recently bought the vinyl of the album, take a listen to the song!”.
Evelyn recently discovered that not only did Eddie have a gift for playing the guitar, but also singing, two talents that fit together very nicely. Eddie was also learning how to play songs from listening to the song, rather than Evelyn telling him.
“I’m going to give you a helping hand to start, the capo goes on the 2nd fret”.
The boy smiles as she places the capo on the guitar, “Okay, thank you mama!”.
“You’re welcome honey”. Eddie was also a particularly fast learner, especially with songs like this that had a repetitive chord pattern throughout.
It took Eddie a mere hour to figure out the songs had a mere 4 chords, and only switched pattern during the chorus. He mastered the song pretty much instantly, and was learning the words also.
“I’m assuming you like the song baby?”.
“I love it mama! Can I listen to the whole album soon?”, he asks.
“Of course my love, we can listen to it tomorrow if you would like?”.
“Yes please mama!”, he exclaims, excitedly moving his body slightly up and down.
She giggles, “Okay, okay, we’ll do that. For now though, how about you play the chords and I sing, yeah?”.
“Okay mama!”, he gets comfortable and begins to play the intro of the song.
“If I should stay”
“Well I would only be in your way”
“And so I'll go, and yet I know”
“I'll think of you each step of the way”
Evelyn puts on the thickest country accent she can as the final verse hits.
“And I hope life, will treat you kind”
“And I hope that you have all
That you ever dreamed of”
“Oh I do wish you joy”
“And I wish you happiness”
“But above all this
I wish you love”
She addressed that entire verse to Eddie. Despite this being a love song, she felt it as familial love towards her son, her one and only.
“I will always love you”
Eddie strums the final chord as Evelyn begins clapping, cheering on her son for his achievement. This will always be her favourite bonding activity with her son, no matter what age he is. Whether it was when he was 7 months old, sitting on her lap listening to her play Connie Smith or when he’s 20, playing a future country superstar’s song on his own guitar she will eventually buy him.
MARCH 6TH 1975
Eddie had no choice but to tell his dad his school issues. His mom now working Saturday through to Wednesday, the only time he was alone with her was a mere 2 hours after school on Thursdays and Fridays. James did not take lightly to Eddie letting him know he was having trouble making friends, addressing the problem with a hit to the face and a classic “man up”.
Which led to James blaming this problem on Evelyn.
“So, wanna address why our son told me earlier today he has made a grand total of zero friends at school?”, he says with a monotone voice.
“Oh, I wasn’t aware that he hasn’t my love I’ll-”, she was cut off by him.
“I mean I wouldn’t want to be either if I saw what his mom looked like. I mean you’re not setting the greatest example for the kid are you? Between the way you present yourself and the way you’ve raised him no wonder he’s all alone”.
“Why is it always my fault?” she wondered before replying, “You do the school run most of the time James, so how is this my fault?”.
He huffs, “Disgusting looking people are more memorable than the neat ones, easier to remember your face than mine”.
Disgusting.
“You think I’m disgusting?”, she says softly. She’s been practicing to keep her emotions in check around James. She knows she shouldn’t have to, but the fear of what the outcome could be was worth it.
He chuckles, “Oh come on, you know I don’t mean it like that. I’m just sayin’ you arriving at the school covered in dirt and sweat, your hair sticking to your face, compared to me who goes home and showers before thinking of picking up the kid, it makes an everlasting impression of the young boy”.
That look was the one he fell in love with almost 10 years ago. Young farm girl Evelyn with a messy bun and overalls covered in soil. Now it was the main problem for her son’s happiness. Whatever she did, it was wrong in his books. It may have been correct at one point in time, but it would never be now.
“Just a thought sweetheart. How about you try it out and see if it makes the difference hmm?”. He may have posed it as a question, but it was a demand. She wasn’t going to do it. Not at all. She’d shower after she brought Eddie back home to present to James she was a fresh face picking him up. She’d give Eddie some advice herself. Some good advice.
NOVEMBER 9TH 1975
Being a mother and working 5 days a week was taking a great toll on Evelyn. Sure this was what most mothers did now, after the fight for feminism gave women more freedom to go out and work, but something felt off for her.
A couple hours of working a day and Evelyn would get the biggest headaches. She’d get really hot, even though the temperatures were currently dropping leading into the winter months. By the end of each day, she’d be exhausted, and yet she still took care of Eddie after school, made sure he was fed, put to sleep, his typical routine, before repeating the same actions for herself.
Speaking to James about her problems was a nightmare. All he told her was she was “being lazy” and to “work harder”. With both of them working together on the farm some days, she had no choice but to act healthier than she was, following the “advice” she just so wishes she could ignore. And even on the days he wasn’t with her, she had to make sure all the work was complete, else all she would get is complaints and harm from her boyfriend.
She went to the doctor one Thursday, telling him about her symptoms. The advice she was given was extremely counter-productive, the man just complaining that it was due to exhaustion, even throwing in a few of his viewpoints about women belonging in the home.
She realised she had no one to turn to. Her own boyfriend dismissing her issues, her doctor overlooking her worries in favour of his opinions on women’s role in society, and her main source of comfort being way too young to understand.
She was alone. Her only option was to pray to God it was nothing too serious, and that it would soon fade away.
FEBRUARY 26TH 1976
Everything seemed to get worse as the months went on. Even on the days she was able to rest, she felt exhausted. Like today.
Despite her restlessness, she kept up the energy to pick up her 9 year old son from school. Everything felt safer when he was around. Even if she wanted to just fall asleep, she wouldn’t dare miss the sound of her son’s excitement and laughter as he told her about what happened at school that day. Luckily, Eddie had managed to make some friends over the last year. Mostly girls, something James was not fond of, but as long as he was happy, Evelyn didn’t mind if they were girls or boys.
She was chopping up fresh vegetables from the farm for their soup as her son rambled about his day. Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through her head, one stronger than she’s ever felt before.
“Sorry to interrupt you baby, but can you take over for a second?”, she asks politely, trying to mask the immense amount of pain she was in.
“Sure mom, are you okay?”, he asks, a concerned expression on his face as he takes the sharp knife from her hand.
Her vision is starting to become blurry as she makes her way over to the table, “I’ll be fine baby, just give me a minute”.
Not even able to chop one tomato, he hears a loud thump on the floor. He quickly turns around to see his mom lying on the floor, eyes closed.
“MOM!”, he shouts as he rushes over to her side. He breaths heavily as she lays there lifeless. He puts his knowledge from health class to the test and finds her pulse.
It’s beating.
He thanks the Lord. However, a cut on her forehead begins to bleed. A lot. He knew his dad would most likely not come home for this, so his only other option was to call 911.
Reluctant to leave her side, he rushes to the other side of the kitchen and picks the phone up off its stand. He quickly dials the number and a voice immediately speaks through the other end.
“911, what’s your emergency?”.
Breathe, Eddie, breathe. “Hi, um, my mom just fell on the floor. She’s alive, I could feel her pulse, but she’s not waking up. Also there’s a cut on her head and it’s bleeding, like a lot. I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do”.
The man on the other end reassures him, “Don’t apologise son, you did the right thing. Now can you tell me your address? We’ll send an ambulance once you tell us, but we want you to stay on the phone okay? Tell me when you hear a knock on the door and that’ll be them. I’ll then let you go and the paramedics can take over okay? So again, what’s your address?”
Address, stay on the phone, knock on door, put phone down. “Uh yeah, it’s um, 24 **Ashland Lane, it’s kind of in the middle of nowhere, I know that’s probably not an issue, but uh, I’m just really scared”. His voice begins to quiver. “She’s been feeling more tired recently, been getting random nosebleeds and headaches. She went to the doctors but they just said it was exhaustion due to her working so much and being a mom, but it has to be more than that. Sorry, I’m rambling, it’s just I know something isn’t right, it hasn’t been right for months”. Tears are streaming down his face at this point.
“You’re okay son, take a deep breath for me. The ambulance is on its way, just keep talking to me okay? Now about the cut on her forehead, have you put anything on it to stop the bleeding?”.
He didn’t even think about that, he just left his mom to bleed out. His level of panic increases. “Uh, no, I forgot, I’m sorry! The phone is all the way over the other side of the kitchen from her so I can’t get to her without leaving you which I know you don’t want me to do!”.
“It’s alright son. What I want you to do is just put the phone to the side for me, don’t put it down, grab a cold washcloth and put it on her head okay? Come back to me once you’ve done that”.
Cold washcloth. “Yes, okay, I got it”, he says before gently putting the phone on the table and running over to the sink to get the washcloth. Once wet, he places it on her forehead. He applies a little bit of pressure, before attending back to the phone.
“Okay, I’ve put the cold cloth on her head”.
Another 10 minutes went by before he heard a knock on the door. Once the dispatcher let him go, he rushed over to the door and directed the paramedics to his mom, still laying still on their kitchen floor. They lifted her onto the stretcher and put her in the ambulance, Eddie joining her in the back.
He hopes everything is okay and that it is just exhaustion, but his mind is telling him it’s something much worse.
MARCH 11TH 1976
Leukaemia.
He shouldn’t be beating himself up over not recognising the symptoms, he was 9 for God’s sake, but it was eating him alive knowing something was wrong, and yet he did nothing.
Ring ring.
“Hello?”, James picked up the phone before Eddie could.
“Hi, Mr. Munson, it’s the hospital here. I’m afraid Evelyn’s health has rapidly declined over the last 24 hours and we are sad to say that we don’t think she’s going to make it another day. I would suggest you and whoever wishes to say their farewells do so in the next few hours”.
He looks over to his son who is reading a book, Lord of the Rings to be exact. If he wants his kid to somewhat behave, he couldn’t deny him seeing his own mother for the last time, no matter how much he wanted not to.
He sighs before replying, “Okay, thank you, our son and I will be right over”. He puts the phone down before making his way over to his son. This was going to be hard to break, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to be the one to do it, that’s the nurse’s job.
“Eddie my boy, we’re going to the hospital”, he said bluntly.
He looks up from the book he is engrossed in, putting the bookmark in its place, “What? Is everything okay with mom?”, he asks worriedly.
He has to get Eddie there before it’s too late, else everything will be a lot worse for him to handle.
“No time for questions son, get your shoes on”.
The drive to the hospital was silent, Eddie afraid if he asked anything about his mom, he could suffer the consequences.
They pulled up in the parking lot in their truck, Eddie hopping out before almost running to the front doors.
Once they enter the building, James states their names and relations to Evelyn.
“Room 205 sir, down the end of the hall”, the front desk assistant replies.
“Thank you ma’am”.
Eddie opens the front door into the room. His mom laying on a bed, multiple wires hooked into her arm, connected to different liquids flowing through her veins. Her skin was pale, like a ghost, much worse than when Eddie last visited her, a mere two days ago. He wishes he could’ve visited everyday, maybe he would’ve noticed her quick downfall if he saw how she was yesterday, but with James preventing that, he knew there was nothing he could do.
His voice immediately quivers. He expects a stern talking to later from his dad, probably a few hits to the face, but he couldn’t care less right now, all his attention was on his mom.
He crouches down beside her bed, grabbing onto her hand. It was no longer the soft hand that used to stroke his hair for the past 9 years of his life, now it was all dry and cracked. Her eyes were barely open, a huge scab across her forehead from where she fell over 2 weeks ago.
She croaks out, “Hey baby boy”.
Her voice is extremely weak. He notices the multiple empty water bottles on the side of the table, no amount of hydration was going to resolve any issues. This was it.
He chokes on his own tears, “Hi mom”, he lets out a weak smile.
“How was school today?”. The same four words she repeated almost every day she picked him up.
“It was good”, he replied. He kept it brief, not wanting to just speak about himself for her last moments.
She lifts her hand to cup his cheek, “No baby, tell me all about it”.
He swallowed and debated whether he should be completely honest, knowing he can ramble on for hours. “I-I played with Jennifer today at r-recess, w-we played tag, a-and then we did some art, I m-made a beautiful drawing mom, I’ll g-give it to you when I next visit okay?”. He knew there would be no other visit.
And so did she, but she replied sincerely, “I can’t wait to see it baby, I’m sure it’s amazing as always”.
He giggled and she hummed, the closest sound she could make to a genuine laugh.
“And now, on its 2 year anniversary, here’s Dolly Parton with ‘I Will Always Love You’”, the faint sound of the radio could be heard by the both of them. They locked eyes, Eddie taking the hint and moving the dial to raise the volume.
“Sing for me baby”. He could never deny his mom’s request.
“And I will always love you”
“I will always love you”
He sang softly, his mom weakly joining in.
“Bitter-sweet memories”
“That's all I'm taking with me”
“Good-bye, please don't cry”
Those lyrics hit differently for the both of them now, and they knew it. What was once a sweet country song now had the biggest metaphor for her life.
“And I hope life, will treat you kind”
“And I hope that you have all
That you ever dreamed of”
“Oh I do wish you joy”
“And I wish you happiness”
“But above all this
I wish you love”
His mind is transported back to 2 years ago, his mom repeating the same words, clear as day. He would’ve never thought his mom would have to wish him that as she lay there in hospital taking her last breaths.
“I will always love you”
She barely breathes out the final line of the song, the final chord of the song being strummed, as she announces:
“Goodbye baby boy”, a weak smile gracing her lips before she closes her eyes.
A long and loud beep could be heard throughout the entire room.
Everything flashed before his eyes: nurses rushing in checking her heartbeat and pulse, the screams ripping from his own mouth, his dad holding him back away from the bed, practically wrestling him. He continued fighting, ears feeling clogged up before he clearly heard the words:
“Evelyn Jane Boyd. Time of death: 18:24”.
“No!”, he screams, “Do something! Please!”, he knew it was no use, but he couldn’t stop the words pouring out.
“I’m so sorry for your loss sir”, the nurse turned and directed towards James.
He completely ignored her, wrestling the boy in his arms and dragging him out from behind the curtain.
“Let’s go son!”, he shouted right into Eddie’s ear.
Eddie continued to fight against his dad, and knowingly failed. His breathing was uneven, tears staining his round cheeks, arms punching his dad’s.
It felt like a blur, a bad nightmare, and all he needed was someone to wake him up.
He knew it would happen as soon as he got in the front door. Five hits to the face.
“Your mother is dead boy, DEAD, all because you have behaved like a little brat since the day you were born. Learning a useless fucking instrument instead of learning how to defend yourself, making friends with girls, probably playing dolls and dress up with them in class, ignoring every single fucking toy we bought you, making your mother waste her time and energy to buy you new ones. All of this, the tiredness, the headaches, the weakness, is because of you, and you should feel extremely ashamed to bring death on your own mother”.
He knew it wasn’t his fault. She raised him amazingly, made him feel safe, warm, loved, the complete opposite of what his father provided him. He should keep his mouth shut, but he wasn’t going to let his father blame his mother’s passing on him, no way in hell.
“This is not my fault! Mom was exhausted from caring for me and working, working way too much. I’m not going to let you blame this on me. Mom died less than an hour ago and you haven’t even let me mourn her before yelling and hitting me, trying to make me feel as if I’m the reason for this. I’m not, and I never will be”.
James was shocked at his son’s reply, stunned even. Never in his life had Eddie talked back to him with such force, he was at a loss for words.
“You continue thinking that son. I can’t be dealing with your disgusting behaviour and tone right now, not after what just happened. Just fuck off and go to your room”.
He should’ve fought back, he should gave him the biggest smack of his life for the attitude his son just gave to him, but he couldn’t. He was turning weak, letting his son tread all over him like a piece of meat. He’d have to bring it harsher punishments, restrictions. He won’t let his son speak to him that way again.
Eddie practically fell face first into his mattress, sobbing into the sheets. He threw his denim jacket over to the other side of his room, not caring that it knocked over his stack of books. He hit anything he could, his bed, his arms, his head, anything in reach. He had never felt so much pain in his life.
He cried himself to sleep that night. He couldn’t care about his routine, it brought back to many memories of his mom helping him. He did the only activity she was never there for: sleeping.
MARCH 18TH 1976
Freak.
It took one week before three boys in Eddie’s class started using that word on him. Word spreads fast around a small town, and between the lack of Eddie’s mother picking him up from school and various customers of the farm asking where Evelyn was, it was bound to be found out by everyone quickly, including kids.
He was just minding his own business during recess, his friend Jennifer hanging out with her girl friends today (not knowing that she was in fact ignoring him after she found out about his mom), so he was all alone. Perched on a bench at the side of the playground finishing up his copy of “Lord of the Rings”, feeling content, something he had not felt much of this past week, until those boys snatched the copy from his hand.
“Whatcha got there, freak?”, one of them aimed their comment at him.
“Look at how many words are in this thing! What a freakin’ nerd”, another remarked, the three of them laughing together.
A sad frown appeared on his face as he reached out to grab his book back, “Can you just give it back please?”, tears threatening to spill down his face. It didn’t take much to set him off these days.
“Aww, gonna go cry to your mommy? Oh wait, you don’t have one no more”, they hollered and sniggered at him. He was in so much shock. Sure, he never had many friends, but nobody treated him like this, let alone targeted him due to his mom’s passing.
They threw his book down onto the muddy floor and ran off laughing. Eddie picked it up, tears streaming down his face. The pages were redeemable, but not for a few hours, he have to let it dry first, unable to read the words at this moment. He left the page open next to him, brought his knees up to his chest, and sobbed violently.
JUNE 7TH 1978
Eddie hadn’t opened his report card yet, but he knew it would be bad. Middle school was not treating him lightly, and with grief still hitting him like a truck, his grades slipped, a lot. He was never the brighest student, struggling with Math and History; his mom used to help him with those two subjects, keeping his grades steady at a C+. But now even subjects he used to enjoy, such as English and Art, were slipping.
He couldn’t focus on anything, the trauma from his mom’s death still haunting him two years later. All of his teachers at the last parent-teacher conference repeated the same eight words to his dad: “Eddie just needs to try a little harder”. And boy did he try. He really did. But nothing in the world could make him focus on the boring words of his math teacher drowning on about algebra.
He knew he most likely flunked every class, the highest he probably got was a D in Art, and that was mainly due to the fact that he could draw, he just didn’t draw what the teacher wanted. Why would he wanna practice watercolour when he could do some detailed drawings of wizards and dragons?
He heard the front door slam, signalling his dad’s arrival home. The past two years had not been easy on Eddie, his dad still holding a grudge against him for apparently causing his mom’s death. He knew he was gonna get beat again in the next 10 minutes, but he had gotten used to the pain now. It wasn’t nice, he knew it was wrong, but no amount of fighting back would solve the issue, in fact, it would just make it ten times worse. So he let it happen.
“Um, dad? I received my report card today”, he looked up at him ready for his constant angry reaction. Eddie could not wash a plate properly at this point and a red mark would be on his face.
“Well, let’s see if it’s any better than when I last spoke to your teachers.. I highly doubt it”, he spat at him, another insult.
Not even two seconds later and his dad’s hands were holding him by the collar of his plaid shirt.
“What the fuck do you think this is?”, he yelled at him.
Eddie scanned the paper: an F in every subject.
“I-I’m sorry sir, I promise I tried my hardest!”, and that was a truthful answer. He did try his hardest, but he could not keep himself focused on anything, apart from his love of fantasy books and drawing mythical creatures.
Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap.
“That’s one hit for every subject you failed. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into that dumb brain of yours. I expect more from you son, your mother would too”. He was known to bring his mom up everytime he did something wrong, from spending too long reading to having a panic attack, always saying she would be disappointed in him. He knew she wouldn’t, but it still affected him.
He slowly walked to his room in silence. He felt like the whole world was against him. Maybe he deserved to live a shitty life, maybe that was his destiny. He was unplanned after all, it’s not like he was meant to be here in the first place.
DECEMBER 24TH 1978
Christmas Eve. Before his mom died, they used to have a tree that the two of them would decorate at the start of December. Now for a third year running, the house remains bare. Where every other house on the street had Christmas lights that lit up the outside, there’s remained in total darkness.
Eddie was making up the soup his mom taught him how to make. His dad never cooked for him, the only food he ever offered him was a box of fries from the McDonalds drive thru. His dad sat on the couch, bottle of tequila in hand, legs resting on the coffee table in front of him as he watched some boring evening comedy show consisting of the same racist and sexist jokes it had every week.
A knock on the door startled Eddie as he left the chopped vegetables and attended to the door. The people who stood outside were the furthest from what he had expected: 2 police offers and an older woman dressed in a black skirt and white button up.
One of the police officers spoke up first, “Hey kid, is your dad there?”
Before Eddie could answer, James was up off the couch and walking towards the door, “What the hell are you doing here?”.
“Perfect, Mr. Munson, you are under arrest for the theft of four vehicles, anything you say can and will be used against you in the Court of Law. Now turn around for us please”, the other officer announced.
The officers basically turned James around for him as they pinned his arms behind his back and handcuffed him. Eddie could hear the yelling of his dad as the officers took him to the police car. His eyes diverted to the woman standing in front of him as she spoke to him, “Hey Eddie, my name is Betty, your dad is gonna be locked away for a long time okay? He did some awful things that could not go unpunished”.
“Grand theft auto right?”, she sadly nodded at him. “Makes sense, taught me how to hotwire as a kid. I knew it was wrong, but he basically manipulated me into doing it, said it was part of “becoming a man” or something”.
She looks back at him with the same sad expression in her eyes, “I’m so sorry to hear that darlin’, but he’s gonna be locked away now, 10 years at least, probably more. Now, we contacted immediate family and your Uncle Wayne has agreed to take you in up in Indiana. I know this is all quite sudden and a shock to you, but I want you to go and grab as many things you feel suitable for the move, and then we’ll drive up to Hawkins okay? It’ll probably take around 5 hours so we should get there by 7 tonight. Sound good to you?”.
He stood there in shock before slowly nodding and saying, “Yeah, um, alright, I’ll go grab my things”.
He makes his way into his room and grabs as many things as he can: clothes, books, toys, sketchpads, posters from his wall. He begins to bring it out to the woman and apologises, “Sorry, I don’t have anything to store it in”.
She smiles, “That’s okay honey, we can just store it all in the trunk of the car and then when we get there, pile it all into your Uncle’s house”.
He nods again before making his way back to grab the final pieces from his room. He is about to make his way across the living room, but stops and takes a de-tour towards his parent’s room. His mom’s guitar is still perched in the corner of the room, exactly where he found it when he first located it at 7 months old. He picks it up and brings it out with him.
Once everything is stored in the trunk, him and Betty get in the front seats and she starts up the engine.
“Ready to go honey?”, she asks him politely.
“Yeah, I guess I am”, a wave of uncertainty joining his tone.
Most people would be saddened that they’re having to move across the country at 12, their dad is being locked up and their mom died when they were 9, but it felt weirdly freeing for Eddie. Despite moving to a whole new town in a whole new state with a family member he’s never even met, it’s the happiest moment he’s experienced in the last 3 years of his life.
Betty drove into a local trailer park and up to one of the small homes. An older man stood outside, who he assumed was his uncle. He could see the resemblance between his dad and him, similar facial features, with Wayne wearing a red plaid shirt and grey jeans, paired with some brown boots.
The two of them got out of the car, Betty walking up to Wayne and greeting him, before Wayne made his way over to him.
“Hey kid, sorry this is what my place looks like. Haven’t really got the money to be livin’ some place more fancy I ‘spose”, his voice was deeper than his father’s, but had the same strong Southern accent.
“It’s okay, would much rather live here with you than a big house with an asshole as a father”, he chuckled nervously.
Betty interrupted the awkwardness by saying, “Right, shall we move all your stuff inside Eddie?”. He nodded as the three of them unloaded the car.
As they brought Eddie’s belongings into the living room, Wayne apologised again and said, “This place is only a one bedroom, so I moved all my stuff from in there so you could have it. Can’t let a 12 year old boy be sleepin’ on the couch”.
Eddie wanted to offer to take the couch himself, but knew Wayne would deny it, he seemed like too good of a guy to take up Eddie’s suggestion.
Once all the stuff was brought in, Betty said her goodbyes to the two of them and wished him all the best, leaving Wayne and Eddie to themselves.
“Okay kid, I’m gonna leave you to decorate your room how you want. If you need any help, just give me a shout okay?”.
Help. He was offering help.
Eddie tried not to let the emotions get to him as he replied, “Thank you Wayne, but I think I’ll be fine”, he was not used to someone helping him.
“Okay, but if you do, I’m only a call away”, he says as he walks back towards the couch.
Eddie looks around the room. It’s small, but feels weirdly homely. He puts his books and sketchpads on the dresser and piles his clothes into the built-in wardrobe. A massive record player was left at the back, he’d have to build up his collection in the future. Finally, he balanced the acoustic guitar against the end of the bed.
Eddie then flopped onto the sheets. The tears once again began to form, but this time not from sadness, but instead happiness.
He felt happy. Happy he was away from his shitty dad who abused him every day, away from the kids who judged him for his mom passing away, away from the school teachers who picked on him for his lack of concentration. He never had to go back there. He was finally free, he finally felt he belonged here.
He was home.
authors note: thank you so much for reading! as i said before, this is my first ever fanfic i’ve written, i kinda got carried away :’) i just wanted this to be as fleshed out as possible as i had so many ideas!
#eddie munson#edward munson#eddie munson dad#eddie munson mom#wayne munson#eddie munson childhood#joseph quinn#joe quinn#stranger things#stranger things 4#stranger things fic#eddie munson fic#eds6ngel
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1, 18, 22, 39 for the writers ask thingy!! <3
What font do you write in? Do you actually care or is that just the default setting?
i used to be a calibri truther (in that i could never be bothered to change it) and a tnr hater but now i could make out with times new roman for the rest of my life
Choose a passage from your writing. Tell me about the backstory of this moment. How you came up with it, how it changed from start to end. Spicy addition: Questioner provides the passage.
The heroes have died. Because the heroes always die. The heroes die a thousand times over. Killed by villainy, killed by misfortune masquerading as fate, killed by love, killed by their own damn selves. And they're killed a thousand different times. Their minds go first, melting slowly into a choppy sea of guilt and fear and loss, so much fucking loss, then their hearts harden into husks, turning into crumbling stone and falling through the chasms of their chests for hours until it hits rock bottom and tumbles into oblivion where it just keeps falling, then the souls crack and shatter and skid across the earth with a screech of something once good and now gone, and the body's the last to go, the one thing keeping them walking through that burning inferno of life, the hurricane of hurt and happiness and saving and scorning and losing and losing and losing, the body goes last, the bones breaking one by one in a cacophony of silent agony, screams muffled by choked desires for death, so close, so close, too far, and the blood pours out in streams, scarlet has never looked prettier than when it's painting a sidewalk or the wound of a sacrificial lamb raised for slaughter, a stroke of deep red exactly where it's supposed to be on the canvas, and the pain means nothing, the pain means nothing but an end, because the pain is just a prelude to their peace, their final, well-deserved peace.
this is the first paragraph of the epilogue to the first ever story i finished and idk i just love it. because the epilogue is a pretty happy ending but the story's really dark and the characters have been through so much so i wanted this final bit of happiness offset by the obvious pain of the character narrating it. at first it was a lot shorter and consisted of only the main points but i just wanted her anger and frustration to tumble through so i dragged the sentences out to ridiculous lengths and filled them with all the bad i could and idk i just love that this is the beginning of a happy ending.
How organized are you with your writing? Describe to me your organization method, if it exists. What tools do you use? Notebooks? Binders? Apps? The Cloud?
i have literally never not once been organised about my writing my whole entire life <3 no but um every now and then when im trying to procratinate writing i'll give my onenotes a little organise and that's like my main one for writing actual chunks of floaty prose i have no idea what they're for, google keep is for tiny little ideas and sometimes ill scribble bullshit down on scraps of paper in the middle of the night when i dont want to turn my screens on and then i'll either 1) not be able to find it in the morning or 2) not be able to read my own handwriting
What keeps you writing when you feel like giving up?
oof god idek bc i am fighting for my life against the worst writers block ive ever had atm, normally my block consists of zero ideas but ive got so many my brain just will not put out words anymore. but i guess just the fact that even when its frustrating i know that my writing is like the biggest part of me and what i would define myself by because its just always been there and its what i want to do, although i dont know if I've ever actually wanted to give up. its more me being angry that i cant do it today so just counting down the seconds until i can again.
#sami answers#thank you so much for asking#the passage one was so fun to do but it took me so long to choose lol
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Can you do a rating on child animatronics like you did with the clowns
i sure can
welcome to animatronic nightmare preschool
theres a trend ive discussed about spirit before where all their female animatronics tend to be either the “old hag” type, or “creepy little girl” - and now that im thinking about it i actually couldn’t think of any boy characters ive ever seen. i dont know why this is exactly. theres something to analyze there but im not really sure what it is. i found a few but almost ALL of them are little girls. i dont know what to say about this but i did notice it
there IS a boy in this group though:
ring around the rosie
enter the ritual
just some nice kids having a fun time. it may be cliché at this point but i love the “spooky nursery rhyme” trope anyway (and y’know, ring around the rosie was already creepy to begin with. im not sure if the theory that it’s really about the black plague is actually true but its still highly questionable to include the line “ashes, ashes, we all fall down” in a childrens rhyme with no explanation either way)
for some reason the fact that none of them have hands and its just their sleeves tied together is really funny to me and i dont know why. they also dont have feet and im not sure if its a technical limitation for convenience purposes or if they’re supposed to be little ghost children but it definitely comes across like they’re little ghost children who tied their sleeves together to try to feel like they’re holding hands which is very cute. 10/10 big fan of this one
i already mentioned harriet hustle in this post, shes fantastic
angeline
i LOVE this one shes SO cute
i dont really understand how she's supposed to be scary, the description is like "she'll scare the lights out of your guests" or w/e but like, she's just. a kid who can see ghosts. she herself isn't even a ghost. i like her id adopt her i think she'd be a fun addition to a graveyard scene 10/10
abandoned annie
ok technically this one is a doll but im counting her anyway, shes one of my FAVORITE spirit animatronics bc A) i love creepy dolls B) shes cute and most importantly C) her entire fucking face unhinges i need y’all to watch the video on this one its so good 12/10 ive said this before but animatronics that do something completely fucking unexpected are my absolute favorite
broken girl
completely batshit. horrifying. shes actually initially standing upright and then snaps backward and screams and the image does not do it justice i highly recommend the video for this one. not much there as a Character but as “really effective way to scare the shit out of someone” its, i would imagine, incredibly effective. 9/10
there’s also menacing molly who looks similar and has the same kind of “facing away from you but then snaps backward” scare but is on a swing and sings “I see dead people, I see ghosts 💖i see the things that hate you the most” before she does her jumpscare which is incredibly funny to me
double trouble
creepy little girl trope meets creepy twins trope, at first glance i thought this was just like, discount grady twins (which it looks like they also have, in blatant knockoff form. they’re uh, not good) but it looks like their description backstory is that they killed their mother and disappeared with their rumored-insane father so its slightly different. one of their phrases is “daddy says we have to play outside :( he doesnt want any more blood on the floor” and i love it
they have a pretty good sense of personality and character to them even if its not necessarily groundbreaking. 7/10
ellie hatchet
i love this one bc so many of the creepy little girl animatronics are just pretty much standing there being creepy but not ellie. she’s fucking DONE with all of you. you come near her she will swing an axe at your face. 6/10 not really a big stand out but i appreciate her undying rage
lunging lily
shes spooky. she jumps out at you. thats about it. i dont really have anything to say about this one. that sure is a creepy little girl that jumpscares you. i like that she goes “help me... help me...” before she jumps out but i feel like it would be hard to get the timing right for that to actually work as a lure to make guests curious where the sound’s coming from since most of these are motion activated. anyway 6/10 shes just not very interesting
johnny punk
one of the rare boy characters, i have actually seen him in store and just completely forgot about him because he was that uninteresting. he doesn’t really do much and his backstory on site is just like, “He's got a nice house, loving parents and a severe attitude problem.”
like this isn’t an undead child back for revenge against those who wronged him or a crazed circus runaway or anything. he’s just a bratty kid. hes like a 13 year old who just saw Joker and has decided to make it his entire personality. this comes across less as a threatening figure and more just like some shitty kid who thinks he’s cool. i glanced at the comments on the wiki page and it turns out absolutely everyone hates him which is completely hilarious to me
2/10 nobody likes you johnny go do your homework and apologize to your mother
i also found limb eating zombie boy, who is considerably better
gross. bloody. would probably be pretty effective if you had him like, placed among some boxes or something so people dont see him at first and aren’t expecting him there. pretty standard zombie. i dont have much to say. He’s Fine. 6/10
mommy’s favorite
ive seen this one in the stores several times, I think we have her there now, and i just don’t. get it? she just moves back and forth with the “shhh” gesture and it’s like, ok, she’s vaguely creepy, but what’s going on here. she just says “don’t wake my mommy! she’s been sleeping for a long time!” so i guess the implication is that her mother is dead and she doesn’t understand, which is just sad rather than scary. the description says she makes mommy’s tea just how she likes it with five drops from the special skull bottle, which could imply she killed her mom, which would make more sense as a horror character, but if that’s How Mommy Likes It that implies the mother instructed her daughter to unknowingly poison her, which is horrifying but in a way darker sense than a spooky halloween prop lmfao
anyway if i have to go digging into descriptions to try to figure out what this character is or what shes supposed to be or anything i just dont feel like its a very effective character design. and i did read it and i still dont really get it. 2/10 i just feel like im missing something here
anyway there’s a bunch more variations of “scary possessed child” that are all basically the same, so im just gonna close this out with:
swinging skeletal boy
allo there, guvna
look at this dapper little victorian child im gonna cry he’s so cute
he just swings but has this surprisingly endearing soft little voice which COMPLETELY contrasts the weird shit he actually says. hes this precious little skeleton kid with a sweet little voice who goes “your skin is so nice :) can i have it? haha. that’s okay. I’ll take it when you’re sleeping”
absolutely love animatronics with that “wait WHAT did that thing just say” factor to them i love this guy 11/10 good boy my new son
i would also like to mention that people are also continuing to dunk on johnny punk in this guy’s comment section too fsadkflj people hate that shitty joker kid so much their hatred has bled into other completely unrelated swinging children
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lightness
jang hanseo character study kinda fic i promised. i'm not sure if this is a character study anymore. i have no idea what this became. anyway! i wanted to explore hanseo and give him a bit of a backstory, so here it is!
*deep breath* content warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, physical abuse, blood, injury, canonical character death (not hanseo), recreational drug use, underage drug use, implied drug abuse
word count: 1866
read on ao3
hope you like it!
-
When Jang Hanseo is seven, he is acquainted with elder brother. Regal; nine-years-old and already hunting.
He still hides behind their father with him when he pretends to be terrified of the sound of gunfire.
Hanseo says nothing. He never brings up how his brother had thrown the bloodied rabbit and his rifle to the servant attending him, never brings up how thoroughly he washed his hands to hide the evidence of his independence from his father.
Never brings up how his brother assessed him with just a look and nothing more.
The first words Jang Hanseo’s brother says to him are as follows:
“Don’t call me hyung.”
Jang Hanseo blinks, traces his eyes over the leather of his brother’s jacket, over the blood that drips from his gloves, over the rifle he holds in his hands. He smiles.
“Okay, hyung-nim!”
A scoff, but some appraisal. Jang Hanseo doesn’t understand the half-smile he receives that autumn afternoon, but he remembers it until he beats his brother with a hockey stick, striking his head trice ‘til he’s out and his back once just for good measure, just to see the blood coming up to his mouth for him to choke on.
-
The first time his brother hits him, Jang Hanseo is eight. The ice rink is dark, and his brother is more geared up than he is.
Jang Hanseo misses thrice, scores once. He is rewarded with a swipe of the hockey stick on the back of his calf, and he thinks it is a game.
For that, he is rewarded with his first broken bone and a seared memory of a hand heavy on his throat. A laugh without mercy.
-
When Jang Hanseo is thirteen, he is offered alcohol at a party his father is hosting.
He declined, having seen first-hand what alcohol does to you, what a rage it puts his father in as he breaks porcelain, the scar he left on his mother’s cheek that lasted till the day she died.
-
When Jang Hanseo is fourteen, his brother kills four people. Classmates, he tells him, when he comes home with red speckled on his face. They weren’t worthy of being my classmates.
-
Jang Hanseo celebrates his fifteenth birthday with the diagnosis of his brother being a psychopath and accidentally tearing open the letter of a one-way ticket to the United States.
Instead of cake, he consumes his own blood, and instead of a pat on the back, he has a dislocated shoulder.
When he wakes a day later hooked to an IV, his brother is gone. The phantom of his laugh lives on, searing long into Hanseo’s conscience.
-
At fifteen-and-a-half, his father sends Hanseo to his grandmother’s for the summer. His father is undergoing a trial, on the charges of bribery, abetting murder, and perjury. With one son shipped off to the States and another to Jeju Island, he has no pawns he will feel ill about sacrificing. It’s not that he loves them. It’s that letting your son die because the ransom money you can very well afford would require you to take some shares out, and that’s too tedious of a process to go through.
So Jang Hanseo boards the short flight, stares out of the window for the longest one hour and fifteen minutes of his life so far. He’s never met his grandmother.
He wonders if she’s like his father, knowing she’s raised him, or if she’s worse.
She’s leagues different from anyone in his family.
Halmeoni scans him up and down when the driver drops him off at her estate. At the front door itself, she says, “We have a lot of fixing-up to do.”
It leaves an impression, that’s for sure.
-
The best summer of his life, Hanseo learns how to uproot weeds and catch a chicken without screaming like his life was being threatened. His halmeoni owns a farm, some 150 acres of greenery and animal and mansion.
Halmeoni teaches him first how to eat well, how to fill his plate and not feel bad about it, how to overeat and regret it. Halmeoni teaches him second that he is the most important person to himself; never his father, and not his hyung-nim.
Halmeoni teaches him third that he has no one else in the world but himself.
This, Jang Hanseo remembers the most.
(But his brother’s —)
-
With his brother’s absence, an anxiety sets into Hanseo’s veins so intensely that upon looking up his symptoms, he sees words like psychosis and personality disorder and promptly closes his laptop shut.
Unbidden, but not unwelcome, he remembers the rages his father fell into. He remembers the embers of gold in those small wide glasses that abeoji owned, remembers the crates of bottles that they used to have moved into the house. He also recalls the putrid smoke that used to emerge from the study. The smell of something burnt and something that made him cough so hard it alerted his father of his presence.
It’s in the boys washroom that he smells the scent again. By the open window, out curls smoke.
Jang Hanseo catches the eye of the assailant. Oh Yeonwoo will get him into this mess and then out. He will be Hanseo’s first true friend.
-
Jang Hanseo tries it for the first time on the terrace of the school. One joint between the two of them and nothing but heaving coughs from him until he learns how to take air after smoke and allow its natural passage back up. The joint is over by then, and Hanseo feels nothing.
Yeonwoo bumps their shoulders together, carelessly tossing the filter over the railing of the terrace. “You’ll get the hang of it,” He assures. “I didn’t even make it after a couple of joints, so you’re doing better than me already.”
Hanseo lends him a half-smile. Better than him, he thinks. When have I ever been better than anyone?
“Hanseo-yah, what’re you thinking with that scowl, hm?” Yeonwoo bumps their shoulders together again. “You’re so scary when you space out.”
“I am?”
Yeonwoo nods again. Hanseo notes something hazy in his eyes, something completely unguarded in his demeanour. He blinks cautiously.
“Hanseo-yah,” Yeonwoo whines, “Stop staring at me.”
“I’m not,” He replies. “Are —” Are you okay? Hanseo was going to ask. Stupid. Yeonwoo has settled against his shoulder now, humming some tune. He stretches his legs out in front of him and sways his feet to the rhythm. He seems better than okay.
So this is what it does, Hanseo thinks. Lightness. He wants to be light.
-
And so, Jang Hanseo, age sixteen, falls into something whose magnitude he cannot guess. Addiction is only the half of it. The other half had started the day Yeonwoo showed him something called shotgunning, which had taken his first kiss and his first experience with intoxication whose harm had lasted longer than its euphoria.
When he lies beside Yeonwoo, all too hot and all too cold, unable to distinguish which fingers are his when they hold hands, he finds it. The lightness. When Yeonwoo turns and exhales into his neck, prickling sweat and prickling hair to stand on edge, Hanseo smiles.
And when Hanseo wakes up, the dread in his gut is deeper than it’s ever been.
(— his brother’s —)
-
So it seems that boys with no family and boys with brothers who know nothing but violence and boys with a terrible, terrible blankness to them can also, by some grace of humanity, fall in love. And so it seems, as Hanseo feels the telltale thumping of his heart and lightness in his abdomen, that Yeonwoo will keep having this effect on him.
Subtlety, Yeonwoo tells him, the afternoon they sit on the roof and stare at the sky and at the smoke. Subtlety will let you get away with everything.
Subtle touches, then. Hanseo’s fingers lingering a moment too long on Yeonwoo’s arm, Hanseo’s hand firm between his shoulder blades. Subtle words, and subtle smiles, and subtle smoke between their mouths as they chase lightness.
Subtle kisses, too, when Hanseo feels he can see his own eyes in Yeonwoo’s, when Hanseo still finds the thrill of sealing his lips with Yeonwoo’s to be a minefield of his own feelings. Subtle kisses that Yeonwoo always blackens — drags them down into teeth and tongue and desire. Hanseo doesn’t know, then, that this is what differentiates them. What puts him on a curved, unshapely parabola and Yeonwoo on a straight line.
Feral, Hanseo once thinks, his gaze only slightly unclouded, as Yeonwoo bites at his lips, his neck. Feral, in the way he never kisses to coax Hanseo’s mouth open; never to cherish feeling. Only to chase after something so much deeper.
-
At seventeen, Jang Hanseo implodes from heartbreak.
Transfer student. Short, ebony hair, in that oh-so-timeless straight bob. He has a nice smile, even Hanseo can tell, and he has a charming walk. He’s also assigned a seat beside him. This, of all things, was the catalyst.
Yeonwoo didn’t want to kiss him anymore. Yeonwoo wanted to smoke with him, but Yeonwoo also bought a new companion along with him. Yeonwoo, it seemed, never wanted what Hanseo did. Yeonwoo, it seemed, never felt the way Hanseo did.
Hanseo knows that he knew, somewhere, beneath what his world had become, that this would not stand for long. Its foundations were, in the end, smoke.
-
But it does not surprise him, Hanseo thinks, seventeen and a quarter, something vile in his veins. It does not surprise him that he’s here.
His head hits, dully, the floor under him. He laughs. And he laughs some more, as the world turns from dust to sky to ocean. And he waits for the servants to find him in his father’s study.
-
They tell him that he’s lucky, later, in the hospital. Jang Hanseo thinks this is what death feels like, on the verge of eighteen. He states blinking at the ceiling. Hospital rooms are white on all six sides, and heaven is supposed to be white on all six sides as well. He wants to laugh, so he does.
And it hurts.
Hanseo stops laughing.
(— his brother’s laugh —)
-
Hanseo laughs. Ten years past, ten years perished, Hanseo laughs until his heart hurts. His brother’s heart is still beating. His blood is still warm, the three hits to his head and one to his back hadn’t kept him down. Hanseo laughs as the blood splatters on his face, sprinkled red on his chin and lips, a sprinkled red dancing in his eyes as he brings the hockey stick down, down, down.
For everything Hanseok has made him — less, more, just enough. For all these little things that had changed Hanseo more than broken bones could. For lost love. For things that weren’t, in the end, Hanseok’s fault.
Hanseo beats him till his heart stops fighting back and the blood pooled in his mouth flows quietly. Till Hanseo feels no fight left in him, and then some, till the exhaustion in him takes over.
Hanseo slumps over his brother’s dead body, and Hanseo laughs.
(But his brother’s laugh will always be louder.)
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The Merge
Kai Parker x Female Reader/Character
Word Count: 1687
Warnings: typical tvd themes, the merge (not fluff, not smut, there’s a sentence of angst but its not much, mostly just toxic friendship)
Summary: “V” took Kai out of his prison world with a condition that they’d stick together. She helps him find his family and prepare for the merge. ((read part I – IV of the series to understand the backstories))
***since y’all like the one shots better than the series, I’m gonna write one shots for female readers under the name V for what I would’ve/will write in the series***
-
V and Kai have been out of the prison world for a few weeks. She got him out under the conditions that they would stick together no matter what, and that’s what she was doing, sticking by him.
Kai explained his plans to V when they got there and put together a plan. She knew his true motives, and she wanted to help.
While they prepared, trained, and got everything ready they stayed at motels but were mostly busy with the plan and didn’t see each other very often. The motel they were staying at only had one bed. They checked in in the middle of the night when they got back, “queen room fine?” asked the clerk, “absolutely,” Kai responded in his dramatically sarcastic tone.
“Hope sleeping in the same bed as me doesn’t scare you off… I’m a violent sleeper,” he joked with big eyes.
“Better than sleeping in vamp infested woods with a violent sleeper… I think I’ll be fine,” V responded with the same dramatics.
There were a few nights Kai had woken up in the middle of the night or before V and had intrusive thoughts come into his mind of killing her, not that he really wanted to. When he woke up one morning with his hand resting on her throat, he decided to sleep on the couch instead. He might have been a proclaimed sociopath, but he had morals for killing, and killing people who help him weren’t on that list. It scared him, but he ignored it.
V had the gift of seeing behind people and what they say their motives are, which is part of the reason Kai didn’t scare her. She knew why he started sleeping on the couch but didn’t bother to tell him she knew, just like she knew where he went during the day to antagonize his family, but still didn’t bother to confront him about it. She already knew why and what he was doing.
She liked pushing boundaries with him. To see how far he’d really go or what he’d do if she didn’t act scared or flinch even an inch at the things, he’d say to get a rise out of her. She liked seeing how he’d react to her affections, knowing he hadn’t experienced much of it.
When he started sleeping on the couch, she would sometimes join him, walking over to him with a blanket around her shoulders and laying on top of or next to him under the blanket. She liked how he’d tense up until he fell back asleep, nervous to put his arms around her. Sometimes she’d tell him she had a bad dream and say, “this is the part you put your arms around me,” when he wouldn’t.
They were best friends who loved pushing each other’s buttons.
V found his twin for him and told him where she worked, she found this out through gullible Elena. She didn’t question him about his whereabouts when he found out either, she knew this too.
They made another deal with each other when they started playing out their plan – if either of them was going to be out, they have to tell the other how many hours they’d be gone before the other should start worrying, and the general location they’d be, just in case anything went wrong. They didn’t have to explain what they were doing, they actually preferred if the other didn’t know, it worked perfectly.
When Kai disappeared for longer than he said he’d be gone, V knew to worry. She went to the cemetery he said he’d be around and saw Damon, the person who sent her to the prison world before her and Kai got out.
She hid behind a tree just enough so Kai could see her, but Damon couldn’t. Through the Earth, V sent Kai some of her magic to siphon, just enough so he could siphon the magic out of Mystic Falls that the travelers put there and free himself.
“How do you feel?” V asked Kai when they got back to the motel.
“I feel…. Really good,” he responded, “I soaked up a lot of magic,” he chuckled.
“Do you know how to use it?” She asked, “I can’t even imagine how much magic was in that spell.”
Kai jittered and sat down, “I uh… I should probably practice, you know? Make sure I can control it.”
“Let’s practice then,” V said.
He looked up at her when she said, “push me with your magic.”
“I don’t know if I can control it—” she cut him off, “I can handle it, I can’t die, remember?”
“Remember we can’t hurt each other though, that’s the pact,” he said. Kai was a lot of things, but deal breaking wasn’t usually one of them.
She stood in front of him and pushed his head playfully before getting on his lap with both legs on either side of his, “we said no fighting, this isn’t fighting, it’s practicing.” She pushed his shoulders back and pinched his face to annoy him, “come on, do something to get me off of you,” she played.
He grabbed her arms, “I can’t practice on you,” he spoke to her with an almost serious tone for the first time.
She grabbed his biceps and shocked him with her magic before sending burning waves up his arms, making his face turn in pain.
“Fight back,” she said, “or I’ll go hotter.”
Kai squeezed her biceps as she squeezed his and tried sending the magic she was using on him back to her, but it didn’t work.
“Try harder,” she said.
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can, you have to focus,” she sent warmer magic through his arms and down his chest making him groan. “Make me stop at least once, you’re not gonna hurt me, you got this, focus on sending me the pain.”
With that encouragement Kai was successful not only in sending the magic she was using back to her, but sending it back more intensely, causing a sensation of being on fire for a couple of seconds.
When he heard her wince and felt her arms go limp, he knew it worked and quickly pushed her off of him to stand up, not knowing if he could stop if they were still touching.
She let out a “whoof” breath and chuckled, “you did it,” she looked at him, “why the long face?”
He stared at her like he just killed a puppy, “I need someone else to practice on.”
“Kai, it worked, what’s the problem?” she asked.
“I just need someone else to practice on, I’ll be back tonight,”
“Wait, I think I know who you can use,” she said, stopping him from rushing out and finding a random person.
“Elena Gilbert. She’s always pissed me off. When I found out vampires were in town she acted like I was crazy, now she is one. She never treated me how she treats everyone else, she’s still hung up on the fact that her brother confided in me instead of her,” V said, “everyone’s always saving her and letting others die for her own life. I think she could be put in her place a little better.”
Kai was always confused about why V was so helpful to him, another thing that scared him a little. It was unusual to him.
He practiced his magic on Elena at the high school after he left while V did her own thing, which usually included writing, drawing, or causing some chaos, until she got a call from Elena.
‘great,’ she rolled her eyes before she answered the phone.
“What?” she answered harshly.
“Kai just tortured me for hours,” Elena whined.
“Ok? How is that my problem?” V answered, knowing that all of them still didn’t know she had been with Kai this whole time.
“He’s on his way to the woods to complete the merge!” Elene blurted out.
“What,” she said with concern this time, “I’m on my way,” V left and went to try and stop Kai from doing the merge so soon.
She called him multiple times on her way, but he didn’t answer. When she had got there, Kai and Luke’s eyes were already white, and they were about to complete the merge.
Just when she was about to run up and stop them, they both fell back, and everybody stood like statues until Jo ran to help Luke.
V watched them both with wide eyes, looking for psychic signs that one of them has died or merged, but saw nothing.
After a few seconds of watching, she walked up to Kai. Everybody was watching Luke at this point, so V knelt down and put her hand on his chest, feeling for magic but felt none.
She teared up and tried blinking them away, shaking him by his shirt and saying his name before pressing her hand on his chest to transfer magic to him, waking him up.
His eyes darted open and he grabbed her wrist, sitting up silently. Nobody had noticed him yet. V sat behind him with her hand still on his chest when he turned around, “thanks, kid,” he whispered before he stood up.
Kai said some words to Jo before turning around and offering his hand to V before they walked off. They heard them ask, “did they just leave together,” but ignored it.
V drove them back to the motel and glanced at Kai every so often with worried expressions as he sat silently and wondered at his hands, “how do you feel now?” she asked.
“I feel good.. I feel.. different, I don’t know how to describe it,” he said in breaths.
“That’s good, I think,” V said still confused and paused for a few seconds to think, “we should get out of town, like, tonight, they’re going to look for us,”
“Don’t worry, I got it covered,” is all Kai said.
She looked over at him with a worried face again, “no really, we need to get out of town,” she was serious.
“I dunno, I kinda like it here,” he smiled ominously.
((read the next story for continuation of this one))
#kai parker#kai parker x reader#kai parker x you#kai parker imagine#kai parker series#kai parker fanfic#malachai parker#tvd#tvd au#tvd fanfiction#tvd series
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A longer bit feat.: Callie and Simon angst. :)
Talking with @drippingmoon got me thinking of some cornerstone scenes in the enemies-to-friends slow-burn I do with these two idiots and this one, I think, stands out as the dead-center point, so I’m gonna not second-guess myself and just post it. 🥴
Tagging @thelaughingstag too! (I remembered!)
Context: Callie broke into Delaney to steal an ancient magical artifact and, believing she meant nothing but harm, Simon stopped her. But while waiting for the cops to come and drag her back to prison, Simon asks her to just tell him the truth, once and for all. Callie agrees to let him read her mind all the way back to the beginning, thinking she’s got nothing left to live for. Simon gets hit with a truckload of tragic backstory he wasn’t prepared for and is asked to follow them back to Downing Bay, the prison she’s being held in.
They’re still mentally connected, even after Simon has let go. He can hear her, and she can hear him too, which definitely isn’t normal.
Word count: 3,200
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failure. failure. failure
She wasn’t even doing this on purpose and it wasn’t just the word reverberating through his skull.
More like a full-bodied feeling flooding his consciousness as he left Delaney, a steady stream of self-hatred punctuated only by expletives.
Stop, he begged her.
i can’t, you stop listening
I can’t.
She laughed, out loud in her cell. He heard it and felt it, over the miles that separated them, the ocean and metal and glass.
He’d overextended; that’s what caused this. It took him awhile to put it together because he’d been so upset - maybe even been in a mild state of shock, in retrospect - and he spent a lifetime being so careful with his powers that he’d never done it before to know what it was like.
And so that was bad, yes, but come on. How much longer could it last?
He was stepping onto the boat to Downing Bay when the pain started - hers, and not the torrent of existential agony he was struggling to adjust to but pain, physical and substantial.
What’s happening? he tried to ask, but it got lost - she could barely think, suddenly, let alone focus on sending him mental telegrams.
The cluster of metal buildings hovered threateningly on the horizon, and as they got closer, minds inside got louder, almost drowning Callie out. He wanted to tell them to turn around and take him away; the claustrophobia was overwhelming, the collective sense of being trapped.
The boat brought them underneath the smallest building; a scorched sign read Diagnostics in block letters with an arrow pointing up. What might’ve once been a loading dock was sectioned off with caution tape and hanging sadly down into the water, barely still attached to the rest of the infrastructure. They laid a make-shift bridge between the boat and platform to walk across.
Once inside, they asked him to empty his pockets and leave all his belongings in a small box.
“This stays with me,” he said, holding his Headmaster’s key, bronze and solid, in the palm of his hand.
“No, sir,” said the tired corrections officer, unaware of who he was. “All belongings.” She shook the plastic container for emphasis, rattling the rest of his stuff around.
“I’m the headmaster of Delaney of School for Magicians,” he said. “This is a master key and it doesn’t leave my neck. If you need to call your superiors about it, please do it, but I won’t leave it here.”
A few minutes later, he put the chain back around his neck, dropped the key down inside his shirt, and was escorted inside.
“No one’s suppressed me yet,” he said to one of prison officers. He waited until the last second; surely they knew their own duties better than he did. He didn’t wanna insult anyone, but they hadn’t done it and they were bringing him though thick, reinforced doors to the warden’s office and if not now, when?
“We’ve not been asked to, sir. This way.”
The warden smiled when Simon entered his office, waved everyone else away. He introduced himself as Warden Prescott and extended his hand - it was thin and cold when Simon shook it, despite the muggy warmth.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” he said. “How fares your school?”
“It’s seen worse. It looks like she hit this place harder, to be honest.”
The warden smiled, and Simon caught an image of a collection, varying people with differing characteristics on display in tiny boxes, one of them out of place. “Yes, she put on quite a show on her way out. Destroyed all our boats and did a significant amount of superficial damage, but nothing structural, thankfully.”
Of course not - living her memories alongside her showed him she made sure she didn’t hurt anyone, only crippled their ability to pursue her.
It was too warm in here and he wondered how the warden could be so buttoned up in thick polyester when he had to unbutton his own light jacket.
“A hearing will take place tomorrow morning and your presence will be required,” he began. “I suspect I know at least part of the reason why. News reached my ears that you behaved quite badly.” He made a tsk-tsk sound and shook his head at Simon like he was a naughty child.
“I did what I did,” he said flatly. “I shouldn’t have read her mind, and I accept the consequences for it, whatever they’ll be.”
“Oh, I meant absolutely no disrespect,” the warden said. “The opposite, in fact. I daresay if I had your powers, I’d like nothing more than to take a stroll through that mind of hers. She’s an interesting one. The fact that you did so might work to our advantage, in fact. You see, we’re in a bit of a bind with all this. May I speak plainly?”
“I wish you would,” he said. The warden was carrying his collection of dolls in his mind, all unique and valuable and distinctly dehumanized, and Callie’s thoughts were still flowing like a steady IV drip, making him feel irritable and short.
“Well, Mister Bennett, the facts are as such: we’ve got a limited testimony from you that the authorities will need expanded upon, that says you’ve seen the original crime in the first person, and your account differs wildly from the one she’s given. There are additional crimes stacked up past that - her escape from prison and attempted theft of an undisclosed item from your school. And the world wants to know how an infamous killer managed to become the first person in history to escape Downing Bay.”
“It’s a valid question for them to ask.”
“With an undesirable answer. But I think you’re in pain, Mister Bennett. Do you need a doctor?”
He was, but it wasn’t his own injuries that made wince.
“It’s her,” he groaned. “You’re hurting her, what are you doing?”
The warden sighed. “Come,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
He took Simon down the hall, into a sterile room filled with recording equipment and a solid wall of glass. On the other side of the it, Callie. She sat a bare table in prison scrubs, hands cuffed to its surface. IVs were inserted in both her arms, the needles taped down, liquid flowing from bags hanging behind her. The metal collar around her neck flashed blips of red, yellow and green, reminding him absurdly of a Christmas tree.
She bit her lip and shuffled restlessly, an involuntary response to the pain she was trying to ignore.
“You’ve got to stop this,” he said.
“To be fair, this isn’t what diagnostics usually looks like,” the warden said while he swallowed down a wave of sickness. “Typically, we focus on finding a long-term suppressive solution that both nullifies abilities and has minimal side effects for the prisoner. We are, unfortunately, in disaster minimization mode rather than long-term maintenance with your friend here.”
This was the strain being put on her body - the combination of every drug known to medicine that could hold back the expression of magic for any amount of time at all. “She’s not my friend,” he muttered. “Isn’t this unethical?”
“Should we allow all her power to rush back in so she can kill my people and escape again?”
“She’s not killing anyone,” Simon said with certainty.
“That’s not what she said a few hours ago,” the warden recalled. “We had no less than five guards trying to process her and she threatened their lives.”
Dammit. “What we you doing to her?”
“Attempting to place her segregation.”
He resisted the urge to groan in frustration, to punch the glass in front of him. “She didn’t mean it,” he muttered, not relishing the job of being her translator. “She’s terrified of solitary confinement, she just didn’t wanna go.”
“That’s unfortunate, given that we can’t very well place her back into general population. This is all that’s left, a quarantine unit, meant for contagious disease.”
On the other side of the glass, Callie squeezed her eyes shut and dropped her head. A fresh wave of pain ran over him too.
how much longer, how much more?
“How long can you keep this up, these stop-gap measures? Surely they won’t work forever.”
Warden Prescott raised his eyebrows. “These measures aren’t even working very well, Mister Bennett. I daresay if she wanted to, she could be gone before nightfall. I’m afraid she’s only here at her pleasure.”
Pleasure? He looked back at her in the next room, her face contorted. “You’re kidding me.”
“I wish I was,” Warden Prescott said, with a small smile. “We’re in the dark here, fumbling through uncharted territory without a map. She’s got my best techs feeling like children when they try to interpret the results of all this treatment. She’s a thing that isn’t supposed to exist: a hybrid. Focused magic and Eclectic, all at once.”
The implications of the warden’s words began to stack up in his already overtaxed mind and part of him thought, ridiculously, of a vacation. Of sitting on a beach with a book getting a suntan, drinking something with a slice of pineapple on the rim, smoking a cigarette or two or fifty - of not having a care in the world, for just a little while.
A hybrid, then. Focused and Eclectic.
He’d walked through her life with her and even she didn’t understand that, not really, not in such terms. She, and everyone else who knew what she’d done to Peter, had thought of it like an acquisition of new powers; not a fundamental genetic change.
Did Riley know this? Riley, who gathered Callie’s DNA and did extensive testing on it, who still had it?
“Has anybody been in touch with the family?” he asked, unwilling to explain why he was asking.
“I know someone’s reached out,” the warden said. “I don’t believe there was any reply.”
No, he supposed not. Riley would want nothing to do with any of this. Still, she had to be sweating, didn’t she? How could she know Callie still held up her end of their deal?
“I wonder,” Warden Prescott drawled, “if your trip through her mind was quite so extensive that if she were back inside your school, right now, you’d trust her not to hurt anyone.”
“It was,” he said. “And I would.”
He couldn’t imagine this would be easy for anyone else to swallow. He certainly wouldn’t believe it himself without first-hand insight. “I want to talk to her.”
The warden nodded his assent at the guards lining the wall.
“As I said, everyone wants to know how she managed to escape,” he said, walking Simon around to the entrance of the adjacent room that held Callie. “The thing I’m most curious about it why she even waited so long to do it. Is that something you know, from your jaunt through her mind?”
“Yes.”
“Are you inclined to share?”
He decided earlier, definitively, that he didn’t like the warden: the way he looked at his inmates like specimens, pinned inside a case. “No,” he said.
“Fair enough,” he agreed. “Although you might be asked tomorrow, by someone more powerful than me, in a much more formal capacity. We’ll be leaning on your expertise considerably to entangle that mind of hers.” He shook his head in admiration. “The unsuppressable Callie Ray.”
“I wouldn’t toss that around,” he muttered.
“Why not?”
The guard undid a stack of locks on the quarantine room door. “I don’t want her hearing it,” he said as they pushed the door open. “She’ll like it too much.”
—
Little black cameras dotted the corners of the room; he knew the warden would be listening on the other side of the glass where’d they’d just come from, and he was certain they were being recorded too.
She lifted her head, smirked at the sight of him. “I’d say hello,” she said, her voice scratchy. “But it’s like I never left you, isn’t it?”
She looked awful. Her red-rimmed eyes matched her hair; one was still swollen, decorated in bruises. “I am sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean for this.” He gestured between his head and hers.
he just says it, just like that
“Did you get a good spanking for it? I’m sure nobody expected that from their golden boy.”
Her words were hollow to him now; they washed over him uselessly and left him thoroughly unimpressed. He pulled up a chair and sat opposite her at the steel table, mirroring her position with his hands folded in front of him, except for the absence of cuffs, obviously.
We could talk like this, he said, if you don’t want them to listen.
A jumbled negative reply came across their connection. He nodded.
“There’s a whole team of people on the other side of the door, trying to figure out the best ways to keep your magic suppressed on a minute-to-minute basis,” he said.
“Can you believe it?” She tried for a smile, but it was poorly constructed. “All this for little old me.”
“Well, you’ve convinced the world you’re a dangerous monster and now you’re being treated like one. You did this to yourself.”
“Did you hear me complaining?”
Another wave of gnawing pain; she was sweating, her jumpsuit damp in the armpits. It hit him too, surely just a fraction of what it felt like for her, and he’d already had enough.
“Just tell them,” he said. “Tell them what I know, that it was an accident from the start and you don’t wanna hurt anyone else, and they might let up.”
“I don’t want them to,” she said, voice strained, hanging onto composure by a thread. “I like the pain.”
if I’m in pain I’m getting what I deserve I don’t have to feel guilty
He’d never felt a mind twisted up into knots like this, how did it get this way?
“Is that why you’re still here?” he asked. He looked toward the glass where he knew Warden Prescott was still standing, watching and listening. “They know you’re letting this happen. That if you wanted to, you could stop it.”
She blinked; a powerful emptiness surged up inside her. “Where else am I supposed to go?”
It wasn’t a rhetorical question - she was interested in an answer if he had one, but he didn’t. He lived her life alongside her in a compressed whirlwind of tightly-packed failures and she had no family to take her in, Delaney certainly wouldn’t have her, there were no relationships, no friends…
He pulled back; it hurt to be near.
“Just because you say you’re not gonna try to escape again…” He fumbled, trying to lay out the mess. “They still can’t hold you on your word, Callie. You’ve got the public frightened that Downing Bay can’t hold you and the authorities are scared you’re gonna prove it.”
She nodded and winced; something crossed her mind too quickly for him to get a good look. “What are they gonna do to me?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t think they do either.”
“Why don’t they just kill me?”
The way she said these things - it was infuriating. “They can’t just execute someone because they don’t know what else to do with them.” He narrowed his eyes like it might help him see her clearer. “Is that what you want? To die?”
She rolled it around in her head. “Not really,” she shrugged. “But I don’t really wanna live either.”
Hopelessness emanated from her; he felt her future the way she saw it, a vast, meaningless chasm of nothing. It made him want to scream.
“Don’t,” she snarled, her awareness of their connection snapping to life. “Don’t you feel sorry for me, you jackass. I don’t want your pity, I’d rather you spit in my eye.”
“I can’t help it,” he groaned. “You sit there acting like this while… it’s, it’s like two different radio stations blasting into each of my ears, I can’t think.”
She swallowed thickly, like she was nauseous. “Do you wanna know exactly how much sympathy I have for you right now?”
“No.”
“Zero,” she said anyway. “Nobody made you drill yourself your own personal pipeline into my brain.”
“That’s not what I was trying to do.”
“Oh, so sad,” she pouted, turning her bottom lip out. “You made your first mistake. Feels like shit, doesn’t it?”
he’ll tell everybody, then everyone will know how stupid, how useless, how embarrassing, and he’s listening to you RIGHT NOW, he knows it all, i wish i WAS dead so i didn’t have to, would be easier than this-
“You let me think you did it on purpose,” he bit out, too overwhelmed to hold it back. “You let me think the absolute worst of you.”
“The worst of me is the truth, the shit you know now.”
“No, it’s not. What you are is not worse than a cold-blooded killer, a, a liar, somebody I could spend the rest of my life feeling like a fool for letting in, how do you justify doing that to me?”
She shrugged, blinked slowly, helplessly, like she couldn’t believe she had to put words to something so simple. “I… the damage was done.”
He scoffed - he couldn’t help it. “It wasn’t. There was a lot more damage left to do, and you did it. You did it all.”
Anger, fresh and bitter, burned through their connection.
i was trying to fix it if you would’ve just walked away none of this would be happening i could have made it go away-
“At what cost?” he asked. It would sound like a non sequitur to everyone listening but he didn’t care. “Even if the orblex could do what you were planning, you can’t possibly predict how it would’ve worked. Did you think it would just drop you off on Christmas twelve years ago and let you start again? No one knows how Time magic works and you wanted to just unleash it. For all you know you could have ripped the world apart.”
Disbelief. how could he say something like that?
“Wouldn’t you?” she asked. A crack in her voice - a tear springing from her eye that hadn’t been there a moment before, rolling down her cheek. “You wouldn’t take that risk, Bennett? To bring him back?”
He wanted to say no, but it got stuck in his throat. She still grieved for him, as hard as he ever did, and it annihilated the space between them, blurred the final lines.
He pushed his chair back and got up - he needed a second. Not to be looking at her, not to be sharing feelings.
“Where are you going?”
are you leaving? don’t leave
He clasped his hands behind his head, breathed in and out, shut his eyes.
say something say something say something say something-
“There’s gonna be a hearing tomorrow,” he said, cutting off the flood of her thoughts she couldn’t control. “Or, not a hearing. A discussion, I guess.”
He turned to face her again; she was listening with rapt attention. She hadn’t been told yet.
“They’re gonna talk about whether there’s any kind of precedent they can fall back on for this, anything at all. I don’t know if they want me there as a witness or a human lie detector, but they asked me to stay for it and I’m staying. After that, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll see you again, maybe I won’t. I have to think this-”
He gestured to the space between their heads again, at a loss for what to call it. “This’ll fade with time and distance. It’ll have to. It can’t stay forever.”
It couldn’t, could it?
#tw: suicidal ideation#tw: swears#tw: prison#writing#writing snippet#writing excerpt#original novel#my wip#oc: callie#oc: simon
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reactions (mild spoilers!) on sso comic song of darkness
bc i read it before bed. this is a mix of random reactions + commentary/criticism. no pics sry! under cut bc spoilers, but i dont spoil the story itself, just some content -
- the pages at the intro with character information for some reason made me feel really nostalgic and happy, like, “wow this is a real comic” idk its hard to explain. it reminded me of reading stuff like W.I.T.C.H. as a kid (ive read a billion comics in my life but i compare to this bc its closer in general vibe)
- anyway wow sso comics. on paper. wow (yeah i have clouds over silverglade but that was a while ago)
- hhehehehehhe south hoofers and raptor in the bg!!!!!! after this panel i kept looking at the bgs for other cameos kjhdsfg
- i can tell the swedish translation is... a bit... meh. like, yeah this is standard, especially today’s standard, but it could be smoother and more natural, which would make it more fun to read (and supportive of the language in the country where sso was made like? idk...)
- AVALON?? U HAVE A FACE??? he looks way more like evergray than i’d have thought though, youd have imagined he wouldnt want to style himself similar to him lol
- its a bit depressing how even tho this comic tries to express everyone’s personalities, lisa still barely feels like she has a personality. she can sing! ok... and... we’re wating... what else? (there are plenty of “boring” people irl, but in media you usually want to exaggerrate or simplify things a little bit) the current lisa seems like she could have more anxiety/depression in her narrative, the old lisa looked like she was tough in a different way than alex, both of those are things that could be pushed. or anything else.
- my only like, “art related criticism”, also relates to the above - i think more work could be done in using individually unique expressions. im generally not a person who agrees with the idea of “same face syndrome” (often its a stylistic choice which is fair) but i think here it could be a good idea to work a bit more with various expressions - you can have charas who would almost never make huge shocked eyes for personality reasons, charas who always have a very obvious expression (alex does have this a lot in this comic!), charas who always look annoyed or frustrated or scared alongside whatever new emotion they get, etc. just very simplified description bc im already rambling. but basically, letting all charas emote in a similar way also removes layers of personality expression.
- it’s cool that kora is in here!! love to see many known charas!! not rly interested in random new charas since sso already has a ton to work with
- was a bit surprised when they said “mistfall, so youre a long way from home?” to kora when they.. were riding to firgrove from valedale? i could have understood this if they were in like epona or golden hills.. but firgrove?? shes specifically not a long way from home? confused
- i do like that the horses’ personalities get expressed, altho it does feel a bit shoved in, it’s still nice to see them. many of us are here bc of loving horses after all, and this comic delivers in featuring them a lot, even if they dont talk. i get that theres a level of “explaining everything to newbies” in this whole comic, even though i could wish that wouldve been done less blatantly. (kids arent dumb!)
- i do kinda wish the overall story hadn’t been a standalone random thing but something more tied to what we have, exploring parts of the story & charas in sso in more detail, BUT, i think thats a valid direction to go with comics and its more just a personal preference for me. i would anytime take more sso comics that are standalone random stuff than to not have sso comics at all.
- it seems like the reason concorde is an alive adult in this comic, is bc its an AU where concorde “almost died” but didnt, if i understood it right (they just said “she almost lost concorde”). i think thats a bit weird BUT valid, its ok to have differences in canon between different media of the same story, it tends to be like that between books and movies for example. however personally i wouldve preferred to see comics that explore, for example, the 2 years (?) between SSL and SSO, or each soul rider’s life history in general until now, or exploring in more depth events that happen in the main storyline (in sso or ssl which counts as backstory to sso)
- there were times i committed small giggle during this comic even as an adult man, tho arguably a childish adult man, but just to say that it was enjoyable, and overall i thought it was really exciting and fun to read a full sso comic book, and i hope to see a lot more (even if i’d prefer stuff like what i described - more exploration of existing story/charas). like i said at the beginning, i also got good nostalgic feels etc. i feel a bit sad now that its “over”, i wish i could have a whole pile of volumes to read for the rest of the summer.
(when i criticise something, it means i care enough about it to criticise it! i tend to criticise stuff i love - aka sso - way more than stuff i have no interest in or dislike, which i just dont talk about much bc that would be a waste of time.)
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erwin is such an interesting character and him dying right before reaching his ultimate goal made his death even worse. i wish we could have seen him as the colossal titan too! i think the story would have definitely been different and levi x colossal would have been a very scary duo on the battlefield.
ooh i see! yeah annie is way more than the cold heart bitch the fandom likes to make her look like. she didn't kill those people for fun, and for almost all the warriors people tend to forget too easily that they were 12 years old and brainwashed when they were sent to paradis so of course they killed a LOT of people but it's not like they had a choice, especially since their families were still in marley.
omg starting aot when it first aired must have been stressful, you have my total respect, i could have never survived the cliffhangers. but that was smart to notice all of these things and go past what annie did! i didnt even realise what giving up must have meant to her.
i'm pretty new to anime, aot was my third anime and i started watching it in january when season 4 just started airing. i binge watched the first three seasons and seeing all of those plot twists one after the other was a rollercoaster! but because i watched the episodes "too fast" i missed a lot of details and had to rewatch to understand some characters better (including annie). after that i started reading the manga after s4 part 1 finished airing.
annie was totally confused after coming out of that crystal and catching up with what happened in marley too must have been a LOT, she was barely out of her crystal and had to go back to war again, the boat scene seems so out of place! same, the shippers for them can be extreme i avoid them as much as i can. (i saw your tag and wtf)
i'm not the biggest fan of her dad but it's just me projecting qkjsjsls but i understand his motives and indeed all of that training was because she's important to him. he's the dad grisha wanted to be lmao.
do you have favourite ships btw? 😊
-j
agreed. a piece of my soul dies during episode 55 every time. erwin should have been the one to get the injection and i will die mad about it.
i honestly don't have a problem if people dislike Annie. i'm kinda like: good stay away from her. she was the first anime girl that i really got attached to so she's got a special place in my heart. she's definitely in the wrong for all the shit she did but i also think that she knows that, and she knows she can't change the past either. that's part of why i think she'd have a pretty substantial breakdown after all the fighting. she's never been in a place where she can truly reflect on and process what happened to her - and crystal jail doesn't count because it effectively put her in solitary confinement and that's just as psychologically stressful as being used as a human weapon. i also don't think any of them LIKE to kill people, they're so brainwashed that they see it as doing what they HAVE to do to be safe *but i pointedly glare at Zeke who is on thin fucking ice*
yeah it was pretty rough, but it also means that ive analyzed literally every plot point, every interaction that ever happened. there wasn't really anything else to do. i definitely recommend paying attention to small details during your rewatches, everything makes so much more sense once things have been revealed (some still don't though unfortunately). it's fun that you're getting into anime! there's a whole world out there to get into and attack on titan is a pretty good starter. a little intense maybe 💀
the boat scene bothers me a lot, ive talked about it before on here. i genuinely don't understand why people see it as a "confession" or in a romantic context at all really, when he's literally brushing her off the whole time and thinking about eren. they really aren't canon in any significant way, not compared to the other canon ships. and it's pretty hilarious how defensive and shrill the shippers will get if you point them out.
oh shit, no no no. that is NOT why i like annie's dad, not even a little bit. im a little worried that's the impression i've been giving off now so i might make a post about him later? the way he treated annie when she was a kid was definitely abuse no matter how you look at it. the fact that he adopted her for the sole purpose of using her to gain status? fucking evil. i had an abusive father myself and i know what you mean about projecting. until her backstory was revealed i hated him with everything in me, but she cares about him so much and wants to be with him again so much that in my opinion anybody that excludes her father from her narrative is in denial. she has a good relationship with him whether anybody likes it or not. i get the impression that now he has a second chance he would do absolutely anything for her to make sure that he does right by her this time. i see him as being pretty haunted by the things he's done to her but he also thinks he deserves to feel like shit so he keeps his mouth shut, it's the least he can do for her after how he made her feel/what she had to do.
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I saw this bouncing around my dash and decided to fill it out myself for fun :) I decided to not double-list any games, and I tried to mix up the companies I used too so that the list would be more unique.
Long post, so I’m doing a readmore for my longwinded part lol.
(read more)
Favorite Game: Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic 2: The Sith Lords - I could talk about this game forever. How it tears apart the Star Wars universe from within, how it creates a compelling story while challenging the usual themes, etc. I could talk for ages about the characters and how their motivations slot in place, and how this game lends itself to interpretation and analysis alongside roleplay. It’s just a wonderful game, one I deeply love and will always love. It’s a game that isn’t afraid to have you talk to other characters for twenty or thirty minutes at a time and honestly I’m always riveted at every line. This game deserves the cult fanbase it has, but I think there’s a lot the fanbase misses in appreciating this game. (Note...gameplay is a little janky and a community made mod restores a lot content that was cut before shipping-the game wasn’t properly finished).
Best Story: Fallout New Vegas - It’s the setting that makes the story here, and all the moving pieces and factions alongside the main conflict really make this game stand out. There’s so many little pieces to find along the way in the world and the way the main quest splits based on who you want in power feels important--and you are choosing a future for this whole region.
Favorite Art Style: The Witness - This game is peacefully wonderful with its visuals. There are wonderful nature scenes and nests of wires and panels spreading in various parts of the island that are fascinating to look at. The environment is half of the gameplay in most areas, so it’s important to look around even though exploration is not really the gameplay. You find puzzles in the world, even in nature, and it’s fascinating. The colors are bright and beautiful. There is even a map in the middle of the island inside of a lake that helps you track your progress if you notice it (it isn’t like a normal ‘map’).
Favorite Soundtrack: Shin Megami Tensei IV - I love video game soundtracks, but SMTIV is something special. The music booms in ways that make you really understand the atmosphere of the world, and there’s a great mix of different kinds of tracks for different places. I love the tracks for the other worlds you enter, and the themes of the different routes are done so well. Some of the music draws from past SMT games, but the remixes done for this game really are stunning to me, and there’s so many fantastic original tracks.
Hardest Game: I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream - I love this game but I literally never touch it without a walkthrough, which is why it gets to be the hardest game on the list, despite being a point and click adventure game lol. Also just emotionally this game is challenging too, but I definitely mean this more in terms of getting a ‘perfect run’.
Funniest Game: The Stanley Parable - Trying to make this list has taught me that I don’t really play many ‘funny games’. I don’t know if a game where multiple endings demand that you kill yourself should count as a ‘funniest game’, but it is also a game where the narrator tells you to stare at a fern and memorize its features, so....it counts.
Game I Like that is Hated: RWBY Grimm Eclipse - I’ve been playing this game since it was in early access and have loved it the whole time. I find the gameplay soothing and fun, and I like playing the different characters. It’s a game I play to chill out and just enjoy some fun battle mechanics. It’s a fun game and I’ve spent over 100 hours in it, so I hope I like it, lol.
Game I Hate that is Liked: Nier Automata - Neither this game’s gameplay or story impress me, and the fact that you have to replay basically the same stuff from a more boring-to-play-character’s pov in order to SEE all of the plot is a huge damper on the experience. The story, to me, someone who engages with a lot of robot-focused fiction, is far from impressive or new, and it hardly engages with genre specifics at all, let alone in a new or interesting way. I view this game as ‘a story with robots in it’ rather than ‘a story about robots’, which, to me, is a detriment.
Underrated: Nevermind - This game is amazing and very unheard of--and when it is heard of, it has been marketed incorrectly. Nevermind seems like a horror game, and does market itself as one a bit, but it’s much more than that. It’s more about trauma, recovery, therapy, etc. This is a game that is so mindful about the topics it engages in that I am impressed by it every time. It’s heavy with symbolism and character, despite lacking conversations or other similar game mechanics. This is a lovely game that I really wish more people knew about-`p5-all of the patients are so interesting, and the focus on recovery and mental health is impressive.
Overrated: Fire Emblem - I sort of mean this as the series as a whole really. I have enjoyed the entries I have played somewhat, but I overall consider the series much less impressive than I was led to believe by others. The gameplay especially is not impressive to me in any regard, even though I sometimes do find myself enjoying it. The stories are alright, but many of them are weighed down by the gameplay and as a writer and person who likes to analyze writing, it’s very hard to do so when it isn’t able to fully exist under the chains the gameplay forces on it. There are ways to mix gameplay and story well, Fire Emblem has not really done that in any of the entries I’ve played. That being said, I don’t regret playing them, and I will occasionally replay, but I consider them mediocre games at best.
Best Voice Acting: Devil Survivor 2 - I love the voice acting in this game. I feel like all the characters are really suited to their voices, and it’s really easy for me to visualize their voices. They really bring the game to life and make both the dramatic and the funny scenes more enjoyable.
Worst Voice Acting: Jedi Knight Jedi Academy - I love this game, I really do, but some of the voice acting is janky. Some of it is okay too--I think Kyle Katarn’s voice actor does fine, and some of the others I like NOW but hated when I was a kid, but the male protagonist voice in this game is just awful. Which is bad when Jennifer Hale is the female voice actress lol. His performance is passable though unless you’re playing darksided--the darksided ending to the game lacks all punch when you’re playing the male protagonist.
Favorite Male: Battler Ushiromiya from Umineko no Naku Koro Ni - He’s the protagonist for most of the visual novels and I adore him utterly, especially once you move past episode 2. He’s a wonderful character who I care about deeply. I love his drive and how he fights--he’s someone who is easy to cheer for. He matures well throughout the series and his character development is just wonderful.
Favorite Female: Naoto Shirogane from Persona 4 - I really like how Naoto fits so well in the game, especially for being a final recruit--oftentimes the final recruit of Persona games (post 3) have a bit of a more difficult time feeling right with the group. Naoto works really well though, and I love her struggles and story as well. I think the difficulties she has concerning living as a woman in her field hit very deep to a problem that has existed for a very long time.
Favorite Protagonist: Connor of Daventry from King’s Quest 8 Mask of Eternity - I’m like, one of four fans of this character in the world, lol. KQ8 is not a very well liked game and it does have a lot of issues, both with age and with how much of a departure it is from the series prior to it. It’s strange to take a puzzle adventure game and make it a hybrid with what basically is a shooter, and it doesn’t really work. Add to that the fact that you spend most of your time in the game without anyone around to talk to and it leads to this really polarizing and weird experience. For me, Conner goes through what I would consider to be the ‘Ultimate Nightmare Scenario”. Everyone in the world is turned to stone except him (and he survived out of mere chance) and so now it’s up to him, practically alone, to save the entire world. There is no game lonelier than this. I adore him for his bravery in the face of it, and how he just picks up to do what must be done because someone should do it, and if no one else can, then he will. I also really love how he apologizes to people who are encased in stone while he takes money from their houses to help him on his journey. I really do think he went back after the game was over and gave everyone heaps of gold to pay them back with interest lol.
Favorite Village: Oakvale from Fable - The first Fable is the only one I really like, and it was one of the games I played when I was little, so the hometown in the game always meant a lot to me. I like how you grow up there and how your tragic backstory is there--and then how you get to return to the town years later after you’ve come into your own, and you can see it completely rebuilt. I like to spend a lot of my time in this town, just wandering around it and playing the minigames. Even though I have a house in every town, Oakvale is where my hero calls home.
Most Hated Character: Merril from Dragon Age 2 - I don’t really want to lay into how I feel about Merril, but what I will say is that it was suggested to me that I totally ignore her when playing, and I did so. I only met her for her quest, dropped her off in town, and literally never spoke to her or interacted for the rest of the game. I had a much better experience for it, honestly. She appeared after I made my choice in the end of the game, which felt weird since I hadn’t spoken to her in several ingame years, but other than that, the game was totally fine without her. I sort of just wish you could kill characters in DA2 the way you can in DAO, then I’d just do that, tbh. It doesn’t suit very many (or any) of the characters I rp in DA2 to keep her around or support her in any way.
First Game I Played: Mixed up Mother Goose Deluxe - I’m not actually sure if this is the FIRST game I’ve ever played or not, but it’s one of the first I played alone as a kid. I really loved it--this is probably what created my love for point and click adventures, and the game was very silly and fun.
Favorite Company: Bioware - I’ve always been a sucker for Bioware games, ever since Knights of the Old Republic 1 was my favorite childhood game. I love how they do stories and party members, and while I’m not a fan of all of their games, I really love what they’ve made and their style of storytelling and character driven plot. Even though sometimes their stories get cliche, I think the suit video games well and most of my early gaming was within their games.
Hated Company: EA - Bioware truly only started to go to shit after the EA acquisition, so I fucking hate EA. I know Bioware had issues before EA too, but I definitely don’t think EA has helped the situation whatsoever.
Depressing Game: The Beginner’s Guide - I relate to this game as a creator and a writer, and it affects me deeply because of the story it tells and the questions it raises. It makes me reflect on how I think of myself as a creator, and it reminds me of friendships I used to have.
Creepy Game: The Path - God, I love this game. It’s just aimlessly wandering around and finding symbolic scenery and watching your current character comment on it. Then, you go off to find your girl’s wolf, and each one is different and unique to her, and you watch it ‘kill’ her--and facing her wolf is the only way each girl can truly mature. Whenever you get to grandmother’s house, the camera switches to first person, and your eyes keep closing, so you can only see while clicking to move. It forces you to keep moving so that you can see, but since you are moving, you only get to see things somewhat vaguely. It’s got a great atmosphere, and I love the symbolic storytelling.
Happy Game: Eastshade - This game is so sweet. There’s some drama around to with many of the quests, but I like this as an rpg without combat, and I think this would be a really good kids game. There’s a lot to see and explore, and the game was made to be really pretty so that you want to paint several aspects of it. It’s really lovely to just wander around in this game and bike around the area, painting anything that suits your fancy. As long as you don’t finish the main quest, you’re free to wander, and materials do respawn, so you essentially can infinitely paint once you get far enough.
Favorite Ending: Virtue’s Last Reward - I love the questions this game asks and where the ending goes. It thematically ties together--the whole reason the game itself exists is to get the attention of a ‘higher being’--the player, essentially. I love how it plays with that concept, and even though the final game in the series doesn’t entirely pick this idea up where this game left it, standalone this game is stunning in how it comes together.
#shitpost#long post#this was fun to do#i made it so every answer was a different video game and i tried to mix up my companies as well#got 3 atlus games on here but mer#2 obsidon#llol#2 sierra too haha but still#beginner's guide and tsp were made by the same guy too but#STILL I LIMITED MYSELF OK#these answers aren't absolute because i was trying to have a good diverse list lol
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The emperor has to be god-king Andy. Also like since nicky and Joe obv have to have the lovers why not have andy and quyhn kissing as the empress.
Another related ask (potentially by the same person):
Also since the fool is a journey's beginning I'd almost want to pick Nile for it. As well there are four characters who commonly have swords (or an axe but close enough) and cards have four corners. So one sword each corner, nicky, joe, andy, and quyhn.
So. Someone has good ideas. Here’s the post that prompted these asks. This made me pull out my tarot deck and go through the cards. Below the cut is a break down of the entire tarot deck. There will be an explanation of the (standard) interpretation of the cards, good then less good, and then my associated headcannon (or more than one if I couldn’t decide). The source is my experience with tarot. I’m trying to minimize repeats, but historic and modern Old Guard members are counted separately. Enjoy.
The Major Arcana (aka the cards most people have heard about)
0. The Fool - the seeker. Naivety. Courage. Living in the moment. Journey’s beginning. All paths available. Folly. Apathy.
Nile. Anon convinced me. Though Booker has got the folly, apathy, and madness down, Nile is ultimately the beginning. She’s naïve but headstrong, and quite frankly a perfect match.
I. The Magician - the trickster. Power, skill, talent. Mastery, self-control, willpower. Subtlety. Divine connection and inspiration. Self-reliant.
Modern Nicky. Definitely Nicky. Just. He’s a formerly very religious man who just says these things. Also sniper.
II. The High Priestess - the moon goddess. Intuition, wisdom, foresight, divination, prophecy. Enlightenment, understanding, intelligence, education. Pride, emotional instability, unforgiving.
Historic Quynh. Her name means “night-blooming flower”, which is very moon goddess vibes to me. Also, I’d say over 500 years in a box turns understanding and enlightenment into emotional instability and unforgiveness.
III. The Empress - the queen. Feminine power, matriarch, mother. Fertility, pleasure, beauty. Success, evolution, movement. Marriage, wealth. Overattachment, domestic upheaval, delay.
Quynh. The counterpart to Andy’s emperor card.
Nile. Let’s be honest, she’s going to take over from Andy some day.
IV. The Emperor - the king. Masculine power, patriarch, father. Authority, leadership, proficiency. Wealth, stability, effectiveness. Perseverance, logic, endurance, experience. Lack of ability, weak character, immature, rebellious.
Modern Andy. She is the leader who’s short-comings effect her entire team. And who doesn’t love a little gender bending? (and her film look is already soft butch)
V. The Hierophant - the religious leader. Tradition, convention, ritual symbolism. Ceremony, religion, morality, philosophy. Mercy, goodness, forgiveness, humility, vulnerability, Impotence, Religious tyranny.
Historic Nicky. I mean, former priest (enough said).
Historic Andy. “I was once worshipped as a god” (enough said).
VI. The Lovers - the lovers. Love, attraction. Compatibility, harmony, choice. Triumph over trials, vacillation. Entanglement, enmeshment. Infidelity, moral lapse, vice, separation, quarrels, inadequacy, failing tests.
Andromaquynh. *peeks out from behind barricade* I know that most people would just put Kaysanova as this card, but look at all the negatives it is associated with. Sounds a lot more like our immortal wives can really cover the gamut. They have the range....I am a sucker for Kaysanova, though. Even though the beginning of their relationship is rocky, I’d like to think it’s been fairly constant over the years. But let’s reverse the uhaul lesbians and fickle gay men tropes! Sorry, Book of Nile fans. That ship just isn’t established enough for this, I’d say. Maybe one day?
VII. The Chariot - the journey. Ordeal, obstacles, competition. High stakes, ambition, discipline. Conquest, victory, greatness. Right action prevails, overwhelming odds, sudden defeat.
Merrick and/or Dr. Kozak. I mean, this is literally their characters in a nutshell. Merrick is the journey/ordeal for the old guard. He is driven by his ambition, thinks he’s won over impossible odds, and then has a sudden defeat.
VIII. Justice - the balance. Equilibrium, equality, symmetry, harmony. Integrity, honor, fairness, neutrality, moderation. Vindication, self-righteousness, bigotry, prejudice, favoritism.
Nile. This is the woman with a sword card. She brings a balance to the team, she clearly moderates conflict, and I’d love to see BLM art of her in this style. Just sayin.
IX. The Hermit - the seeker-sage. Wisdom, inspiration, contemplation, discretion, understanding. Safety, protection, spiritual quest. Seeking truth and justice. Self-denial, timidity, fear.
Historic Joe. The idealized warrior poet? Definitely just a form of the hermit. Helps explain why a Magrebhi trader/artist fought at the Siege of Jerusalem: spiritual quest. I also like the idea of Joe having a secret reserved side.
X. The Wheel of Fortune - cycles of life. Destiney, evolution and progress, advancement. Manifestation, unexpected events. Success, sudden luck. Ups and downs.
Modern Quynh. There is nothing that better encapsulates her storyline than the wheel of fortune. One day you’re roaming the world with your immortal wife. The next, you’re drowning for over 500 years. The next you’re in Booker’s shitty Paris apartment.
XI. Strength - fortitude. Resilience, courage, resolve, confidence. Integrity, moral victory, endurance. Energy, action, vitality. Power, force, violence. Abuse of power, disgrace, impotence.
Lykon. Do I love this character beyong measure and reason? Maybe so. We have so little to go on about him, however, that the only things we do know bely his strengths. Also, he becomes ultimately the weakest when he dies and encapsulates both “extremes” of the card.
XII. The Hanged Man - the tested. Delay, sacrifice, abandonment, rejection. Betrayal. Reversals, restrained or bound, limbo, trials. Falseness.
Booker. If the fact that his first death was by hanging didn’t convince you? Read that description again. His character arc is literally working through being the hanged man.
XIII. Death - the loss or parting. Alteration, transformation, transition. Boredom, depression, stagnation, failure or disaster. Bereavement, recovery, immobility.
Lykon. He literally represents the fear of death to the remaining immortals. It is HE that they invoke when they discuss it. Also, I’m still mourning my favorite underdeveloped character.
XIV. Temperance - the moderation. Self-control, economy, patience, coordination. Consolidation, harmony, friendship, recuperation. Unfulfilled desires, discord, stubbornness, hostility, clashing of interests. Time, seasons, and climate.
A Safehouse. I don’t think any of the people really capture the tempered essence of this card, the constancy throughout all seasons of life. An actual physical building that rises and falls with (regular) humanity, though, seems to do the trick.
XV. The Devil - the arcane. Magic, strange occurrences, prophecy, fate. Catastrophe, downfall, negative attitude, Temptations, sins, obsessions. Enslavement, bondage, misplaced loyalty, violence, fatality.
Honestly? I’m so torn. I feel like a major commentary of the movie is that our demons are the way people react more so than the people themselves. Maybe the armored van?
XVI. The Tower - the House of God. Disruption, expulsion from an earthly paradise, divine wrath. Punishment (of pride), loss, destructive rivalry, plans ruined. Need to start again, bankruptcy.
The Iron Coffin. While this doesn’t capture the religious undertones quite right, the coffin is the Tower for Andromaquynh, It is (divine? or very human?) wrath brought on by pride since the two probably thought that they would be fine. It is loss and painful new beginnings.
XVII. The Star - the bright promise. Hope, faith, light of the spirit. Recovery, symbols of immortality. Gifts, good prospects, new dawn, frustrated expectations.
Nile. The new immortal, enough said.
Historic Andy/Lykon. In a way, the first immortal would also be a great choice of representation.
XVIII, The Moon - the hidden forces. Twilight, illusion, deception, trickery. Dishonesty, danger, uncertainty, terror. Developments, particularly somewhat concealed. Errors, powerful feelings.
Copley. I know, I know. “He’s the moon when I’m lost in darkness” and all that jazz. But look at this card’s interpretation and notice it’s pretty negative. Copley’s entire role is to pull the strings behind the scenes. He makes headway on problems in secrets, he lies and deceives everyone in the film at some point.
XIX. The Sun - the work’s rewards. Daylight, co-creation, union “of male and female”. Peace, joy, pleasure, love, contentment. Accomplishment, achievement, success.
Joe. Not only is he the sun, he also fits this card perfectly. He is creation and happiness. Enough said.
XX Judgement - the rebirth. Judgement, sentence. Rejuvenation, renewal, resurrection, call to the new from the old, rehabilitation. Creation, promotion.
Historic Booker. I feel like his backstory with his family helped highlight the theme of rebirth for the Old Guard. They must be willing to give up what they have left behind to move forward. Also, there’s the more literal play as well since Booker was a conscripted criminal.
XXI The World - the long journey. Perfection, completion, conclusion. Power through intelligence and wisdom. The universe and the material world.
A group photo, of course! Beyond that? Who knows.
Historic Andy? She’s seen so much of it. Like just her eyes portray the history of the world.
The Minor Arcana (aka the rest of the cards)
Since most people are only familiar with the major arcana, I’ll just briefly explain it. The minor arcana are actually the majority of a tarot deck. There are four suits associated with the four elements. Each suit has ten number cards and four court/face cards (traditionally modelled either based on one person or different interpretations of similar costuming). Each number or face has its own meaning, each suit has its own meaning, and their combination mostly explains what the card should be interpreted as. Quite frankly, the minor arcana are vastly underrated in popular understandings of tarot.
Suit of Wands - fire. Spontaneity, action, passion, adrenaline, life force, stroke of genius.
Guns? It’d be a bit of a niche take, but I associate guns with fires.
Staffs? More traditional in shape.
Suit of Coins - earth. Solid growth, material interests, possessions, profit, business, labor, slow and considerate.
Historic currency. Enough said.
Suit of Cups - water. Heartfelt involvements, imagination, spirituality, love, friendship, family.
Fountains around the world. Enough said.
Suit of Swords - air. Worry, trouble, boundaries, objectivity, the power of truth.
Obviously, their weapons of choice. I would go into more detail about who best represents each number, but I don’t want to bore you.
Court of Kings - mature men. Leaders, authority, status-quo, taking responsibility.
Again, most tarot is very gendered. But members in tuxes?
Court of Queens - mature women. Reflective and active, concerned with security/foundations, supportive, focused.
Members in dresses/gowns/anything that glitters?
Court of Knights/Cavaliers - young men. Dynamic, adventurous, intensive, revolutionary.
Tactical gear. Or historical armor. But it’s easier to do tactical gear right than accidentally draw a 15th century helmet on a 14th century suit of armor.
Court of Knaves/Pages - younger women, teenagers, and children. Students, apprentices, trainees, messengers, new opportunities.
Casual clothes.
#asks#lovely anon#tarot#reference#niche headcannons#major and minor arcana#i really thought this would have more kaysanova#but tarot is for wlw i guess? who knows
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Loving Dyn V - Christmas Eve
Pairing: Mandalorian/Dyn Jarren x Reader
Summary: Domestic Daddy Dyn, Artist Mom & the green bean attend your parents infamous Christmas Eve party. We get to know your parents and your backstory. (Continuation from Loving Dyn II & IV)
Warnings: Flashbacks including drinking, smoking, brief depictions of depression, loneliness/abandonment, mention of coming out.
Dyn squeezes your hand as you walk up the steps to your mother’s residence. Your other hand holding up your caramel coloured silk dress, your heels clicking against the marble.
Baby looks up at the 15-foot doorway in astonishment from his father’s arm.
“Okay,” you say turning to your two boys, you feel the lapels of Dyn’s blue velvet suit between your fingers to stay grounded. It’s fitted and he looks dashing. You’ve dressed Baby in a matching blue velvet robe you made yourself out of fabric you found at the market. “There’s my mother, Wilhemina. My father, Stark. My mother’s husband, Ezra. My father’s husband, Madden.”
Dyn nods, “Wilhemina. Stark. Ezra. Madden. I got it.”
“Right, and then there’s everyone else. My aunts. Uncles. Cousins. Family friends.” You look towards the door as you start to panic. “Oh god, Dyn what have I done?”
You start to fidget. “Everyone is in there. This is too much. It’s Christmas Eve. You must think I’m insane. Let’s just leave. We can just go. Let’s just go.’’
You turn and Dyn grabs your arm, “Hey, hey. It’s fine. I’m excited. I love Christmas.”
“You didn’t even know what it was three weeks ago.” You whimper.
“Yeah, well....” Dyn shrugs, tilting his head to the side.
You look down at your hands and Dyn crouches to try and find your eye line. “Hey, I am ready for this. It’s you, me and Baby against the galaxy, babe. Always. It’s going to be just fine.”
You nod and Dyn takes your hand and you push open the door.
You’re hit by a wave of warmth, sound, and colour. As the foyer is filled with people dressed in jewel toned evening wear, everyone dripping in silk and fur and velvet and gold. There is laughter and clinking of champagne glasses. More than a few heads turn toward you and you look down in embarrassment.
Christmas (Baby Please Come Home) by Darlene Love fills the air glowing rich with candlelight, as a droid skids past, offering drinks.
“HMm.” Dyn grunts in displeasure. You let go of his hand and link your arm through his.
“Come on, tough guy. Let’s find my parents”
Baby coos, distracted by the lights and colours and different voices, the vibrating music. Even Dyn has his neck craned up to the cathedral ceilings strung with twinkling lights.
“Remember,” you say looking back at them, Baby’s eyes bouncing around like a ping-pong ball, Dyn staring straight up at the oversized black and white portrait of you as a child, a goofy smile plastered across his face. “If this gets to be too much, you tell me and we’re out of here.”
“Yeah, sure.” Dyn says, looking back down. “Is that you?”
You look up at the portrait you mother had blown up after you moved out. It was taken at the beach, your hair wind-blown and salty at the end of the day. Your chin raised, and your eyes cast down to the side. You were 7.
“Uh, yep.” You say, maneuvering through the crowd. Stopping as more guests began to recognize you. You exchange quick kisses on the cheek and insist you’ll return once you find your parents.
“Kind of crazy, isn’t it?” Dyn asks.
“How so?” You say over your shoulder.
“That’s what our daughter could look like.”
You stop and Dyn walks into you, Baby’s arms go up in surprise. You look up at your love with wide eyes, “Okay, we’ll unpack that when it’s not Christmas.”
Dyn laughs and shrugs and you imitate his movements as a joke.
You turn back as you walk through the arches of the grand living room and you hear an excited scream.
A woman in a long red fur coat turns, she wears a matching red gown, her exquisitely shiny silver hair piled up with pins on the top her head. She has an opera length cigarette holder between her dark purple lips.
“Someone take this!” She calls, pulling the holder out of her mouth and stepping forward with her arms up. “There will be no smoking around my grandson! Or my daughter! Or her beautiful partner!”
“Hi, mom” you smile, opening your arms for her. She embraces you and gives you a kiss on the cheek.
“And this must be Dyn and Baby,” Wilhemina sings, wrapping her arms around the two of them.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you.” Dyn gasps through her grip.
Wilhemina pets the top of Baby’s head lovingly, then clasps her hands together. “I am so glad you’re all here. I am so happy.”
The droid skids by again, a replenished tray of champagne balancing on top.
“Please!” Your mother exclaims, “Have a drink.”
“I’d love one,” you say and Dyn just stares.
“It’s fine, just take it.” You say through your teeth.
Dyn grunts.
“Take it.” You pretend to cough.
Wilhemina raises an eyebrow but her focus is broken as she looks passed the two of you. “Oh, Stark! Look who’s here!”
You turn to greet your father, but Dyn catches his hand first. Giving him a strong handshake and Baby cackles from the bumpy movement.
“Nice to meet you, Dyn.” Your father smiles, before crouching down to meet Baby. Everyone is always stunned when they meet Stark, Baby included. He coos with his mouth agape, reaching for his club master reading glasses. Your father wears and all white suit with a black tie, salt and pepper hair slicked back, his beard impeccably kept. He stuffs his hands in his pockets as his velvet fog voice spills out of his mouth, “Well hello there, Baby,”
Baby smiles sweetly with wide eyes and Stark squeezes his little cheek.
“Y/N!” Madden calls, stepping around his husband. “The most beautiful girl in the galaxy. When are you going to let me put you in a movie?”
“Never!” You laugh, as you kiss each other on both cheeks.
Madden rolls his eyes, “I know, but I’ll never stop trying.”
“She’s far too talented to be an actor, Madden darling.” Stark declares to his husband, crossing in front of him to embrace you and you quickly inhale his cologne.
“Hi dad,” you smile up at him.
“I’m so happy you came.”
“I think I’ve almost missed it here.”
Dyn laughs at something Madden & Wilhemina are telling him, probably something at your expense, but you smile at the sweet sound of his voice any way.
“You look happy, my star.” Stark says, searching your face.
You look over to Dyn, now bouncing Baby on his side as your mother introduces them to her husband and others you recognize as your aunt Adohara and her family. Dyn’s face is Iike sunshine, even in the darkness of winter as he smiles and nods, wishing everyone around him a “Merry Christmas”.
Your aunt comments on his exquisite face as Children pull on his arm for a better look at Baby and Wilhemina passes him champagne. He and Baby are a commodity.
You look back to you father, “I really am, dad.”
Your father nods, “I am so glad, my star.”
Stark smiles, and behind his frames you can’t help but see relief, joy and sadness swirl around in his eyes, all at once.
Wilhemina Starling and Stark Juniper were pioneers of the hologram film age, and the biggest stars on Venus-9. They were disgustingly beautiful, effortlessly funny, breathtakingly talented, and, as a duo, criminally profitable. Their marriage was iconic and your birth was broadcasted on every comm on the planet, finally an heir to a film dynasty. The next true star, so they thought. You rebelled at an early age against any matching of your parents stardom. You would rarely sit still for photographs and journalists, loudly expressed your contempt for fame, specifically declaring you had never even seen a Starling & Juniper vehicle. You didn’t mean to come off harsh, it just spilled out of you.
You were cursed at such a young age with the ability to see through it all. You didn’t see the beauty, the constant filtering of important people through your home - from filmmakers, to poets, to musicians and diplomats. You didn’t see the opulence, or even the joy your parents brought to others through their films. You only saw the loneliness looking back at you in the mirror. The confusing desire to both rebel and have your parents full attention, to be as great as them in anything. You could only see a life you didn’t ask for. You wanted to be delicate, exist in the shadows. Stunning and strong.
Instead you were full of rage and sadness. Your own beauty repulsed you and you were so desperately impulsive. You screamed out to the sky every night “Why did you send me to this planet?!” for you knew it must have been a mistake. You weren’t who you longed to be. You had an obsessive desire to set the planet on fire, but knew it wouldn’t burn fast enough. Nothing ever did. You were lost in a never ending cycle of everything being too much, or not enough.
It wasn’t until you were an adult and moved off of Venus-9 that you saw your parents for what they were, as complicated and lonely as you.
There was your mother’s exhausting career in always being “on”. Trapped in a contract she signed at 21, she had been making 6 films a year since. She was who everyone either wanted to be, or be with. A pressure she kept hidden in the dark with cigarettes and brandy. The biting of her cuticles and the ever-present guilt of so desperately wanting to be famous, just to secretly be unable to handle it. Wilhemina threw herself into every party, every role, every glass of brandy with her purple lipstick print, as to not be afraid.
Though, Stark could have been the loneliest of all. From the ages of 12-15 you could count on one hand how many times you had seen your fathers glorious face. It was a time you called, The Days of Recluse. You all slept under the same roof but at this point your parents had separate bedrooms. Your father only emerging from his for work. Otherwise, he laid in the dark all day, you were certain, catching a glimpse inside his room one afternoon when your mother shuffled out with a tray of uneaten breakfast. One of the few times you actually came face to face with Stark during this time, his appearance startled you. Gone were his golden movie star looks. His lustrous perfectly coiffed black hair had gone dull and shaggy. His skin over grown with a beard that made him unrecognizable. The dreamy look in his eye had gone hard and vacant like stone. He looked frail, his body swallowed by light blue pyjamas. Ultimately, he looked defeated. If you didn’t know your father, you wouldn’t know who was standing before you in the hallway at the top of the stairs in your own home. You stood there, eyes wide and he began to cry.
“I love you,” you blurted out, and pushed past him. You didn’t know what to do. How could you? This was just your normal.
Wilhemina became increasingly irritable during this time. Favouring chain smoking in the grand living room, with her large sunglasses on with her sister, Adohara. They spoke in whispers, but you heard them, of not knowing what to do. Wanting to help your father but not knowing where to start. “He needs his truth.” Your mother would say. “He needs his truth.”
When your father came out to you, you wept. You wept for him, you wept for yourself, you wept for the light that now crept into the home. You wept tears of happiness because you felt like perhaps this had been what was missing all along, your father’s truth.
You had a vivid memory of just days later, sitting on the floor of your parents formerly shared en-suite bathroom as your mother cut your father’s unkept hair, and trimmed his beard that he decided to keep.
Your father leaned into every touch, and your mother smiled through misty eyes. It felt so intimate, like you shouldn’t be there. It was like witnessing two people coming out on the other side, battered and bruised, but alive. Victims of a vicious studio system that overworked them and stole the best years of their lives just to display for the joy of others. A system that didn’t care what happened to them, as long as they were making money.
You once had elaborate fantasies of telling your parents you were magnificent in spite of them, not because of them, but all that came out of your mouth the night before Stark moved out of the residence was, “Growing up was so hard.”
Your parents looked down in shame. Your father’s bottom lip protruding as he let out a heavy exhale.
Wilhemina grabbed his hand and opened her mouth to speak, but you cut her off.
“And I don’t need you to be sorry, I don’t need you to want to take it back, I just need you to know how hard it was to always be alone. I was always alone.” You felt your chest burn from your voice cracking. “I know it wasn’t easy for you either, but I was the child and I needed you.”
Wilhemina and Stark nodded. They knew. And you knew that they did. There had been a shift after your father’s coming out. You actually saw each other, Wilhemina in the process of retiring from the scene all together and Stark transitioning to work behind the camera. You had begun showing them your own work, your art picking up recognition under the pseudonym F/N Zelda as to not attract any concerns of nepotism. Your mother began hanging pieces around the residence until they sold, even holding on to the ones you insisted on scrapping.
They were trying, but change wasn’t immediate. You weren’t suddenly delicate overnight. You felt for your father who was now faced with dreaming up his entire life all over again, and your mother who was losing you both to new lives at once. The three of you had a lifetime to mend and heal from, but it finally felt like the beginning of the end.
“Dyn, Y/N,” your mother sings as Baby reaches for her, much to your surprise. “I hope it’s alright, I got a few Christmas gifts for Baby.”
Wilhemina adjusts Baby in her arms as he rubs his face softly against her fur coat.
“Of course,’ Dyn says.
“We got him a few things, too.” Stark says, putting a hand on Madden’s shoulder and Madden beams a radiant smile.
Your mother turns and you all follow her as a parade through the sea of people to the back of the home. Past the 18-person dining table and through the kitchen with servant droids assembling platters of hors d'oeuvres and glasses of champagne. You link your arm through Dyn’s again, pressing yourself against him as delicately as you can. You look up at him with doey eyes and he smirks.
Through the kitchen you’re met with the more modest living space, the one you frequented most growing up. You gasp.
The room is lit up by a Christmas tree surrounded by package after package wrapped in different coloured foils, all tied meticulously with bows. Different shapes and sizes, there is at least two dozen of them.
“Oh mom.. Dad...” You sigh.
Wilhemina sets Baby on the ground and he waddles toward the shiny colours.
Stark and Madden walk passed you excitedly as you and Dyn have stopped in your tracks, eyes wide.
Dyn leans into your ear and whispers, “Baby isn’t going to know what to do with any of this.”
“Yeah, no. Not a clue.” You whisper back.
Baby looks back at you, as his finger traces along a gift.
“Go ahead, Baby.” Dyn nods. “It’s all for you.”
Sometimes you can’t believe this is your life. A civil relationship with your parents. An angel you would run to the end of the galaxy for, and his sweet green bean that you came to care for as your own. A delicate existence that satisfies you creatively, emotionally and otherwise. Filled with soft moments and a love so deep, if you think about it for too long, it makes you cry. A life you didn’t know was possible, for you once believed you’d be screaming up into the sky for eternity. But here you are. Sitting cross legged on the floor with Baby in your lap as he tears through Christmas presents, more interested in the wrappings and bows than the toys themselves. Dyn scarfing down hors d'oeuvres with your step dads and father just above you, stopping to feed you one, as your hands are tied with your sweet boy. Your mother watching everything with excited eyes, sipping on Coca Cola from a glass with her purple lipstick print.
You made it. You’re okay.
Tags: @otherthingsinhead @aeryntheofficial @maryan028 @readsalot73 @osric-the-l3m0n-l0v3-demon @capsironunderoos @antclottz @intense-sneezing
A/N: I feel like I should apologize as this has turned into more of myself practicing/finding my writing style than an actual Star Wars tale. I promise in the next chapter or 2, everything changes....👀 Stark and Wilhemina are based off of Rock Hudson and Dorothy Malone. I hope you enjoyed. Happy holidays! Love, Zelda
#the mandalorian#the mandalorian x reader#mandalorian#mandalorian x reader#pedro pascal#pedro pascal x reader#baby yoda#star wars#star wars fanfiction#dyn jarren x reader
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Empty Vessels (M)
Author’s Note: the next installment in the Tam Infra Quam Supra series. ive spent seven months working on this, and the backstory, details, and world got a little out of control. i promise, though, all of this is important. considering its length, if you have trouble reading this - i recommend you load on a desktop app | Historical note: the names, information, and references used regarding the actual Salem Witch trials have been been lifted for a work of fiction. I make no claim stating that anything described below is true, historically, accurate, or authentic. The Abott family are entirely original characters.
Pairing: Junmyeon x Reader (oc; female)
Genre: witch!au; soulmate!au; horror; suspense; thriller; romance
Summary: Water is everywhere. Junmyeon knows this better than he knows most things. Water is everywhere and it is the source of life - it exists within and inside humanity. But water, he knows, erodes. It weathers a person, and it has dried him out and turned him into something cold. So what does he do, then, when he meets you, his moon?
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: graphic depictions of blood; graphic references to violence; mentions of death and dismemberment; graphic depictions of demonic possession; explicit language; dark themes; explicit sex; fingering; unprotected sex; impregnation kink; creampie; dirty talk
Word count: 30K
APRIL 1692
2:17AM
He wakes to the sound of thunder, a distant and violent rumble echoing through the house, with a force that makes the walls vibrate.
In the haze between wakefulness and sleep, he shudders with a petulant grimace, joining the manor in a tremble of discontent. Eyelids weighed down by exhaustion and limbs drenched in the comfort of lambskin and wool, he hums to himself, waiting patiently for the soothing fall of rain.
Always, the rain, the water, delivers him a sense of peace that burrows down into his bones, kissing the marrow with a gentle tongue. He cherishes each drop as though they were his own children, relishes their kindness and pays it back in kind - for they are born from the earth and destined to be controlled by his hand alone, a homecoming to their father’s delicate touch.
They caress and preen against his skin, his home, his heart - they caress him, and he welcomes the torrent of their deluge. There is a comfort to be found in the flood, the gift of a surrender that is both terrifying and magnificent, and he welcomes it with expectant, needy fingers. Often, even without wind or breeze, the rain will press against his window, attempting to burrow in and be close, and he waits, readying to soothe and be soothed by the rhythm of their fall.
Tonight, however, the rain does not come. Tonight, the sky is too quiet and his nerves twitch in displeasure at the lack.
The thunder breaks again, and, at the sound of its intensity, Junmyeon furrows his brow, a deep pout setting itself against his lips. April. Too soon for the rainless storms that come from the heat and humidity of the summer sun; too late for oncoming terror of a hurricane, the usual warning bringing nothing behind it at all. There should be a chasm in the sky, something awful thrusting itself against the grass and the glass. There should be a flash of light and the wonder of panic too big to be contained in the armor of one's chest.
There should be something and this thunder, it seems, brings nothing at all.
Except that it does.
Behind the thunder is a yell that lingers, a voice urgent and penetrative, demanding his attention and calling his name with an urgency soaked in bitterness. It is not thunder that woke him, but knocking. Understanding washes over him, eyes growing wide and blood rushing in his ears, waking him fully. Slinging his legs over the bed, he pulls on his breeches beneath his muslin shirt and stalks to the door, tying them as he moves.
His motions are quick, mindless, attention focused on the door and the figures that rest behind it. In the dim light of the moon, their shadows cast along his walls, grotesque and inhuman, macabre in the foreboding they bring.
Names run through his mind, an endless list of friends and acquaintances that circle around and back again. By the time he reaches his door, he assumes it is a coven member - perhaps, a member of another coven, and he dreads their knowing, patronizing stares and hollowed gazes. The witching hour approaches, and, lately, Minseok has had dreams; visions of bloodshed and wounds born of war, of fear - he thought he had time, that they had time, and now he feels the tick of the clock has become a pendulum swinging against their favor.
Behind the door, the town magistrate stands and regards him with tired, accusatory eyes. The veneer of his polite smile is tarnished, fading and pulling at his lips to reveal a sneer of distorted anger, turning him into something poisonous. He holds the torch over his head at such a height, the lines of cheeks create deep crevices along his bones, the contour of his face appearing violent. The magistrate burns beneath the harsh light, much the way acid burns at the back of Junmyeon's throat, his weight shifting from foot to foot in anxiousness.
This, he knows, is not the first time a member of polite society or a member of authority has arrived at his home, seething and unannounced, demanding answers. Briefly, Junmyeon reminds himself this has happened before - it has happened before and it will happen again, but something about tonight tells him there is risk. This will not be the first time they have been discovered - if, of course, that is what this is about - but it may cost them their lives.
Idly, he thinks on the others - if he should wake them, if he should find Luhan, if he should say anything at all - before remembering words have not been shared, and therefore it is best he remain patient. Still, he keeps his tongue locked behind the prison of his teeth, expecting to be accused without any viable proof at all.
'Junmyeon,' is the all the Magistrate manages before releasing a long sigh, eyebrows stitched together in concern. The tension in his voice is thick, palpable, casting a heaviness into the air that makes Junmyeon’s neck begin to ache.
Junmyeon nods in the effort of remaining polite, calling on the water in his cells to keep him as serene as possible. 'Magistrate Adams,' he smiles, voice slow and heavy with sleep. 'What business brings you here at this hour?'
'It's Sasha.'
Another voice breaks behind the magistrate, an exhausted, worried voice belonging to a man who steps forward with anxious and heavy steps. His weathered hands grip his straw hat as though it were a cross. The bags beneath his eyes hang low on his skin, bruising from lack of sleep. Immediately, Junmyeon recognizes him as Sasha Abott’s father, Jacob, a kind farmer with calloused skin and a complexion greying beneath his fright.
Junmyeon regards him calmly, feeling his stomach distend and bend to touch his feet. ‘What about her?’
Sasha is smart, perhaps his brightest student, young and inquisitive and with a penmanship careful beyond her years. She is his favourite student, his favourite and his most observant. Her eyes follow him, tracing his motions as if committing him to memory and gaze lingering on him even when it should not. At sixteen, she is on the precipice of learning her power as a woman, and now his mind reels as implication worms its way through.
‘She has been possessed.’
‘Possessed?’ Junmyeon repeats the word, but remains unsure if anyone truly heard him.
Momentarily, he feels as though he has been reduced, whittled down to little more than ash, blood leaving his face in favor of the company of his toes.
‘By the Devil,’ the magistrate adds sharply, as though it were necessary.
In the silence, Junmyeon listens to the way his breath becomes shallow, eyes flicking between their intense, penetrative stares. He knows it’s possible, that it’s happened before. It has happened before, but not for centuries. Still, he is haunted by the memory of their black eyes and the yellow of their tongues, the grotesque way man succumbs to darkness and renders their bodies inhuman. To be filled with such a cursed thing is an act of dark magic, dark and powerful magic that is as ancient as the moon, and with its power comes the sulfuric scent of death.
‘I am unsure why you think I may be able to help,’ he says eventually, speech slowed by his inability to process the implication. ‘She would need the priest, good sirs.’
He offers the suggestion in a low tone, a warning. There will be little he can do for the girl, little anyone can do - even the priest. To hold the devil within your chest is to kiss fire, to let your organs burn and burn until the soul that remained has been eviscerated, leaving only the scarred shell of a heart that once loved behind.
‘She has named you,‘ Sasha’s father announces, sounding desperate and lost.
For Junmyeon, time seems to stop, blood halting within his veins as his breath falters. He pales, he’s sure of it, looking as good as guilty in the moonlight.
‘It would appear yours is the only name she can say,’ the magistrate offers, watching him narrowed eyes for subtle tells. ‘She begs for you.’
Magistrate Adams holds onto the word beg like he’s gradually unveiling a secret, peeling at the letters with his teeth to bare their unholy core. For a moment, Junmyeon thinks on this word and how it is both a plea, a cry for help, and also a curse. She has named him, requested him, hissed his name at a group of men as grown as he, letting the syllables saunter over we skin to paint pictures in their imaginations.
Sasha has done more than name him - she has damned him.
Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Junmyeon bends his knees as through bracing himself, body preparing to run and preparing to ache. Locking all his emotions away behind his teeth, he grips the door knob tightly and hums.
‘What do you presume I could possibly do?’ he asks, disbelieving as his eyes move from face to face, taking in the shadows the light casts and letting their chill caress his spine.
‘I urge you, sir,’ Magistrate Adams warns, darkening his tone and slowing his speech. ‘Your willingness to assist will eventually play in your favor.’
It’s a chilling thing to say, the words heavy and weighted with threat. Regardless of how this night goes, blood will be spilled, lives will be lost, and Junmyeon’s name will be the first on the list of the accused.
‘Please,’ her father whispers, a broken splinter of a man bulked with strength. The sound of it startles Junmyeon, so heartbreakingly contradictory to Magistrate Adams’ severity. ‘Help her.’
Junmyeon takes his hand and holds it between his own, overwhelmed by the fear, the anguish, the anxious uncertainty that flows from John Abbot’s skin. For a moment, he tries to soothe the pain, easing what he can in the hopes of bringing either one or both some relief, but quickly stops, tightening his fingers around John’s hand to shake it.
Even as he shakes his hand, as he lets the wasted sorrow of a man burn in his chest, as he lets himself be consumed by risk in the name of a child, he knows.
As he offers promises of hope and healing, promises to witness and understand; as he promises let himself burn in the name of a child he wished he could call his own, he knows.
He knows there will be no way out of this, no way that does not involve the ash of his soul or the fracturing of the coven.
Junmyeon is damned. There will be no hope for him until the sun turns black.
Tucked just towards the back of a field crafted into bounty, the Abbot’s home stands small yet warm, the lights of the windows glowing through the night as a beacon. Even from a distance, Junmyeon can sense the pious modesty that defines their home and their land, a rarity to see for such a skilled farmer. But then, he knows the Abbot family is small, and will always remain so. They have only one daughter, and will only ever have one daughter - all other children perishing within Mary Abbot’s womb or within the first few months of life. As Junmyeon approaches the cottage, it is this knowledge that seems to spur a sense of urgency within his blood, an understanding that Sasha is cherished, adored, doted upon if only because she will be the last of her kind.
She is a blessing upon her family, and now, in the grim bleakness of the night, it seems she has been twisted and reduced to little more than a curse.
Before they reach the door, Bridget Bishop steps out to welcome them, seeming out of place in her signature red cloak and tunic. Wringing her hands together, the moonlight casts silver into the tendrils of her hair, the shadows on her face amplifying the intensity in the furrow of her brow. It is the first time Junmyeon has seen her this way, her normally bright disposition overcast with worry and discontent. Acting as Sasha’s nanny, the two had a close bond, often inseparable when walking together in town. Even more, Sasha would choose to sit with her rather than her family at mass, both seated in pews towards the back, whispering.
‘It’s gotten worse since you left,’ she announces, voice sharp as a blade as regards Jacob alone. ‘I fear she may not survive this night.’
From the corner of his eye, Junmyeon watches the way Magistrate Adams regards her with scorn, distrust painted over his features. For a moment, Junmyeon sees her as his only ally, understanding that it is no longer he who has been damned, but Bridget Bishop as well.
‘Is this what women do when they don’t have husbands?’ The Magistrate’s voice cuts through the night, a dagger intended for Bridget’s malleable heart, and to carve directly into the rumours of her adultery with Jacob. ‘Fret over a child that is not their own?’
She breathes his words in deep, letting the poison put lightning on her tongue, eyes falling on Magistrate Adams with a severity that gives Junmyeon a chill. Rooting her feet to the earth, she lifts herself a few inches taller, straightening her spine as though born of iron and steel. Neither scorned nor startled, Bridget simply becomes a viper, vicious in her regard for men who dare tear down a woman.
‘The likes of you have no place here, Adams,’ she says, hands falling to her sides with her fingers outstretched, knuckles tense. ‘With such hate in your heart, I imagine the Devil would take glee in your soul.’
‘Witch!’ Magistrate Adams calls, lurching forward before Jacob’s arm comes to pull him back, gaining rightful authority on his property. ‘This is a threat to vex me! I will not forget it.’
‘Enough.’ Jacob’s voice roars in the night, all warmth having left him somewhere in the walk back to his home. He, too, has become battle born and thread with steel, eyes the cold timber of metal as he regards Bridget with dejection. ‘We’ll be seeing her.’
Even as he steps onto the porch, Junmyeon can smell the sulfur that churns within the house. For several moments, he pauses in the doorway, eyes downcast in search of salt or basil. Finding none, his heart takes to bleeding. The devil has found a plaything here, and they have done nothing to neither keep him inside nor banish him away.
Within the house, the light from the candles flickers in irregular patterns, too uncontrolled and distorted for such a still night. The yellow of the flames casts their shadows tall, curls their edges around the hard angles of the house and makes them too appear as demons. In this light, everyone has claws and no one is safe.
Jacob leads them up the stairs to Sasha's room, and as they approach Junmyeon feels his soul begin to fissure. As with any powerful dark magic, the barriers surrounding the boundary of her room reject him, his light, and his healing. Gravity means to push him away, and it takes effort not to moan with the effort of continuing his ascent. Jacob and Magistrate Adams approach her door as though they have never felt so free, and Junmyeon envies them. He envies the simplicity of their life, and the way it will continue in a chronological order even if their experience of it will be forever altered after this night.
For Junmyeon, his feet struggle to deny their steady approach to doom, to death, to the gallows, or, perhaps, to an empty black of nothing at all. Furrowing his brow, he chews the inside of his cheek with the force of his push until the skin begins to bleed, the salty metallic timber of his essence urging him to turn back. Still, he closes his eyes and presses his hands against her doorway, breathing deeply even though the air makes his lungs and throat ache.
'This is she,' Jacob whispers, neither looking at Junmyeon nor his daughter, truly.
Opening his eyes, Junmyeon glances at Jacob before looking into the room, realizing that everything inside this small space reeks of necrosis. His eyes do not fall on his daughter, nor do they fall anywhere else. Now, his gaze is vacant, confronted with a truth so bleak his mind refuses to truly see at all.
Even in hell, the truth is the only thing he can see.
In her bed, Sasha moans, eyes wide and looking at the ceiling - rather, through the ceiling - as her chest warps tragedy into sound. To him, for a single moment, it appears she is summoning the stars with the force of her will alone.
But then, there is no cosmic nor divine magic to the strength of her stare, the whites of her eyes tarnished with a jaundice that seems to eat away at her skin. It flakes away from her, peeling as though burning and boiling the water in her pores, her blood. And where this should make her pink or pale, cells inflamed with the sudden heat of the fire, it only has made her gangrenous. Her breath, struggling against the spores of her lungs, rattles as though battling within a cage, seeming to echo in the quietness of the house.
Distantly, Junmyeon hears the sound of weeping. He does not know if it is Mary, or Jacob, or himself, or, perhaps, even God. In the end, he supposes it is everyone, hearts breaking in unison.
It seems unfair that he should weep for her, unfair that he should have a right to care for her as much as he does. But, if asked, he would never deny that she was his favourite. His favourite, his smallest, and the one who reminded him he wanted to be a father, a tether to a reality he would likely never touch.
And so, he lets himself mourn and grieve, before shielding his soul with an armor that comes from centuries of learning to kiss death and survive its taste; centuries of seeing the Devil and telling him to run.
With his guard high, Junmyeon feels for the water in her body, and realizes his assumption was correct - she has been subsumed and slowly turned to parchment. Lending her some of his own, he eases the moisture into her throat, permissing her voice returns to her with a vigor stolen by the death she carries within.
Coming to his knees beside her bed, he remains there for a moment as though in prayer, watching her head to turn to face him. He waits for fear to take him, the horror of it slowly walking up his spine and making the hairs on his arms stand on end. While it does not consume him, it holds him, much the same way she holds her gaze on him, unblinking.
‘How long?’ He does not bother to face Jacob as he speaks, arrested by the sight of her.
Jacob coughs, lungs pressured by the weight of his distress. ‘Five days.’
He presses his lips together in a thin line as he chews delicately on his tongue, biting back the condemnations he would spit if the circumstances of his inclusion had been different.
'Sasha,' he begins, keeping his voice gentle and even. 'What is it you've touched?'
Slowly, her mouth opens as though her jaw craves to become unhinged. Sound should come, the sound of a voice or that of a girl, but instead the only sound he hears is the shuffling of uncomfortable feet behind him. In silence, she remains this way, mouth open and black within, until, eventually, she screams.
The shrillness of her tone makes him close his eyes as though stung, but he does not turn away nor does he move back. Junmyeon waits. Junmyeon remains. And he counts the number of voices he hears within the sound.
Three voices from within speak through her, using her small body as a vessel towards a violent end. This is not the first time he has been confronted with possession, but it is the first time there has been more than one beast contained within a person. To summon a devil is black magic that costs a soul. But to successfully manage more than one would surely cost a life, the sacrifice required demanding something sacred, and Junmyeon is certain this magic is archaic and mostly likely older than him.
'The black witch did this.' Buried beneath the screams, the words begin to echo within the sound without the control of Sasha's tongue to give them shape. The syllables slur together, messy and almost indeterminable, but they saunter over Junmyeon’s neck, making his skin itch.
Jacob coughs in alarm and despair before excusing himself from the room, watching his daughter speak without speaking, in a voice that is no longer hers. The Magistrate huffs at Jacob’s apparent squeamishness, but Junmyeon pays no mind to either, letting the words linger in his mind. They do not belong to her, not really. He reminds himself as he studies her blank stare, expressionless and wholly disconnected.
Junmyeon nods, appeasing the things that live inside her with a pious understanding. 'Who is the black witch?' he questions, tone soft.
He abandons emotion, keeping his thoughts and fears and sentiments locked in the silence of his chest. It has taken centuries for him to learn the skill, and even now, when he needs it the most, he fears he may buckle. With water as with life, emotions were his strongest gift, the tool he uses to heal all the anguish he encounters. Stripping himself of them now leaves him feeling uncomfortable and vulnerable, but he cannot let his feelings be swayed.
Demons such as this feed off the power of the heart, and his heart was always the most powerful of all, a veritable feast born for the taking.
‘You know her,’ one of the voices seethes, emerging from the black with a laugh that sounded like fire. ‘You break bread with her, covet her. Why do you hide from the sin you crave?’
‘Tituba.’
The Magistrate’s voice cuts through the room, a low rumble of implication that bursts forth as a tidal wave. Unable to take his gaze from Sasha for fear of becoming vulnerable, Junmyeon narrows his eyes and thinks through the name. Behind him, the men shift from foot to foot, satisfied and pleased as though they have found the answer, ready to seek her and bring her to justice. But still, Junmyeon gives pause, knowing that, with the devil, it would never be that simple.
‘She is an easy target,’ Junmyeon counters, keeping his eyes trained on the yellow of Sasha’s irises. ‘Any accusations made must be made in fact rather than assumption.’
Magistrate Adams scoffs, disdain leaking into the air to mix with the sense of dread. ‘It does not need to be more complicated, good sir,’ he sneers. ‘She speaks in tongues unfit for the darkness of her skin and watches too deeply the men that give her quarter.’
Against his thighs, Junmyeon’s hands curl into fists that gather the cloth of his breeches. ‘She is foreign,’ he says gently, even though he wishes to battle the magistrate with the fullness of his tone. ‘That does not make her a witch.’
His thoughts are interrupted by a great roar that erupts from within Sasha’s chest, a violent sound that gives him the sensation the earth is quaking merely by the force. Her brow does not furrow with the effort, expressionless and serene, she screams and screams until the men around her have been silenced in wait.
When she falls quiet once more, he releases a breath he did not know he had been holding, neck and back tense with the effort of keeping still.
‘Sasha - ‘
At once, a voice cuts him off. ‘You know my name better than most, Water King. Honor me...honor yourself, and use it.’
Blood rushes from Junmyeon’s cheeks, racing away beneath his skin as though the air that kisses it is poison. It rushes down to his fingers, his toes, and into his ears as his eyes widen and his mouth runs dry. The sound of his true name instill a terror within his bones, one that coils around his spine and demands that it break, his heart shuddering in its rhythm to sustain the adrenaline that now courses through his veins.
Behind him, he feels the gazes of the men burn into his shoulders, the weight of his damnation further spiraling out of his depth. It does that matter that he could still easily dissuade their belief of his guilt, does not matter that they have no proof of his magic. His name has been burned into the pyre, and there will be no saving himself after this night.
‘I know your name as Sasha,’ he says, neither fully lying nor fully honest.
Yes, the girl who lays before him is Sasha. But he knows, even against his better judgement, that he has not been speaking to her for some time.
This time, when she laughs, he knows it is the demon who distorts her jaw and giggles with a glee that makes his stomach twist; he knows what he is capable of, what he has done, what he will give, and what he will take away. In irregular clicks, the laugh itself sounds more like grinding metal than a natural sound born from a throat, but Sasha does not appear to move. Instead, she remains still, laughing and barely breathing, waiting to be saved.
Abruptly, the sound comes to a halt, her body twitching in small seizes that make her bed rattles against the wall. Frantically, his eyes scan her body as it writhes beneath her sheets, hands trembling and unsure of where to touch. And then, she stills completely, as though she has been unmoved and undisturbed for the entire evening. It is only when blood begins to seep from her mouth, dripping over her chin and down onto the pillow that he knows she is losing the war waging inside her, and his time for saving is almost out.
'Please,' she whispers voice small and weak, twisted around the presence inside her. She gasps, a wet sound that sprays blood onto Junmyeon’s chemise. 'Help me.'
The sun peaks over the hills at dawn, making the sky burn with a red and yellow that make the seas rage. Junymeon does not take notice, legs burning as he runs from Jacob’s home to the manor, ragged breath searing the nodes of his lungs as he focuses on moving away from hell. In his speed, he is followed by the eyes of the townspeople, muttering curses about the way he does not stop to give greeting, the way he narrowly avoids the bodies that mean to break his stride, or simply because he interrupts the fragile sense of peace the town has created. Briefly, he wishes for Chanyeol, for the legs of a beast to carry him or beat him home, the news he carries weighing him down until his motions feel insufficient.
When he pushes through the manor door, he finds Luhan heading towards the kitchens, hair still mussed from sleep. On the hardwood floor, the stained glass window above the stairs casts coloured patterns on the ground, the coven tree reaching to touch both of their feet.
Closing his eyes, he struggles to catch his breath as Luhan’s gaze wanders over body, taking him in. It hurts to breathe, hurts in a way that Junmyeon is not used to, body trying to repress and suppress all the horror he has witnessed. Falling to his knees, he waits for gravity to send him over, to leave him and abandon him, a hopeless case left behind and forgotten. No longer feeling tired, he simply feels nothing at all, and he thinks this is the most terrifying truth of all.
‘Jun, what is it?’ comes Luhan’s soft imploring voice.
Opening his eyes, he sees the way Luhan watches him, concerned and gentle and every bit the leader he needs - present and ready to listen. But even then, he sees him as a ghost, a burning ember of a man who would not have a place in the world that blazes around them, for there would be no room for this sort of kindness.
Not anymore, and perhaps not ever again.
‘Paimon,’ he chokes out, voice not sounding like his own. ‘Someone is raising King Paimon.’
NOW
The water at Smith Pool is unusually quiet, the current guiding the waves calm in a way that is uncharacteristic for the late autumn season. Under the scrutiny of the afternoon sun, the waters glimmer, inviting and offering a hope that feels almost like hope, as though it is unaware of this falsehood. It laps at the embankment with gentle touches as it rolls back and forth, soothing and altogether too peaceful for the chaos that surrounds the world. Absent is the mist and fog that lingers over the horizon, hovering delicately just out of reach as though kissing the surface, guarding and protecting the secrets that dwell below.
He waits for it. He waits, and it does not come.
Hands fisted in his pockets, Junmyeon roots his feet into the wood of the dock with narrowed eyes, vision clouded by echoes of a time he once thought had been buried. Memories stir, faces and names he would never truly forget but had pushed away through the guise of self preservation; each brutal and all more visceral than the last. A breeze kisses his cheeks though he does not feel it, numbed and weary and worn by the totality of this sudden onslaught.
He remembers the day the lake was made, remembers when the water meant something - a salvation, a hope, a beacon of life for a community.
He remembers the bodies - the bodies that hung from the trees and the bodies that were thrown in the water, accused and convicted, regardless if they were innocent. Their grey shadows linger behind his eyes, hanging from the trees and looming from the black of his memory; humanity reduced to little more than symbols, threats. Always, he stomachs them, swallows them down into the burning acid of his regret and ignores the flavor. Lately, he’s been haunted, the shadows no longer vague, unfocused shapes, but men with faces - his coven, himself, the world.
He remembers a lot of things, nails digging into his palms as his mind swims and swims, the water before him running red. For a moment, he imagines there is nothing. Nothing but himself and the memories, trapped but breathing; naked but safe; and lifelessly valiant in the way he bleeds for the people he loves. For a moment, he imagines he is alone, witnessing the terror of the past and the future, and letting them blur together if only because he believes his iron heart is strong enough to withstand it.
But then, even the security of this is brief and shattered, a fragile, vain hope from the mind of a martyr.
Behind him, Chanyeol cries in a way he believes is ugly and undignified. The sound sours the air, spoiling the delicate pretense of comfort the lake offers. It smothers him, the grief and the intensity of it, building a pressure in the center of his lungs that stings. He rolls his neck from side to side, eyes fluttering closed with a huff as he tries to alleviate the tension that has gathered in his shoulders. Poised and patient, he’s sure his the steel in his posture is not a comfort for Chanyeol or, perhaps, anyone who would witness the way he appears rooted to the earth.
Junmyeon accepts this. Lately, he’s begun to think of comfort as little more than a myth.
For a long while, he remains silent, letting Chanyeol’s choked gasps of breath be the only thing the air touches, neither satisfied nor grieving, simply watching.
‘They’re just birds, Chanyeol.’ Even he is surprised by how empty, how cruel, his voice has become.
With a sniffle, Chanyeol wipes his nose on his sleeve as he inhales a shaking breath, finally daring to break the silence.
‘It wasn’t their time to die.’
Junmyeon does not turn around, unwilling to look at the dead raven Chanyeol cradles in his arms.
At three in the morning, the screams started. First as a low rumble of malcontent, they began to build into an anguished howl that made the house tremble. There was a terror to this noise, a chill to the realization that the voice making the sound did not belong to Yixing. He’d grown accustomed to the tenor of Yixing’s screams, to the cadence that sometimes bends into music as he sees and sees. It was the loudest Chanyeol had been in centuries, and he had almost forgotten the richness that had been locked inside his throat, hiding away from all the horror.
His long limbs thrashed in the bed, twitching violently as though he were being pulled, wounded and scarred. They’d gathered in the room to bear witness, seemingly forgetting the centuries of practice they had with someone else, bewildered by the sudden change. It was only when the rhythmic sounds of thudding on the roof cut through his cries that they moved to action, Chanyeol leaping from the bed as Baekhyun rushed behind on swift feet to cast light.
They followed, uncertain and afraid though fully prepared to fight. From the sky, the birds fell as though they were gliding, and in Baekhyun’s glow, Junmyeon felt a brief moment of peace at the aerial display he thought he was witnessing. For a moment, there was beauty to this new aspect of Chanyeol’s power.
The crash onto the roof hurt, the snapping of their frail necks causing Chanyeol to tear at his own skin, falling to his knees and dying with them. Even without Minseok, he knew, the dread making his toes tingle as he pressed them into the blades of grass.
'Can you not grieve for us?’ he asks, digging his nails into his palms hard enough to sting. The water surges as he speaks, moved by his words rather than the current. ‘For the fact that we might end up like them?'
Chanyeol releases a small whine, a barely there noise of hurt and scorn. 'They were helpless, Jun,’ he begins, softly. ‘This was done to them.'
He smothers a bitter laugh, cocking an eyebrow at the empty expanse before him as he purses his lips. 'That sounds precisely the same to me.'
Footsteps startle them both, the sound of heels on the dock making Chanyeol cough in embarrassment as Junmyeon finally turns, brow furrowed.
Hand in hand, Minseok walks along the dock with his partner, eyes dark and shadows on his face long. Beside him, she weeps silently, cheeks wet with tears that still threaten to spill regardless of her stoic expression. They grip one another as a cross, clutching at each other’s fingers in the effort of reminding themselves they are tactile, whole, and unified, hearts emptied of pleasure by what they had seen. Junmyeon watches the way Minseok runs a thumb over her knuckles, a quiet moment of comfort that provides more empathy than he has seen from him in centuries.
How odd, he thinks, to see one touched by love; touched and utterly terrified.
Standing to Chanyeol’s side, they complete the accidental circle created by the unintentional flow of magic.
‘What did you find?’ Junmyeon asks, casting glances between them both before finally lingering on Minseok, still unclear about the breadth of her power and choosing to trust what he knows.
For a while, they do not speak. Minseok looks longingly out over the water, hollowed, as the herbalist regards the dirt on her shoes with an empty stare. In the silence, Junmyeon minutely nods, the bare threads of his patience allowing them space to find their words. Images spring to his mind, all imagined and none wholly formed, all as bleak and battered as the crow in Chanyeol’s arms. He wonders what Minseok has seen, unable to avoid with a clarity bordering on entrapment; he wonders what she has heard, whispers on the wind of a life he thought he’d left behind.
‘The trees are screaming,’ she announces, eyes still downcast though her voice is sharp; blunt as the edge of a sword and equally as unforgiving. ‘They’re in pain.’
It settles over him, slow and uncompromising, the notion that trees could make sound - that they would choose to. The oldest wisdom lingers in their branches, and for one brief moment, he sees her as someone as old as their roots.
‘Are there ravens?’ Chanyeol asks, running his finger down its beak.
‘There are birds,’ she confirms, voice softening for this redirection of conversation partner. ‘I don’t know if it was only our homes that were affected or if they were drawn to us, in a swarm. I’m not skilled enough to recognize their songs, so I can’t tell if it was just ravens, either. I can only hear the plants.’
For the first time in days, Chanyeol smiles, thankful. ‘That’s good,’ he nods. ‘If there are birds in the forest, there’s a chance it wasn’t the whole species. I can check later.’
Tension builds in Junmyeon’s knuckles, teeth gritting as he stomachs the conversation. Nature is always eaten first in any apocalypse event. It disappears slowly, or even sometimes, swiftly, eradicated as if in warning of an oncoming storm. The seals breaking would always start with nature, and he is glad that they still have some semblance of time, even if the decay within is silent. He is glad, but he is not appeased.
‘Was there more than just...screaming,’ he presses, gaze still trained on the crooked angle of the birds neck.
‘I saw the hangings,’ Minseok says, and Junmyeon regards him with parted lips, blood leaving his cheeks. Together, for a moment, they remember, silent as their eyes trace the outline of nonexistent bodies. ‘I don’t know if...,’ he continues only to fade away, distracted and detached. ‘It felt like layers. Memories of how it used to look filling in details of the future.’
Shifting his weight in his knees, Junmyeon braces as though preparing to leave the earth, evaporating and dissolving amidst the sickness and unease. ‘Are you saying it’s happening again?’ he asks, voice low yet still demanding, bursting through the tightness in his chest with force.
Minseok keeps his expression calm, unreadable, save for the bags beneath his eyes. ‘I’m saying it looks the same,' he advises with a small nod. ‘It feels the same.’
Water sprays up from the dock, a cold mist that startles the herbalist and even Chanyeol. They cower away in shock and surprise, yelping slightly at the sudden chill against their legs, but Minseok and Junmyeon remain still. Together, they remember, a knowing look spreading a thousand words in the distance between them, and none capable of fully expressing the depth of how it feels to truly fear.
Nature is always the first to be razed because, with Paimon, the control of things once thought wholly beyond the command of true evil is always the proof of power. The trees will scream; the birds will die; the water will run black and beyond his control; and it will happen again. Just as it did before.
Shaking his leg to dry his pants, Chanyeol coughs to break the silence, glancing between his brothers in an effort to escape the hold of memory. ‘But if the seals are breaking then why are they different to the ones we used?’
‘There were over six hundred possible permutations,' Minseok shrugs, defeated. ‘I don’t think it matters which ones snap, only that they do and that we feel it.’
The herbalist nods, inching closer to Minseok's side in comfort. ‘The seals are breaking,’ she affirms, breathing her through mouth quietly to mask the shaking of her breath. ‘I don’t think there’s room for argument with that. It just feels like the downswing of the pendulum is out of control. Things are happening faster, more violent. Even in the woods it felt like we were being followed.’
Even as he watches the way they stand near one another, leaning into each other for warmth and comfort and healing, Junmyeon tastes the bitterness on his tongue. In another life, maybe he would have celebrated this union, would have hugged his brother and kissed her cheek in expression of welcome. Instead, all he finds is blame.
Blame that this consummation of love and sex has forced them back into the chokehold of evil. They learned from this, he thought. They had learned and bled and lost through the effort of saving humanity, and he did not think they could survive it again.
And for what, he thought. For love and all the soft effusive things that would never save a life.
Coughing, he stomachs these thoughts, knowing that they do not help their situation - don't even offer further insight. Now, more than ever, they don't need feelings. They just need answers.
'We lost the member of our coven who figured out how to stop this,' he says, dropping his gaze to the wet wood beneath his feet. 'And I don't think the answer will be the same.' He regards the herbalist with what he hopes is a kind, reassuring smile, the kind of expression that would make a person feel welcome and inclined to help. 'Does anyone in your coven have any ideas? Have they felt anything?'
She nods, though it does not come with the enthusiasm of solutions. 'One of my sisters has been turning towards sacred geometry for answers,' she explains. 'She believes that the cage was structured and built, and sacred geometry is builders magic. Maybe the answers lie in the construct seals rather than the consequences.'
Eyes wide, he blanches. Sacred geometry is an old magic, a magic that comes from learning the root and form of power rather than simply how to harness it. Each energetic spell has a form, structure, and texture, and the ability to confidently wield each is what creates a vessel to embody spirit. The heart that carries sacred geometry is usually raw, unyielding, able to process an immense amount of energy as though it were a generator. The last time he knew someone who could handle such raw magic was Luhan.
‘I want to meet her,’ he says, the eagerness in his voice turning their expressions curious. ‘Geometry gave us -‘ Junmyeon pauses, unsure if he wishes to continue.
Sucking in a breath, he holds it in his lungs until it hurts. ‘Context,’ he finishes. ‘Even if we didn’t know it at the time. It’s something both powers from above and below must yield to.’
‘The holiness of it was what turned against us,’ Chanyeol offers, gaze distant as he relives the church falling before his eyes. ‘We underestimated it once.’
‘She’s good at it,’ she says, offering a reassuring smile to Chanyeol. Warmed, he returns the smile, energy becoming at ease once more. Turning her gaze to Junmyeon, she grins. ‘She’s good, but she’s sometimes filled with so much hope she doesn’t see how darkness would twist the magic. You might be good at offering her perspective.’
‘I’m not hopeless,’ he counters, defensive though he does not feel offended by her jab. ‘You weren’t with us last time, so you don’t know how this looks.’
‘We felt it, though.’ In this, she is serious, unyielding, eyes dark and clouded over. ‘Don’t ever underestimate the reach of hell. Every witch was touched, marked.’
Closing his eyes, he sighs and pulls his hands from his pockets, catching the moisture on the breeze. The sky above churns, clouds gathering to mar the sun and the light. They seem fractious, tormented by the taciturn greyness that consumes them, and he allows this sadness to bring comfort. Droplets pool at the tips of his fingers, soaking into his skin before dripping slowly onto the dock, ensuring he feels protected and no longer alone.
The way it happened was swift, a downfall that forced even the most secretive of witch into hiding. Flavoured food and spices were seen as witchcraft, too much knowledge of the earth turning food into potions of their own; foreign songs becoming little more than voodoo; anything difficult to be understood, anything new, suddenly questioned with an intensity bordering on accusatory. It has never left society, a golden age of creation and growth spurred on only centuries later beneath the guise of money and capitalism.
It was swift, the pulling of creation and manifestation from humanity, until all that remained was the dull acceptance of eventual death.
Shaking the water from his fingers, he bites the inside of his cheek before speaking. ‘Would she be open to meeting me?’ he asks, watching the herbalist and the way her eyes study his face for hidden meaning. ‘Would she want to work with us?’
She smiles, seemingly gladdened by his offer. ‘I’ll tell her to come to the shop.’
‘Tomorrow,’ he says, offering a small smile before turning back to the water.
He hears Minseok usher them away, giving him time to be alone with the lake.
As they leave, the clouds pull back and bring forth the sun once more. Distantly, he hears the herbalist questioning Minseok about the truth of his power, and she is offered kind, shallow words - words that express the good, the kind, the valiant. Decidedly, he leaves out the darkness - the way water lingers in the blood, controlled by his hand; the way tears will leak and saliva will dry should he so choose.
Minseok leaves out the way he could be synonymous with Paimon, and is not simply by route of choice.
The numbers on the page are meaningless.
Running a hand through his hair, Junmyeon looks at the rows and rows of the shop account book, seeing little more than just colours, shapes of things that once held importance. Ink marks have formed symbols, letters and numbers, details in black that say the shop is fine. They are productive. There is no need to worry. But still, he does not see them. Not really.
Behind his eyes, his mind swims with thoughts - vague impressions and blurred shadows of days once lived or likely to be lived again. Slowly, his mind walks away from him, leaving behind the normal guard he has on memory and emotion - on the things he keeps pushed at arms length to feel effective and efficient, and to, at least, keep calm. Remnants of sorrow that usually would amount to sickness swirl in his stomach, the emotions of comparison rising like bile and making his eyes begin to create tears, exhausted.
This is not the first time this has happened, and he has grown accustomed to the fact that this will not be the last. He’s used to this feeling, the feeling of slipping down and deep inside his mind, detached though not altogether immune to the anxiety that comes with remembrance.
This is not the first time this has happened, but it is the first time he has thought, with any effort of consideration and focus, of the man he used to be. A once kinder version of himself. A softer version, with hands gentle and comforting like feathers. Seeing the details of his past is not something he devotes himself to, choosing instead to walk around and through the memory as though it is a photo, a thing he sees but does not truly witness. Seeing the details now makes his bones burn, fingers swelling with an angst uncharacteristic for someone his age or someone ageless, and he feels it in the liquid amber of his blood like wave.
Even before Sasha reminded him it was natural to play favourites, natural to commit time and attention to someone young in the effort of imparting wisdom, he knew he wanted to be a father. He craved the feeling, the earnestness of devotion that comes with unconditional love and the almost unbearable holiness that comes from creating life. Back then, he wanted it all, wanted to love and love and love, so that even if there was no longer a need for magic at least he could say he had a purpose, a reason.
Her possession came over him like a season, one ripe with loss and anguish and grief, and still it haunts him. Yixing screams in the night, and still he remembers Sasha’s empty eyes and the way she eventually asked to die. Minseok sees, and still he remembers the hanging bodies of Bridget Bishop, of Tituba, of women and strangers and anyone who threatened to question the order of things.
The birds rained down much the way the memories of their first brush with true evil reigned over him, an onslaught of brutality, loss, and grief. Omens come, and love blooms, and all he can sense is the entrapment - the way there is no longer space for this kind of feeling.
The opening of the door to the stockroom breaks his thoughts, Minseok peeking his head in to catch his attention. Junmyeon shifts abruptly in surprise, laughing lowly at himself as he struggles to appear busy.
‘You okay?’ Minseok asks, eyes narrowing as he considers the mess Junmyeon has made with careless hands.
Closing his eyes, he composes himself for a moment, heartbeat erratic and pumping the fullness of his blood into his cheeks. Pressing a finger to his lips, he silenced the noises in his chest, gathering the effort of his usual stoicism.
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he nods, leaning back in his chair, settling and getting comfortable. It’s a lie, one he knows Minseok will sense, regardless if he speaks or not, but he says the words with confidence, unsure who he is trying to convince.
‘You look...,’ Minseok’s voice trails off, eyes running over Junmyeon’s flushed expression as he tries to find polite words. ‘Damp.’
Junmyeon shrugs, muscles in his neck and shoulders tense. ‘It’s just hot in here.’
Casting his eyes up towards the air vent in the ceiling, Minseok hums idly has he looks for signs of heat or airflow. Junmyeon watches him intently, knowing that the heat is not on, not yet - that it’s too soon in the season for such a thing. But still, he is glad. Glad that Minseok humours his statements without drawing attention to the truth, a kindness he does not deserve after the vitriol he had spewed over the last week.
Nodding at nothing and no one, Minseok returns his gaze to Junmyeon’s face and sets his lips in a thin line. ‘Okay, well, she’s here. She’s ready to talk when you are.’
The mere mention of you is powerful, giving rise to a lump in his throat strong enough to falter his breathing and make his brow furrow, affected. He swallows thickly, pursing his lips in bewilderment as his gaze loses focus. He does not know you, has not even seen you, but the violence you tests his strength.
‘I’ll be out in a second,’ he says, voice thick and barely audible.
Narrowing his eyes, Minseok grunts in acknowledgement before leaving, shutting the door with a soft click. Alone, a groan escapes his lungs, body reclining back into the chair as he starts to feel consumed. He knows, even without truly seeing, that this, all of the things that comprise him this day, is because of you. All day, he has guessed that the oncoming storm in the center of his heart is the nature and nurture of you, he wanted so desperately to be wrong.
This, he imagines, is how Minseok felt when he sensed his herbalist - compelled and overwhelmed, and, most horrifically, pleased. Of you, about you, for you, always, he his gladdened and unwilling to avoid all that has chased him across centuries of anguish and despair. All that matters, all that likely ever could have mattered, is that he feels you.
You are stirring things, churning away at his heart and his breath, and while they promise a freedom he craves to kiss, he considers this sort of possession a poison.
He feels you, and he is unsure if he will ever stop.
Making his way through the shop, his legs move of their own accord, driven towards you as though your heart is a compass and it takes him several seconds to realize he is no longer in the back room. He is lured by you, tethered and reduced to little more than a puppet in the wake of you, mouth running dry as the air turns thick with every step he takes.
Even without knowing, you will find them, Yixing had said. In the darkness, where there is no light, you will still see them. And this, this prophecy, he supposes, is all his body would ever truly need to be lead home.
Coming to pause behind the register, he watches as you lean against a bookshelf and keeps his distance, hiding himself away before he lets himself run raw. He takes in the soft angles of your profile, studies the way you nod enthusiastically in conversation with Baekhyun and the herbalist, and wonders if you feel him too.
Does your spine tingle with his presence, tightening the joints in your hands to twitch your fingers in time with his? Does your chest burn, or yearn, or ache, down into the caverns you once assumed empty, overwhelmed with the sudden onslaught of knowing? And in your bones, is the sudden awareness of all your connective tissues - your nerves, your muscles, your sinew - stinging with the overwhelming knowledge of being alive?
‘Jun!’
He jumps, shaken by the loud herald of his name. Gripping the counter, he had been swaying, a slight rhythm rocking him from side to side as though he has been lost at sea. Bakehyun waves at him, having noticed - likely, having seen everything, smiling with an impish grin that feels almost cruel.
‘Come over here and meet Y/N.’
He says your name as though it does not hurt, as though it were simply a name, and Junmyeon steels himself a moment to process how this could be so. Your name quakes inside his soul, pushes him towards a surrender to the unnatural and unresisted promise of misery. The misery of destruction, brutality of war, and the unbearable brutality of love. Love, he knows, is an annihilation that ambushes the unsuspecting beneath the guise of devotion, protection, and unity. Love is just as violent as war, just as permanent as death, and, by this law, for him, you are a hurricane.
The movements in his legs, the unintentional sway from side to side as if lost at sea have captured Baekhyun’s attention, and he calls his name with a delight that almost feels cruel.
You turn to look at him, glancing over your shoulder before you turn, eyes wide and resolute. Something he can't place swims in your irises, something delicate, and fragile, and untarnished, as if the exhaustion of living has never once touched you. As though, for all your years, you have greeted existence with hope. The herbalist was right, he thinks. There is a reckless endangerment to your positivity, the kind we would never need but craves just the same.
Crossing his arms as you approach, his fingers knead roughly into the fabric of his sweater, jaw tensing as you draw near. There’s a bounce to your steps, in the way you walk and carry yourself, a bounce that makes him roll his eyes as he begins to swoon.
The bounce in your footsteps frustrates him, and though he cannot truly place why this so, he imagines it comes down to envy.
He envies the you he was in his youth, before he learned how to lose things that matter - things that promise to stay, to never die, but vanish just the same. He was you, once, but you somehow learned to keep a smile that tells the world you are okay.
‘I hear you’re looking into sacred geometry,' you announce, standing before him with pride.
The counter separates your chests, your hearts, your souls. To Junmyeon, this distance is a canyon, a long void through which he yearns to reach but does not. His fingers twitch, nails digging into his palms with the effort of keeping still.
Resting on your elbows, you lace your fingers together and scrutinize him, not bothering to be discrete. 'It feels urgent that we talk,’ you continue, having your fill of him with glazed eyes. A small furrow knits your brow together, and Junmyeon’s fingers twitch, eager to wipe the wrinkles away. ‘Like there's nothing that matters quite as much.'
Warmth radiates off you, or perhaps it is the air, rolling against him in waves that rock against his perception of you as a person. It makes sense, he knows, that you would get right to the point, because you are made to wear at him, made to break his defenses and match him completely. He knows this, logically, but he did not expect to feel so awed by you, adrift in his mind and floored by the mere idea of you as his neck begins to flush.
‘I have little experience with it,' he admits, coughing as the breeze puts your perfume in his mouth. ‘One of our own was familiar but…' He fades, eyes glossing over much the same as yours, the weak edge of his tone dissipating completely as he remembers. Remembers the bodies and the limbs, the open mouthed scream Luhan released and the silence of it that made his ears ring. In front of you, he remembers everything he had pushed away, battled against for centuries just to keep himself upright.
Closing his lips, the memories die, fading away as the taste of you fades on his tongue.
And this is when he remembers you are deadly. You are lethal. And there is more still within him you could stir.
Clearing his throat, he corrects his posture, standing tall and wearing the mask of a leader with dignity, if not pride.
‘It might be best if we sit and talk somewhere else,' he suggests, hoping to expose his vulnerability to you and only you, rather than those who could suffer the consequences.
You select a table at the back of the cafe, tucked away from teenagers studying for midterms or couples on dates, preening before one another and hoping to be wanted. The oak table sits beneath a speaker, smooth jazz muffling your conversation from those who pass by on their way to the toilet. Shoulders hunched forward, you hold tightly to your mug of cocoa, letting the heat of the ceramics trickle into your fingertips.
Across from you, Junmyeon sits heavily in his seat, with neither drink nor pastry. He has become transfixed by the way your nails trace the edges of the ceramic designs, rolling over the supple curves of the mug, there and back again, just the way his life ebbs to you and back again. In these few short minutes of being alone, together, he has learned that you keep a smile tucked in the corners of your lips, that you laugh easily and you laugh loudly - at nearly everything - and that you sigh, wistfully, longingly, at every child that passes.
In this cafe, you are pink. You are pink and gold, a sunset whispering through a current and everything he suddenly finds himself defenseless against. It is not, he thinks, that he wants to protect you - he knows you do not need him to. It is that he wants to share with you.
His heart. His memories. His life. His family.
Junmyeon wants to share, a horrific thought he clutches at with both hands to remind himself it is not safe. You are not safe, regardless of how his lifetime listens so intently to yours.
And as he casts his gaze to the old map of Salem, framed on the wall behind the top of your head, so too do your eyes wander over his features; learning and memorizing and, often, dissecting. He feels you, feels your gaze with the same intensity as though this were skin to skin contact, your considered analysis of his mouth, his lips, his hair making him breathless. Beneath the table, his leg shakes, anxious from the effort of not reaching for you, of holding you tight as he wanders, head first, into devotion; holding back and holding his tongue with a fierceness that makes him clench his teeth together.
Eventually, you peer back down to your cocoa, satisfied with your findings, or, at least, yourself.
‘Where would you like me to begin?’ you question, words strong and authoritative, though directed at your cocoa.
Releasing a breath he did not know had been contained in his lungs, he bites his lip. There is little he remembers from his lessons with Luhan, and it pains him to admit he would be a novice on this subject.
‘Perhaps just there,' he shrugs, hoping to sound aloof rather than ignorant. ‘At the very beginning.’
Nodding, you intake a sharp breath as you straighten your back, eyes wild with thoughts.
‘This sort of magic,' you begin, confident and empowered, 'relies on the concept that the universe was created according to a geometric blueprint - that a god was the geometer of all things. And it continues, perpetually. A god is constantly at work, building and making. If you can consider that a god is a geometer, then this too means that all those in hell are constructing just the same.’
Tilting his head, Junmyeon traces the lines in the table, the intricate latching of wood and nail, with the pad of his finger. His recall on sacred geometry is limited, but with Luhan he remembers charts - not charts, cloths with shapes, designs with trigger points for magical access. Stand here, Luhan would say. Put the fire here. They were building magic, not the universe.
'I thought sacred geometry was for patterns, crystal formations,’ he questions tentatively. ‘Magic structures rather than...math.'
'It is,' you affirm, 'but that's just one element. Geometry appears in all things. Like I said, if a god is a geometer, this means everything in nature - plants, animals, people - are constructed with sacred proportions.'
Proportions. Like the way your clavicle leads elegantly to your shoulder. Like, the way your bottom lip pouts childishly and begging to be kissed. Like, the way the slope of your nose and the arch of your brow haunts him, puts a retinal burn behind his eyes and makes him feel parched. Like, the way his hand looks as though it would fit yours and hold it, steadfast and for eternity.
Proportions, he thinks.
'So Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man?' he says, instead, with a smirk.
A flush creeps into your cheeks, making you pink and pink and pink, as you regard him with parted lips
'In a sense, yes,' you continue, words rushed as you calm yourself down. 'People are divinely symmetrical, and therefore our actions are symmetrical. And if we are born from symmetry, then we build for the gods in symmetry. Most churches are built with sacred geometry in mind, mimicking the geometry in nature.'
‘Ah,’ Junmyeon intones. 'The Fibonacci spiral.’
‘Yes,’ you giggle, corners of your eyes crinkling in satisfaction. The sound makes the tips of Junmyeon's fingers go numb. ‘That pattern is usually described as God’s divine equation. But even still, Galileo’s lectures on the structure of hell as it lies within the Earth can be considered natural geometry.'
With a huff, you lean back in your chair and shrug. ‘It’s hard to summarize without showing you or working at it over time,’ you grimace. 'These rules and attributes are assigned to specific religious constructs, though it does not necessarily need to be made from god. That's probably the most important thing you could take away from this.’
Mirroring your posture, Junmyeon reclines back and feels his brain dig deep. ‘You’re implying, then, that we can make the geometry as well?’
Nodding, you hum. ‘With that in mind, you must not perceive the magic as the power, but the blueprint itself. All blueprints exist to make things and, by extension, contain them.’
‘Contain them?’ Junmyeon stares at you, aware that his imploring eyes are demanding, pulling at you for more, but he cannot seem to stop himself. ‘Should we then see the Earth as a vessel?’
Through the clench of your jaw, you take in a long breath, knowing he finally understands, grasps the sheer magnitude of this magic. 'If the Earth was made to carry, and hell is contained, it is indeed a vessel.'
Silence befalls you both as you regard one another, feeling the weight of change grow and spawn between you. Junmyeon swallows thickly, eyes gazing over your features, the decor, the table, your skin, yet seeing only truth. It swells inside him, the frustration turned sadness that makes his breath come shallow and uneasy. All the things he should have known, all the things he missed, laid before him so simply - and he’d have noticed if he only ever allowed himself to look back.
‘We solved nothing,’ he murmurs, to neither you nor himself, really. Just a release of vitriol that burns within his lungs, angry at their ignorance.
They never won the war. All they had done, effectively, was delay it.
Your hands slide down and away from your cocoa, pressing against the table to cool your palms. Eventually, you speak again, equally as demanding for information as he. ‘Your coven was here during the Great War?’
He smiles, though it is bitter, knowing you are being polite. You know this answer, you’ve always known this answer, but still you are soft and allowing him the opportunity to deflect. This, he thinks, is a kindness he does not deserve.
‘We were,’ he manages, keeping his tone stable and even.
‘Then,’ you try, nibbling at the inside of your cheek. ‘Maybe you can tell me the nature of the containment? A structure inside a structure - that kind of geometry defies our comprehension of dimensions.'
The question hits him in the center of his chest, and he turns to look away, staring out the window as though peering into the past. Mouth dry, he licks his lips and feels the heat without the moisture, nails dragging along the table as his hands form into loose fists. When he looks back at you, you are not apologetic, merely expectant, unwilling to let him retreat.
Inching your arm forward slightly, your fingers drum on the table as you bite your lip, considering, before moving back and gripping your cocoa with conviction. ‘We all know the truth, Junmyeon,’ you press, gently. ‘We were elsewhere, but we know the stories..how it ended.’
‘New York.’ He says, voice empty, acknowledging that, indeed, you were not here and so you did not suffer.
Unsettled, you purse your lips as you cast him a cold stare. ‘We had our demons,’ is your curt reply. ‘Some centuries later, but we had them.’
Junmyeon smirks, the unique singularity of your war slightly humours. ‘The headless horseman.’
Cocking an eyebrow, your response is immediate. ‘It’s inappropriate to tease about any war, regardless of its scope.’
For a long while, you hold his stare and remain still, eyes powerful enough to knock the wind out of him. They hold him, almost as intensely as they hold him accountable for his words, and he is glad for the severity. Glad, in the end, for the proof that you are just as tormented, and just as haunted as he.
It’s enough, he supposes, to share, to let himself be intimate. Exposure, of any kind, is a wound on its own. But with you, with someone who hurts just as deeply and carries it within their bones, exposure is a commiseration and a comfort.
‘Back then,’ he begins slowly, reaching back to scratch his neck in thought, ‘it was not us alone who created the seal.’ Stopping himself from continuing, from sharing too much, he pauses and rephrases his thoughts. ‘We were of great assistance, but we had help.’
Humming, you sip your cocoa as you process his words, lashes fluttering as you drink in pleasure. Licking your lips, you furrow your brow. ‘It sounds as though this help was unexpected? I thought your coven was alone, in Salem?’
Junmyeon nods, barely imperceptible. ‘The Reverend's wife…’
At once, he sees her face, the delicate frailty of her features. Ill, always ill, and carrying with her a shawl as if to shield her from a chill, even in summer. Often, the children said she was spun from silk, the supple length of her black hair and the finery of her skirts extensions of her skin and spirit. Always speaking about God as though she knew him, personally; pointing the slender elegance of her index finger at widowed or spinster women, and accusing them of being sinners, of being harpies sent to pray on the God fearing goodness of gentlemen.
‘She helped you connect with God?’ you try, puzzling together what he infers.
He shakes his head, barely there and barely focused. ‘It must have overwhelmed her,’ he mutters, haunted. ‘And...she only helped...because we saw. It was not offered to us.’
She said she had visions, that she had seen the devil and the scourge he would lay upon the Earth. Even as she burned, laughing and laughing, he still couldn’t believe she’d said the words with desire. The flames ate at her skin and still she laughed, said she wanted it, that she should feel him, that the dead, and their ashes, tasted sweet. Remorse never tainted her features, taking pleasure in her body count and making sure that all the world witnessed the glory.
Blinking, he brings himself back to the present. ‘She burned for what she knew,’ he says, finally. ‘We turned her to ash, but it still will never be enough.’
Pressing your back into your chair, you consider him for a moment, watching intently to see if he will swim in his memories once more. ‘A lot of women burned. Women are always burning.’
‘You say you know the truth, but did you know it started with her?’ he spits, not bothering to hold back the aggression in his tone. ‘That she had poisoned the girls, possessed children, ate their souls in the efforts of raising a King?’
Eyes wide, you lips open and close as though offering muted consolations and apologies, saying with breath what your mouth cannot before shivering and holding your cocoa once more.
‘Have you ever seen someone burn in holy fire? Seen the way it peels back flesh and sucks at muscle?’ he hisses, spurred on by a great resurgence of things long kept trapped inside. ‘Have you ever seen a child ask to die? Seen your coven leader pulled apart and ripped like cotton?’
And even as you regard him, pale faced and thin lipped, he still can’t stop himself from tossing the question out, offended by its flavor.
‘Have you ever seen a dead body?’ he finishes, coldly.
Separated from the words, he realizes he has leaned, rather vigorously, towards you and bent himself into a posture of hunting. For all your sweetness, you have not cowered away from him, but at such close proximity he can see the tears that have sprung to the corners of your eyes. The sadness in your expression, the under markings of horror that stain your cheeks, makes his fists clench, ashamed of himself for bringing the water of you to the surface.
He could pull at it, pull it away and keep you dry. Or, instead, he could push it further, push it down your cheeks and into his waiting palm so he could kiss your tears and swallow them whole.
Instead, he slumps in his seat, childishly, and stares emptily at his lap.
Sniffling softly, you discretely wipe your eyes. ‘Why?’
Unable to truly look at you, Junmyeon speaks to his lap. ‘Not all great evil has a great purpose. Sometimes, true horror, true fear, is senseless - existing just because it can.’
The vice at his lungs releases as he says the words, shoulders no longer feeling compressed into an impossible smallness. Testing this new freedom, he breathes deeply, letting the air stabilize his equilibrium.
‘No,’ he continues, correcting his posture and looking around you. ‘I don’t think we can ever really know and it took one of our own sacrificing his life to rest within the pattern to show us how to build the, as you call it, blueprint.’
Within him, the memory floods, the visceral and bloodstained image of body parts - limbs and digits and torso - aligned in intricate shapes. It was biblical, the sight of not just one, but many, still warm and festering from death as they bled, ceaselessly, into the grass. And in the center, a sacrifice The only magic strong enough to seal a promise.
Stomach churning, he grimaces, awkwardly meeting your gaze in apology.
You’ve blanched, considerably, somehow truly understanding him without knowing him at all. ‘Are you saying?’
Minutely, he nods. ‘He became the blueprint.’
Unnerved, you hug yourself, looking away as you bite your lip. It’s transcendent watching you fight through sadness and pain and fear, a cosmic sort of shattering he feels is too vulnerable for him to witness, and yet you show him, bravely, courageously. He does not think you’ve ever shied away from atrocious thoughts, rather simply kissed them until they felt beautiful.
Inhaling a shaky breath, you face him but you do not smile. He misses it. ‘I think,’ you say, quietly yet with more power than he could have imagined, ‘the last thing you need to know…I’m sorry.’
Furrowing his brow, his shoulders arch forward, body attempting to reach for you and hold you. ‘For what?’
Fixing him an intense gaze, you focus on him completely, showing, teaching, and reminding him what you are going to say will hurt. ‘Sacred geometry is mimetic...a mirror. As above, so below.’
You pause, watching as his mind reels and he races to the end.
He gets it. He understands. He wishes that he didn’t.
‘And if bodies are what sealed it -‘ you continue, only to be cut off.
Junmyeon finishes for you. ‘Then bodies are what will open it.’
The setting sun ignites the trees, dappling the red and gold of the leaves with such force for a moment he believes the kitchen is on fire. Shadows cast on the walls and floor stand tall, shifting until nearly unrecognizable - something profoundly other; an audience for his malcontent.
Slouching in his seat, he studies his whiskey, the liquid bronze that swirls within the glass as he turns it. Vaguely, he imagines he is turning time - turning back the clock to an era when he laughed easier, smiled wider, and touched with just as much voracity. Mostly, he is falling, backwards and head first into a state of confliction.
Elizabeth Eldridge was beautiful, something he would often voice with confidence and charm, a sense of satisfaction, as though he were pleased by the sight of her. It was not, he thinks, that he desired her, or wanted her in any sense of physical context. Merely that, he imagined her essence of ethereal beauty was the sort he wanted to marry, someone not unlike vapors - whole and tangible, yet effervescent, and cradled by his hands alone.
Elizabeth Eldridge, in the end, burned without dignity and with all of her pride. Holy fire kissed her, sucked the oil from her skin and used it as fuel. Unfazed, she smiled as though she expected it, as though she were gladdened by the heat, and laughed. She laughed - it is this he remembers most, the shrillness of it and the way Yixing had to look away, tormented by the sight of the flames themselves. She laughed as her skin fell evaporated, exposing the underbelly of her muscles and bones, marrow melting with little pomp and circumstance. In the night sky, her voice continued to echo, a shrill resolution and promises of a return, a throne, a king.
People, he knew, say an awful lot of things in their moment of death - some amounting to statements a profound lamentation of grief or honest declarations of validation, but most usually an annunciation of promise that summarises a life well lived or well intended. Luhan ensured her fate with the splitting of his limbs, and so Junmyeon did not think to question her words, ensured, even in death, by his leader.
Now, with little to comfort him, he wonders if he has earned quite as much from his coven. Had Luhan been wrong? Had he? Had their fate been sealed long before their birth and long after their death? Would he, with the same boldness and conviction, make the same choices?
Would he die, knowing as he does now, that even this selflessness may be in vain?
Would he let himself be shattered for you, if it meant your safety was only momentarily assured?
With a soft click, Yixing pushes through the door and comes to pause, regarding Junmyeon with a concerned expression as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He should be used to it, Junmyeon thinks, the feeling of inquisitive eyes resting and feasting on his skin, but still he looks down at his lap, burdened by the attention. At once, the air becomes thick, slithering down Junmyeon’s spine with the same slowness as Yixing’s eyes over his face, studying and questioning, and, most likely, knowing.
Yixing does not allow him a reprieve, maintaining his penetrative scrutiny as he takes off his shoes. ‘You’re home early,' he states, testing the atmosphere.
Junmyeon remains pensive, brow furrowed as he studies the denim weaving of his jeans. The universe has offered him a kindness, he supposes, that it is Yixing who has found him and not the others. Already, he can hear the words that will be hurled towards him once he tells the truth.
Liar. Hypocrite. Embarrassment. Asshole. Cunt.
He deserves them, he thinks, perhaps they suit him best. And he notes, with little emotion, that he has given himself over to you far quicker than Minseok gave over to his herbalist, wondering if he ever truly deserved the title of a leader.
‘I met her today.’
He tosses the words out with conviction, meaning them to the edge of the world and trying to be repulsed by them. There should be no instance in which he craves death or danger, no instance in which he seeks the palm of your hand and the fall of a mountain - but he does. He wants, with all of himself, every fiber of the release you promise and finds, as Minseok had said, that death feels justified.
Death, in this moment, is justified, for it is the only consequence equal to the sentiment he carries for you.
Unmoved and keeping his expression placid, Yixing blinks. ‘Met who.’
Junmyeon rolls his eyes, knowing this is both a formality and a test, and everything but a question. The words matter, need to be said out loud and broken apart; inspected, learned alongside the full breadth and scope of their consequence. But still, he hates it, feels childish that he must say it at all. There have never been any secrets in this house, not truly, and the bitterness of this truth rises on his tongue.
He swallows thickly before he speaks, petulant. ‘Don’t act like you don’t know, Xing.’
Sliding out a chair directly opposite him, Yixing settles softly and places his journal on the table, resting his hand on the leather cover. Idly, his fingers stroke over the worn texture, body positioned in a resolute show of peacekeeping and calm. Junmyeon watches the movements of his fingers, hypnotized though not altogether soothed. War lingers behind his eyes, and the contact Yixing maintains with his journal tells him he can feel it.
Yixing knows, senses the magnitude of his afternoon, and clutches to small comforts as though they are a cross.
For a long while, Junmyeon is glad to simply sit with him, neither speaking nor allowing hostility to enter the room - amazed that they are capable of such a thing without Chanyeol. For a long while, they simply sit, gathering strength to both say the words and let them breach the kitchen once more.
Eventually, Junmyeon pinches the bridge of his nose, knowing the end of this day - of this life - is inevitable.
‘My soulmate,’ he says, meeting Yixing’s eyes and letting his gaze pierce the edge of his lungs.
Yixing leans back in his chair, regarding him with some distance, words settling against his skin. Nodding minutely, he hums, neither accepting nor battling the admission. Simply, letting it co-exist between them, acknowledging that there is a becoming amongst them, and there is more of it to be said.
Yixing’s silence is much like quicksand, edging Jummyeon forward and urging him to continue.
Once more, he looks at his lap, unwilling to let Yixing’s potential judgement tarnish the memory. ‘She came to the bookstore and I...we…’ his voice trails, splintering under the immense pressure of explanation. ‘We went to the cafe across from the shop,’ he says, finally, returning his gaze to Yixing’s. ‘I spent over an hour with her, talking. She’s trying to help us.’
Removing his hand from the journal, Yixing nods once more, humming in consideration.
‘Even,’ he begins, tone curious though his eyes remain hard, ‘after you were...so adamant against Minseok meeting with his?’
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Junmyeon retorts, ‘like I’m the worst sort of hypocrite.’ Jaw tense, he grits his teeth before continuing. ‘She’s from their coven, and Min said she could help. I didn’t know it would be her. That she would be the one.’
‘And can she help?’ Yixing keeps his attention on the woodmarks in the table, the frayed and overstuffed pages of his journal, anywhere but Junmyeon’s face.
Face morphing into a scowl, Junmyeon cocks a brow and moves through the sense of judgement Yixing has cast, focusing instead on all the words Yixing made it a point to ignore. He chose to focus, not on the fact that she is his soulmate, but instead on the fact that she can help. Perhaps, he assumes, because it is this information that is most pertinent. And, even more, it is this information that must be handled, managed beyond, and alongside, the grave understanding of their impending demise. He was always like that, walking around and through a conversation to get to the heart.
Junmyeon shrugs, knowing that you can, and you probably will, but even still your help may not be enough. ‘She knows sacred geometry,' he announces, careful with the way he says it, watching Yixing’s expression for a sign of change.
It has the same effect on Yixing as it did on him: a sharp intake of breath, a soft blanche to the cheeks, and a hand returning to his journal. The temperature of the room seems to rise, putting a flush at Junmyeon's ears and neck, before it dissipates, and Yixing gathers his thoughts, placing his hand back in his lap once more as though nothing about Junmyeon’s words hurt.
Junmyeon almost smiles, witnessing your power as it walks over all of them, claiming their house and their skin as the fabric of your own. Slowly, delicately, you are touching all of them, pulling at their hearts with adept and agile fingers, exposing what lies beneath.
Yixing himself becomes distant for a moment, not altogether present as he walks backwards into memory with much the same force as Junmyeon. Irises clouded, he thinks and thinks, his silence heavy and full hearted with grief.
‘It seems ironic she would be a seal,' he reasons, a small frown forming at his lips. 'But then...so did Lu.’
It's difficult to ignore his choice of words - "did" rather than "was," delicately handling the visceral image that haunts Junmyeon from the moment he met you. Neither a memory nor a premonition, just an inevitable course of destruction: you in the blueprint, just the same as Luhan.
Shaking his head, Junmyeon takes in an unstable breath. ‘It feels like a cursed magic.’
Yixing shakes his head. ‘You’re a self fulfilling prophecy, Jun,’ he says sharply, refusing to let him wallow. ‘Preparing to lose her the way you blame yourself for losing him.’
Tightening his grip on his glass, Junmyeon takes a drink of whiskey, letting the burn cool the back of his throat. ‘Bonding leads to death, Xing.'
Feeling somewhat volatile, he brings the glass back to the table with a loud smack. ‘You know that, I know that. We had to lose someone in order to seal it away, and now we have to lose someone again to keep the order.’
‘You always knew these rules,' Yixing says evenly, combative in a way that frustrates Junmyeon. 'We all know these rules. We knew we would have to lose each other, at some point, to keep this world alive.’
And all at once, all over again, Junmyeon finds himself the week after Luhan died, when the world was quiet but still full of ash and smoke. Hollowed, is how he described the feeling, as though it were his limbs ripped away and placed into the pentagon. Yixing clutched his shoulder, eyes neither sad nor grieving, simply empty, dark in a way that made Junmyeon find him inhuman. With his nails digging into Junmyeon's chemise, he said these same words, unable to provide comfort for he too was beyond the point of consolation. Simply, stating the truth of the pain so they at least could understand the logic and the weight, if not the aftermath.
Rolling his tongue over his teeth, Junmyeon brings himself back to the present, cradling the difference between the here and now with the past in his palms.
‘It was easier when I felt the absence of it.' He feels small as he says it, childish and impossibly young, uncertain how to handle the intensity of such a truth. 'When there was nothing to feel, and everything to just know, it was so easy.’
Yixing chuckles. 'Pretending took work, once upon a time. You've just grown used to it.'
The center of his chest constricts, feeling the words into the nodes of his lungs, and he coughs. Looking away from Yixing, he takes another sip of his whiskey, downing the glass. ‘When was the last time...' he fades, licking his lips as he prepares his question, 'that we felt?’
Arching his brow, Yixing takes the bottle from the center of the table and pours him another glass. ‘I think the question, Jun,' he says, holding his gaze fiercely rather than watch the volume of the glass, 'is when was the last time you let yourself feel.’ Bringing the bottle to his lips, he takes a quick drink before setting it down, posture straight and austere. ‘You’ve been running.’
‘I’ve been leading,' Junmyeon snaps, ‘protecting. Holding us together.’
‘But you haven’t held yourself.' The whiskey in his throat has set Yixing's words ablaze, tongue unafraid of cutting him down. ‘Not together, not in one piece, just not at all. It’s like you’re in a constant place of triage. You can’t blame yourself for a choice he made, for a thing we all did. We knew, and we know - that will never change. What matters is how you experience it.’
Junmyeon laughs, cold and frustrated in bewilderment. ‘So what are you saying? That I’ve watched death and walked away unscathed? That I shut down and felt nothing at all?’
‘Not at all,' he says, voice like a thunderclap. ‘I’m saying you’ve watched death, and never walked away again. You’ve put yourself in a grave and called it a life.’
Junmyeon shivers, lips parting to speak or defend himself, only to fall silent, too aware of the honesty in Yixing's words to fight them. Shaking his head, he takes another drink, eyes unfocused and glassy with thoughts of how he got here.
‘What are we talking about anymore?’ he mutters, swallowing his drink and letting it sear his insides. ‘I feel like I’m drifting at sea. Like she’s taking me apart...unmaking who I am.’
Yixing cocks his head to the side, considering his words. ‘Or, she’s reminding you of who you were.’
It's like a falsehood, he thinks, remembering the person he was when magic felt like a blessing, a gift. The difference between his compassion and his sense of security is, he believes, down to a reduction. A reduction of life, of hope, of reasons to accept that all things end while losing the belief that they will end happily. Once, he thought he was getting better, that he'd had enough distance and enough peace to convince himself life both gives and takes in spades.
But that was decades ago, and just before the man in front of him started screaming in his sleep, tormented by prophecies.
‘There’s a lunar eclipse tonight,' Yixing says, gathering his journal as he comes to stand. 'You should go see it.’
Blinking, Junmyeon regards him, unsure when the notion the conversation was over had filtered into the room. Yet, the mention of the moon seems to smooth his edges, pulling hard enough at his ribs to give his lungs room to breathe. He needs her, he thinks, the only light that has ever given him peace.
‘You always feel best when she’s with you,' Yixing continues, letting his voice drift behind and fall on Junmyeon like rain. 'Just as empty or just as full.’
At night, Smith Pool assumes a foreboding aura, yet somehow maintains its majesty beneath the light of the full moon, the deep purple black of the sky reflected on the water with an otherworldly glow. His fingers idly stroke the blades of grass, damp with the evening’s caress of dew, coated and slick as though waiting in anticipation for his touch. The wetness walks along his fingers, gliding over his skin and tracing patterns that defy gravity, called to him the way he is called to the moon.
Tonight, he does not manipulate them, mold them, does not even consider it. He lets them go, wetting his hands before they slip away, lost but not forgotten. Softly, his heart breaks, releasing the water without truly kissing it or connecting with it an unnatural act for king amongst his children, but the memory of consequence haunts him, puts a terror in his bones that assures him he may never hold anything ever again.
Luhan’s face springs back behind his eyes, stone faced and ashen, eyes holding his gaze with a conviction that bordered on feral as he let the words wash over him.
‘Someone is raising Paimon.’
Even now, centuries later, he regrets saying it - saying it on his knees and gasping for breath, as though the world was already ending. It was. They both knew it was. It started to end the moment ritual die had been cast, but he wonders. Always, he wonders.
Would Luhan have run head first into annihilation if he had spoken calmly, concisely, without shame or guilt? If he hadn’t loved Sasha like his own, would all of this have hurt less? Would things have looked different, if he hadn’t been cut from the same cloth - one nature magician from above pitted against one nature magician from below?
If he weren’t the devil’s mirror, would they all be free?
Logically, he knows the answers - knows that, regardless of how it looked, the ending would always be the same. But still, the wonder reminds him that he hurts, and this is how he remembers he survived.
‘The moon brought you out too, I see?’
The sound of your voice pulls him from his thoughts, startling him with a small jump. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he sees you approach, footsteps light enough on the grass he almost believes you are floating. Your presence empties him, mind suddenly vacant of thought or action, heart stumbling to put himself back together, locking his secrets away.
‘Sorry?’
He doesn’t mean to sound breathless, like he’s overexerted himself to be near you. It’s just that, with your body close enough to touch, standing above him, in the dark and the night, with only the moon to see, he struggles to find his self control.
Biting your lip, you hang your head slightly and nod in apology. ‘I can sit somewhere else.’ You gesture vaguely towards the opposite end of the lake. ‘I just had a feeling…’ Shifting your weight from foot to foot, you sigh as your voice fades away, nervous. He smiles at you, the sound making his blood run hot. ‘It’s just nice to see that the moon touches you the way it touches me,’ you clarify in a rush, suddenly shy that you’ve said anything at all.
Any other night, any other person, and he’d have asked that you leave him, go far away from him so he can be alone and the world can be safe and he can imagine the universe only changes when you look closely enough to notice the difference. Considering the flush at your cheeks, he almost tells you to leave altogether, to go back to New York, because seeing you gone means he doesn’t have to see you get hurt.
But then, considering the flush at your cheeks, he knows to be away from you is just the same as death, and so he smooths the grass beside him with a tense palm, keeping his smile placid in the effort of not giving himself away.
‘You don’t have to,’ he says, trying to keep his tone casual. ‘Sit somewhere else, I mean.’
Beaming, you settle beside him, leaving just enough space between your bodies for the breeze in the air to feel like a chill. He hopes you do not notice him shiver.
‘How could you tell?’ he asks. ‘It’s pretty specific to assume the moon is why I’m here.’
The curl in your lips when you smile tells him you have a secret, that you’re proud of it, a dimple forming in your right cheek. His fingers twitch, stopping himself from reaching out to touch it.
‘I know I laugh too loud,’ you explain, smile unwavering, ‘and giggle a lot - at pretty much everything - and can sometimes come across as, I don’t know, childish -’
Junmyeon cuts you off. ‘I don’t think you’re childish.’ He holds your stare, watching your smile fall as you consider his serious expression. ‘I’ve never thought that. Not once.’
‘Thank you,’ you mumble, swallowing thickly as you hold his stare. When you speak again, it is only after you take in a shaking breath, looking away from him to peer out over the water. ‘I’m bad with words,’ you announce, either as apology or clarification - he is unsure. ‘I’m just saying, I know how it seems. That someone like me wouldn’t know or be aware...but I do.’ Looking back at him once more, your eyes are resolved, unwavering. ‘I see more than most people give me credit for. And I know. I know.’
‘That we’re soulmates?’ he tries, wanting to hear you say it.
Something about this makes you laugh, head cocked back and mouth open to the sky. The sound of your voice echoes, carries into the air and rains over him. The hairs on his arms stand on end, mouth running dry as he watches you surrender, heart first, into bliss.
Regarding him once more, your eyes seem to dance in the moonlight. ‘It’s very hard to ignore the elephant sized tension here, don’t you think?’ Resting your head on your hand, you smirk. ‘It’s a little distracting.’
It’s his turn to laugh, eyes falling to his lap, sheepish. Around you he feels young, so impossibly young and small and unprepared. ‘I don’t know how Min did this.’
‘He didn’t.’
You fill the words with humour, but he still catches the undercurrent - the rolling wave of want that makes them fall, thick and heavy, against his skin. When he looks at you again, you appear placid and serene, but he feels the tension that vibrates from your core - the same vibration at the core of his soul. It’s hurting you not to touch him, the same way his skin feels tight, wrapped around and around his bones, until the water in him has been wrung dry.
‘We can’t…’ He shakes his head, uncertain what he even intended to say.
‘I know,’ you concede, catching his meaning and leaning back on both hands to regard the water once more. ‘Seals are funny things aren’t they? There’s always a special kind of thrill in breaking them, some kind of rush - even if you have permission to open them, even if you already know what’s inside; you just want to touch them.’
Mirroring your position, Junmyeon considers your words and chooses to avoid them, unwilling to let talk of seals spoil the light of the moon. ‘How did you learn sacred geometry?’ he asks, instead.
‘The way you’d learn any other kind of magic: practice and study,’ you shrug, as though it took no skill or effort at all. Junmyeon briefly wonders if this is your magic - a knowing, similar to Minseok’s. But rather than a knowing of events, you manage to know the very nuances of magic itself. The thought makes his stomach drop, not in fear but in awe.
‘I assume,’ you continue, looking up at the moon and basking in the light, ‘you mean to ask why did I choose to learn it?’
Junmyeon nods. ‘I suppose so, yeah.’
‘It’s reciprocal.’ Brow furrowed and focused, you still don’t turn to face him, though he’s sure you can feel his eyes as they wander over your cheeks, your lips, the very curvature of your profile. ‘As above so below,’ you ponder, repeating your words from earlier in the day. ‘It’s a method of seeing the other side of magic - the origin, the darkness, and the beauty. If I can understand the madness, then I can understand how to heal it. If I can understand the symmetry, then aren’t I little bit more connected to the source?’
Someone like you should be impossible, he thinks, someone who holds the heart of magic and does not burn from the force of it. His heart beats like thunder in his chest, tearing through his sternum to get to you, awed and humbled by your ability to command the source of things, to understand and fathom the totality of it - accepting it without wanting to harness it.
‘That’s an interesting way of looking at it,’ he says, licking his lips as blood rushes in his ears. ‘Luhan, our brother…’
‘He’s the one you lost?’
Finally, you look at him once more. Shoulders lowering in relief, he is almost ashamed of the command you have over his body so soon. Grief lingers behind your eyes, sad for him and sad for the memory, and he wars with himself against pulling you close. The muscles in his arms twitch, and he presses himself into the ground with the effort of keeping still, stopping himself from closing the distance.
‘Yes,’ he says, though his usual contempt for the memory does not rear its head. He imagines this is because your presence is a balm, a comfort, and he wishes at once that you do not depart from him, not for the night and never again.
Eyes softened, he watches your hand as it moves along the grass, heading towards his fingers before retreating back to its original position.
‘I’m sorry,’ you say softly, the conviction behind it powerful enough to steal the breath from his lungs.
Centuries have passed, full of people he thought perhaps he could call friends, people who were there, in town and watching him grieve; others still who heard the tale, having lost someone in their life too - for different reasons, but lost just the sam - and all had offered condolences, reached for a hug or his hand or his shoulder as though the touch of a stranger would be comfort enough to ease the pain. For centuries, people have come and gone, and lived and died, and all have seen the grief within his soul and apologized for it being there at all, and not once had he believed they were sincere.
Never, until you.
‘He learned it to understand time,’ he continues, blinking through the dryness in his throat in order to keep his composure. ‘He wanted to understand how patterns repeat or don’t repeat; life and all the smallness of it.’
Junmyeon casts his gaze back out to the water, aware that he’s rambling and fearing he is speaking, now, just to speak. Your gaze remains on his, steadfast and unwavering, toying with his pulse as though it were your plaything. He wonders if you are having fun, invading his synapses so easily.
‘He mastered it,’ he continues, short of breath, ‘probably because he knew we never can truly separate ourselves from the cosmic nature of things.’
‘Ananta.’
The reverence in your voice as you speak nearly makes him whimper, wishing to be cradled against you the way your mouth cradles the word. Steeling his strength, he lets his eyes move over your body, fixing you with a confused expression he hopes does not morph into one of longing.
But you continue to smile, sighing contentedly as though pleased by the mere sight of him.
‘It’s a Hindi expression to describe the endless nature of the cosmos,’ you explain, licking your lips as your gaze wanders briefly down to his neck. ‘They were among the first to really study cosmology.’ With a small sigh, you move your gaze back up to his face, seemingly satisfied. Junmyeon’s fingers dig into the grass, spine going tense under your scrutiny. ‘The whole of the universe is within ourselves, and that is why we are sacred.’
Silence befalls you both, a comfortable silence that carries no expectation for conversation. Raising your eyes to the moon, you continue to smile, content and calm and glowing beneath the light of the moon. He begins to feel erratic, eyes tracing over your features in the struggle to process your existence, and the way you seem to accept the universe as though you were its sole creator.
‘When I’m with you,' he exhales, eventually, 'I feel like I know nothing.’ Slowly, you bring your gaze back to his, and still your smile does not fade. His breath catches, brow furrowing in the effort not to swoon. ‘Like, I'm starting over - I have everything to learn, all over again.’
A flush creeps up Junmyeon's neck, lips opening and closing as his eyes go wide. This sort of admission, this vulnerability, is unfamiliar, almost painful, and he suddenly does not know how to respond himself. Now, your hands are not just touching his memory, you are taking hold of his self-identity, coaxing words from his chest and knowledge from his mind, leaving him empty and wanting and completely at your mercy. With you, he feels fragile and uncertain, and he cannot remember the last time he let himself become shy.
Humming, you don't appear to notice that he's let himself become small. Or, perhaps, you do, and your smile of pleasure does not change, for you find enjoyment in all things, especially the stuttering rhythm of his heart.
‘That’s probably because there is always something to learn,' you shrug. 'You’ve been feeling as if you have to know everything, assuming that you do or, at least, assuming that you have to.’
At this, you fall back onto the grass, laying down with your hands tucked beneath your head as a makeshift pillow. Closing your eyes, you press into the earth, unbothered by the dampness that soaks into your shirt and jeans, luxuriating in the softness.
‘How do you do that?’ he mumbles, incredulous.
Turning to peer up at him, wide eyed and curious, you pout. ‘Do what?’
Again, his hands clench in the grass, clutching at fistfuls as he struggles not to bed down and kiss you; tongue running through your mouth and along your lip, hungry. ‘Approach everything like it’s something for play,' he manages with a cough, voice thick.
This only makes your pout deepen, and he swallows a moan. The sweetness of you is a poison, he reminds himself. He will want to taste and hold and devour you, and it is imperative he does not.
‘Is that a bad thing?’
‘No,' he shakes his head, 'I just don’t understand.’
Looking at the faded blue of his jeans and the browned stains on his white sneakers, he focuses his attention on these details as he speaks, rather than the pink curve of your lips.
‘How do you come away from everything as though it won’t hurt you? Or doesn’t?’ Frustration bleeds back into his voice, and he is glad his focus remains on these insignificant things, because now he feels like himself. ‘How can you laugh, even tonight? The moon is full but the water doesn’t glow, not really, not from below. The light doesn’t touch the bottom anymore, and you walked up to me ready to laugh. I know you’re smart enough to see these things, and you feel these things, but why do you...how do you...people have died.’ When he looks at you again, he is angry, and he is glad for the wrath of it. ‘Death stains things, it stains people, and you can’t ever walk away from that or pretend like it’s okay it happened.’
Rolling onto your side, you gaze up at him, face unmarred by hurt or upset. Junmyeon chews the inside of his cheek, breathless and ready to curse himself for his vitriol, but you don't seem to mind. Instead, you merely seem interested, appreciative that he shared these things at all.
‘Do you think that’s what I do?’ you muse, choosing your words carefully, almost tender with your selection. ‘Pretend?’
‘Don’t you?’ Junmyeon implores, feeling needy and small and praying you agree with him, because he can't fathom a life any other way.
Suddenly, your gaze hardens. ‘Absolutely not.’
His stomach drops, lips falling into a frown, crestfallen. ‘Then I don’t get it.’
‘Who showed you how to keep horror in your chest?' you almost laugh, he can hear it in the tightness of your words. ‘You weren’t born with it.’ Brow furrowed, you take your time picking him apart, considering the totality of him before continuing. ‘I don’t pretend. That’s so disingenuous.’ Shaking your head, you pluck at the grass near his thigh. ‘When anything happens, I just grieve. I grieve deeply and I’m not afraid of showing the pain. I let it out - I don’t rush myself out of it. When you do that, it never really lets go, it just holds onto you tighter. It makes a home out of you, and it stays there, waiting to rise up and eat away at you.’
Pursing your lips, you pause. In the quiet, Junmyeon finds himself missing the sound of your voice.
‘You heal by letting it win you over,' you finish with an almost imperceptible nod, 'just for a little while, until it’s small enough to slip out of your hands.’
He wants to laugh, howl at the idea that such a thing could even be possible. ‘You’ve never had to lead.’
‘Leadership doesn’t exclude you from the spectrum of human emotion,' you counter. ‘We have power, we are special, but we still feel and we still bleed.’
‘What if it never lets you go?’ Mirroring your position, he settles on his right side. He feels almost like a child, sordid and unsure and so, so contented by the nearness of you. It is for this reason, he assumes, that he is able to share at all, and the thought makes the tips of his fingers go numb. ‘What if it never gets small?’
‘Then you accept that it’s part of you, but you don’t let it own you.’ Taking in a deep inhale, you reach for his hand in the grass, twining your fingers together tightly, seriously. ‘You are not comprised of horror alone,' you announce, authoritative and almost severe. 'You are not a collection of misery and death. You are a man, and you are magical. You just need to take command of yourself, not those around you.’
Junmyeon is trembling, tremors running down and through his veins at the sudden feel of your skin against his. The warmth of your hand floods him like a fever, lips parting to take in more oxygen, world rocking beneath him as though he were out at sea. You seem to notice it too, eyes suddenly going wide, and the smooth expanse of your chest along the neckline of your shirt turning pink, and then red.
Behind his eyes, he sees himself, inching closer over the earth to hover above you, lips pressing against yours and knees parting your legs to settle between them. He sees himself clutch your hips, your hands brace his arms, his mouth at your neck, and -
He pulls his hand away, rolling back over to sit up, hugging his knees to his chest. His semi-hard erection strains against his jeans, protesting this new, uncomfortable position.
‘I didn’t expect you to be so blunt,' he says, weakly.
‘Well,' you breathe, voice unsteady and tone dry. Junmyeon smiles. 'The thing about me is I feel all my emotions. The whole range.’ He hears you sit up as well, brushing grass off what he assumes is the back of your shirt. He does not chance a glance. ‘Not just the ones I hold in higher judgement.’
Smirking, he glances at his hands, folded over his legs. ‘You’re getting spicy now.’
‘Spicy?’ you laugh in mock offense. ‘I just call it tough love.’
And then, he can't help it. At once, he's looking at you again, savoring you and the word you've put into the air, as if it meant nothing. As if it were light, and weightless, and easy. ‘Love?’
Settling your arms at your side, he watches as your spine straightens and your neck elongates, suddenly empowered. ‘Do you want it to be?’
His chest constricts, systematically removing the air required to speak. Yes, he nearly screams. He wants it, oh, how he wants it to be, knows that it should be. The joints of his fingers ache from where you touched him, furious to be separated and burning with the loss; his thighs ache, tense from trying to cool the blood of his desire and to ensure his arousal remains unnoticed. He wants you, all of you, and it is the first time in centuries he's wanted a person beyond a body within which he could briefly forget.
Undaunted by his silence, you look back up at the moon. ‘The moon is out. Maybe she knows something.’
The light plays with your hair as though it makes a home of you, casting silver and glitter into the strands in a pattern he finds hypnotizing. Always, the moon enhances aspects of a person - he has always known this, understood the full spoke and terror of the light she provides. She is a beacon, a hope, and a home for the lost creatures and souls that call to her, but she is rarely forgiving.
On you, she is exquisite.
The light settles against your skin, casting shadows and carving the edges of your jaw, your nose, your brow as though she were painting you, sculpting you. It radiates out from beneath your skin, glowing from within as the magic seeps from your pores. Staring at you, he feels he could be blinded, visioned burned by the holiness of you, and as the tears well in his eyes - abrupt and unwelcome and terrifying - the light becomes a halo, and then becomes wings, turning you into the goddess of the moon.
It was always you, his one and only serenity.
‘The moon pulls at water, creating the tides.’ He’s unsure why he says it, why he speaks at all. In the end, he supposes it’s because he sees you as something ephemeral, and speaking, even if it hurts him, opens him, will keep you by his side. ‘Everyone knows that,’ he smirks. ‘It’s basic laws of gravity. But people forget that they are made of water, and the moon pulls at them, too.’
Keeping still, you smile up at the moon and through the light, appreciative and proud. ‘The moon has always been responsible for deep emotional revelations.’
‘Insomnia, depression, psychosis, anxiety,’ he lists, joining you in adoring the moon. ‘She pulls at people, makes them confront what they don’t want to see.’
In his peripheral, he sees you shake your head, heartily disagreeing. ‘She heals it though,’ you say, voice serene. ‘She’s creative, intuitive, spiritual. You don’t hurt for nothing.’
It strikes him, then, that he likely was not wrong, not entirely. His heart sees you as a goddess, showered and anointed by the light, nurtured into full bloom in the dark and in the flow. He sees you as a goddess, but then, in the old days, when magic was known and revered and respected, the moon goddesses were often called oracles. And, perhaps, you are descended from the temple of the moon, a modern day priestess, sent to break and rebuild all his darkest pieces, sewing him back together with silver.
‘Is that your magic?’ he tries, realizing he never really did ask how you define your skills. ‘The moon?’
Suddenly shy, you bow your head and let your halo become a crown. ‘In a sense, yes.’ Turning to smile at him, he no longer sees your beauty as something soft but as something biblical. ‘I understand her, how she affects people - her cycles, her power, her secrets. I’m sensitive to her, aware of how the planets, all nine of them, bend and yield to her.’
Looking back up at the sky, it appears for a moment that your soul stretches beyond the earth, and beyond time. ‘The stars, too, I get power from them as well. The sun is a star, people often forget that. I see how the sun and the moon play together, and, I guess, how they play with people. That’s probably why people assume I’m weak.’ Biting your lip, you pause. ‘Because I’m perceptive rather than aggressive.’
For centuries, he's cursed the foolishness of mortals, hiding in plain sight and letting them win him over because he watched them die. Magic had burned the world - unholy and corrupted with sin - and he had let it. He let men and mortals define a great many things about him, and not once did he mind. But for you to be seen as weak or something unassuming, meager, he finds himself offended. You are one with the universe, and therefore all creatures should bow to you.
You, he believes, are the blueprint and creator of the universe.
‘The stars are going out again,' you announce abruptly, interrupting his thoughts.
Junmyeon blinks, surprised by this sudden change of subject. ‘Again?’
‘It was hard to tell in New York, but we saw it,' you sigh, closing your eyes and sucking in a deep breath, overcome. ‘Back during the great war, the sky went black.’
When he thinks back to the war, he remembers a great many things - terrible things that have coated his skin with wax, embalming him for eternity. He remembers the smell and the screams, the wet ink of notices on church doors declaring another woman damned; the trials and the yelling and the way no one could look each other in the eye. He remembers the way trust vanished, a frail thing that likely never existed to begin with, offered with a sense of reciprocity but never truly delivered. He remembers looking everywhere, at everyone, but not at the sky.
‘What was that like for you?’
‘For my coven?’ you ask, fixing him with a hard stare. It doesn't seem to suit you, but now he sees that you, too, are tormented. ‘Or for me?’
‘You,' he affirms, glad to be so direct.
‘It hurt.' You answer comes without hesitation, gaze unwavering and focused. ‘When the war reached its peak, the sky was completely black. It was a new moon for days, and I ached with the lack of it. It was unnatural - it felt like the universe was dying, decaying before my eyes and I was helpless.’ Momentarily, you pause, eyes searching the darkness that lingers behind him, eyes unseeing, simply remembering. ‘My sisters did their best. They’re empathetic and sensitive, completely aware, but they couldn’t feel it the way I did. Every death, I felt it in my soul, pieces crumbling away.’
He lets you wander in the memory, watches the way you swim inside it without ever falling completely into its clutches. Your eyes move over everything - over his face, his body, the water, the dock that lingers far behind him - but you don't stop. He wonders if this is how he looks, when he becomes consumed, and knows, with a small bush, that it is not. Where you remember actively, fighting through and around the length of your life, he remains still, letting it hold him until he surrenders just as he did the day he learned to hurt.
‘I suppose,' you continue, returning to the present, smiling as though you have a secret you're too excited to keep, 'in the end, what I was really feeling was you.’
His mouth runs dry, blood seeming to halt in the chambers of his heart, as your sentence ends. It rattles him, quakes him, unmakes his DNA as a floodgate inside him opens. He knows what you were feeling, knows that, even without knowing, he had felt it too - felt you too. Separate and together, you had survived the unnatural and unresisted surrender to the promise of brutality.
Thousands of miles away, in a small settlement in New York, you had felt the world end and felt his soul break. And he, confronted with the totality of hell, felt the loneliness that comes with knowing - knowing without seeing or feeling. Knowing that, he was falling apart, and someone was meant to be there to hold him, and was not.
He thought it was Lu. All this time, he had been grieving for Lu. And, only after you study him with care and attention and worry, does he realize he was grieving for you, too.
Pushing himself up and away from the earth, he rises to a stand as he struggles to keep his breath under control. Again, he feels himself become devoured, given over and overwhelmed by the understanding and the magnitude of your connection. If he does not leave, he will no longer be able to trust his actions and, after so many years alone, he stubbornly considers himself his greatest companion, unwilling to truly let himself go.
If he stays, he will have you, press himself against you until there are no edges along your bodies. He will live inside you, the way you live inside him, and nothing, not even the threat of death, will tear you apart.
'Are you okay?' you ask, startled by his sudden shift in energy.
'I have to go,' he says, words falling from his lips in a rush. 'I have to talk to my brothers. I...realized something.'
With this, he turns and leaves you and the moon feeling too full and too consumed to keep still. It hurts to leave, he feels it in the way his legs and feet ache with every step he takes, pulling himself from a soul deep comfort he has spent the length of his existence craving, but he does not look back, not even once.
Outside the door, Junmyeon can see the kitchen light is on.
Lingering on the porch, he shifts his weight from foot to foot, considering if he wants to go in. All the way home, his mind had been racing, spiraling towards thoughts of you, your body, the moon, your connection, and the all encompassing sense of dread that comes with it. He’s full, almost too full to be a normal and healthy person, breaths coming in ragged inhales that speak of exhaustion, and he’s not in the mood to talk.
He’s been praying for silence, to be alone with his thoughts and the empty nothingness of a glass of whiskey - his third of the night, but when confronted with a life alone or the ending of every life, he feels the numbers don’t matter. Silence, it seemed, would not be his companion this night, and he braces himself as he pushes through the door, readying for yet another discussion.
Minseok and Bakehyun busy themselves in the kitchen, cleaning and cooking respectively, deep in conversation. Upon his entrance, they hush, eyes falling on him and and expressions going calm, passive. Junmyeon’s eyes lower to the small carpet by the door, looking for Yixing’s shoes and finding they are not there. Gazing up once more, he notices the whiskey has been put away, placed back on the shelf and out of his reach. He’d have to cross Minseok if he wants to get it, and he bites his lip.
A brief twitch brings Baekhyun’s brow to a small knot, before dissipating, eyes warm with concern. ‘Are you ok?’ he asks gently.
It’s unlike him to be so soothing, usually boisterous and loud, and only effusive with Yixing. With both pairs of eyes on him, he roots his feet to the floor, fighting the urge to cross his arms defensively. Not that he could. Even down to his bones, he feels heavy and drained.
‘What are you guys talking about?’ he deflects, trying not to focus on the ache in his chest and the pain behind his eyes. ‘Am I interrupting something?’
‘The seals,’ Minseok clarifies, placing the tea towel onto the counter. Folding his arms, he considers Junmyeon with a speculative kindness. ‘How the birds dying were one, and that its the first time we’ve seen anything like them. They weren’t like this before, at least the birds certainly weren’t.’
Junmyeon simply nods, moving his focus to a seat at the table. He slumps heavily in the chair, closing his eyes as he leans back. His lower lip trembles, going numb. The water ran black, he remembers, undrinkable until boiled and sending the town into chaos. That was the first - and instead of living in the memory, he falls back to you. To your eyes as they wander over Smith Pool, unable to see that the moonlight no longer lets the water glow.
Neither black nor cursed, merely different. And that is frightening enough.
‘Baek thinks between Xing and myself, we could see if other seals, elsewhere, have been broken.’
It’s taking work for Minseok to keep himself peaceful and tender, a rough gravel behind his words giving an edge to his tone that feels conflicted. They’re both testing him, fully aware and not altogether sure they’re ready to address what they sense down to their very spirit, but Minseok has never been one to run from confrontation. And, tonight, Junmyeon wishes he would.
‘I’ve always wondered if it was just our coven with the curse,’ Baekhyun says, resuming the spread of his jam over toast. ‘Or if it was every coven.’
Keeping his eyes closed, Junmyeon frowns. ‘That sounds dangerously optimistic. Like you’re playing with fire.’
The words don’t sound like they come from him, his voice warped and garbled. The rhythm of his heart escalates, catapulted forward by Baekhyun’s simple statement, and he presses his nails into the palm of his hand. Optimism like this is dangerous - absolutely lethal. It’s an excuse and a reason to be with you, take you, feel you all over him and pretend that it’s not damning the rest of the world. If someone else is cursed, it means you might not be a seal, and that kind of hope is what leads men to shallow graves.
‘It’s worth a shot,’ Minseok counters. ‘I’m going to talk to Xing, see what else is in his notebook.’
Junmyeon tenses, spine going rigid as his breath falters. Behind his closed eyes, his vision runs hot, throat beginning to swell around the lump that has formed.
‘There’s a lot he doesn’t share,’ he persists, tone indicating he has seen Junmyeon’s reaction, but has chosen to continue anyway, ‘but I know something in there has to have an answer.’
‘Luhan’s head was in the center of that blueprint.’ Opening his eyes, he casts a cold stare at both of them, mind battling with too many thoughts and feelings to want to entertain this conversation. ‘We were sealed in the curse the minute she put him inside it. It’s pointless to go looking.’
Even after he finishes speaking, he regrets it. It’s the coldest, most insensitive he’s been in a long while, explicitly reminding them of all the things they had decided they’d never bring up again. But he does, and he hates himself for it, already knowing it was wrong.
Running his hands through his hair, he sighs, chewing at his tongue with enough force he hopes that it bleeds. He doesn’t want to talk about this, not now, not tonight. He doesn’t want to talk, but he knows he has to, and part of him, a sudden, overwhelming part, wants to share and share until there is nothing left inside him anymore, wondering how it would feel to be so free.
Minseok and Baekhyun remain quiet, and he feels their stares on him like a sickness. His skin goes damp, clammy, fingers carding through the strangs of his hair as they ball into fists, and he coughs. Regret consumes him, regret as old and ancient as his heart.
‘What’s up with you?’ Minseok asks, attempting, and failing to keep his tone soft. ‘You never talk this way.’
‘I met her.’ Junmyeon announces it, wet and unceremonious, between the palms of his hands. ‘I thought Xing would have told you.’
He waits patiently for the energy in the room to shift. He readies for it, bracing for the sound of Minseok’s cold hard laugh, a brutal I told you so, and Baekhyun’s sharp inhale sucked between his teeth. The chill will wander over him, making him shiver; conversations about pride, and how being a leader means he’s excluded from rules; the group called together at some unbearable hour of the night, and every cold hard stare reminding him he’s a hypocrite, and that he deserves this. He deserves this kind of hurt and separation, unworthy of a love as powerful as this.
He waits for them to say, without any hesitation, that if anyone deserves to stay away from love, it is him.
‘He wasn’t here when I got home,’ Minseok states, plainly. ‘She’s from their coven, isn’t she.’
Junmyeon tenses, brow furrowed in bewilderment. Lowering his hands, the blur of his vision focuses on Minseok, who leans against the counter with an expectant smirk.
‘You knew?’ he manages, voice suddenly impossibly small.
Minseok shrugs. ‘I had a feeling…’ He fades, bowing his head as he laughs to himself. ‘Yeah, I knew.’
His throat runs dry, mind racing. Pressing the flat of his hands to the table, he waits for the cool of the wood to seep into his skin. ‘Was this a set up?’
Raising his hands in mock surrender, Minseok shakes his head. ‘I only sensed it the day at the shop. I didn’t set that up on purpose. I promise.’
And he wants, with all of himself, to be upset and furious - because he is. There is a rage in him unlike anything he has grappled with before, a frustration so hot his skin feels tight and his teeth feel sore. His tongue has started to crack with words and thoughts, rubbing against the roof of his mouth as he watches Minseok smile and smile and smile, as if this were a game.
But he cannot. Because Minseok smiles, and Minseok knows, better than anyone, that there is nothing about this that is worth a laugh. He envisions you, standing beside Minseok with your warm smile, and the laugh lines on your face, and wants to hold onto the anger, but it fades, because all you are, and all he can be when presented with you, is pure, unfettered delight. Minseok has brought him home, and he did so without interfering, without judging, and without stopping him altogether.
Lips parted and body shaking, Junmyeon deflates, brow furrowed in remorse. ‘I’m sorry.’
Holding Minseok’s stare, he refuses to look away, imploring him to look and keep looking. Startled, he lowers his hands, looking at Baekhyun before returning Junmyeon’s focused stare, chewing the inside of his cheeks. He knows they both feel it, the weight of his apology and how it attempts, in just two weak, overdue words, to make up for all way Junmyeon fought him - fought everyone - battled through their emotions and told them it was unsafe to feel.
He’s sorry. And he knows they feel it.
‘Oh, shit,’ Baekhyun mumbles, posture straightening as his mind runs to conclusions.
Junmyeon moves his gaze to him, and regards his wide, doe eyes and the way his food remains, cold and forgotten at his side. Baekhyun seems more uncomfortable than Minseok, and this, he thinks, is just another unexpected turn the night could take.
‘Nothing,’ Baekhyun says, shaking his head in an effort to clear his thoughts. ‘It’s just...it’s been a really long time since you’ve apologized.’ He pauses, lips pursed momentarily before continuing. ‘For anything.’
He’s sure he must have, he thinks. He must have said the words at some point and some when, when things were less heavy and less dangerous than they are now. Reeling, he attempts to remember anything other than hurt and vitriol and trauma, and comes up empty. For so long, he’s pushed everyone, even himself, away, and now, he realizes, the only person who was unmaking him and his identity was himself.
‘Look,’ Minseok says, clearing his throat and getting Junmyeon’s attention, ‘I don’t blame you.’ The sincerity with which he speaks is uncharacteristic for someone just as austere as he, and Junmyeon feels himself arch a brow. ‘You did what you thought was right. And so did I.’
It’s the last thing he wants to hear, that connecting or letting you in or letting himself go is even remotely the right or moral thing to do. Eyes locked on Minseok, he silently wills him to take it back, imploring him to say it’s wrong, that they shouldn’t - that he shouldn’t.
But he doesn’t. He just nods, resolute in his convictions.
‘Jun, it is right,’ he affirms. ‘I don’t know how I was doing things before I met her, and, honestly, I don’t want to remember. Living like that -’ He cuts himself off, eyes scanning the room as his thoughts run wild before settling back on him, alive. ‘It’s not living. That was not living. She’s made me stronger, better. Do you really think I’d have forgiven you so easily if it weren’t for her influence? You were protective, sure, but you were an asshole about it.’
The argument between the two of them still lingers, smeared over the walls and chairs of the kitchen. They’d both been furious, Minseok and himself battling over an intangible possibility - a maybe that lead to a certainty, unclear yet already final.
‘Having a match means you are bonded to a duality, a light and a dark,’ he had said, as though it were simple and logical and effective enough to keep all of them away. But then, now, he has found you, and the ignorance of such a thing, the foolishness of it - as if the symmetry of being bound together were so easily ignored - makes him blush like a child.
And he thinks of you, the way the light washes over your skin, the way the moon holds you close, and the way you pull him towards you - accidental and unassuming - as though you alone are his moon. He thinks, now, that he is the darkness and you are the light he crawls towards, and knows that, for Minseok, it was likely this same feeling.
‘I feel like I’m losing control,’ he announces, pressing his fingers into his temples. ‘Like suddenly I’m helpless and immature, like my sense of identity is falling apart. I can’t let it go.’ Closing his eyes, he takes in a deep breath, shocked and alarmed that he’s saying this much at all. ‘It’s killing me,’ he continues, ‘the fact that a seal has been broken, and even worse, that I almost don’t care. It’s like nothing matters, and I know you said that - you were trying to tell me. But I can’t let it go. The risk, Min. I -’
‘Im telling you, its right.’ Minseok cuts off his rush of words, tone sharp and authoritative. ‘She’s there to make you better, she balances you. You weren’t wrong,’ he concedes, ‘that it’s a duality. But you have to realize that dualities are made for balance. I just so happens the result is just fucked up.’
They hold on another’s stares for a long while, Baekhyun looking awkwardly between them both, often glancing to the other room as if he wishes to leave. But he stays, and they stay, unified as the world seems to shift and change around them.
‘And no,’ Minseok announces, gaze resolute as he breaks the silence, ‘I won’t stop you from being with her.’
The tension in the room snaps, Junmyeon and Baekhyun regarding Minseok with alarmed, ashen faces. Even as he remains completely still, watching the way Minseok puts his hands in his pockets, casual and nonchalant, with steel in his spine that says he knows, Junmyeon feels the tectonic plates of the earth shift. It changes everything, the way they function as a coven and the way they approach their doom, has been reconstructed and made completely new.
It terrifies him, makes the tips of his fingers go numb and his breath halt. Hair falls into Baekhyun’s eyes, shifted from the force of his movements, but he does not bother to fix it. He, too, has been stilled, awed into silence, witnessing the cosmic shift with wide, wet eyes.
But still, he does not look as frightened as Junmyeon, who, behind his eyes, watches the world end and his heart soar, hands roaming over your body as you sweat gasoline into the grass, fires burning in the distance. Permission is dangerous, he knows, and Minseok knows it, too. And still, it does not stop him.
Nodding, Minseok merely smiles, seemingly unmoved by the shockwaves around him. ‘You have my blessing.’
The words cut Junmyeon deep, a gift he does not deserve and a sign that Minseok is better - better now and better before, a better man that he ever was; a better man than he could let himself be.
Weakened, Junmyeon releases a strained sigh, the sound breaking into the atmosphere as a moan. ‘You know what will happen,’ he argues, spitting dissent like it still matters to him. ‘Why I can’t, and certainly why I don’t deserve it.’
Minseok keeps his expression placid, and gaze stern. ‘I know.’
Emotion wells inside him, scorching against his throat as reality burns around him, shifting instead towards the reckless unknown of you. ‘Then why?’
‘Because you have to choose the light,’ he says, unmoved and unwavering. ‘If you don’t, it’s as good as letting hell win.’ Minseok smiles, running a hand through the purple strands of his hair, proud. ‘She taught me that.’
For a moment, they both get lost. Minseok in memories of love and growth, and Junmyeon in the knowledge that nothing will ever be the same. He’s full, full to the brim of you, and his breath comes shallow, empty, painful in his lungs as he thinks of you and lets himself want and want. And at once, its swept away, by visions of Luhan and the way they died, and how Sasha broke before his eyes and how he has always been feeling, and never once did he stop.
‘Did you really think there’s a way out of this?’ Minseok tries, redirecting the topic as though Junmyeon isn’t falling - as though, around him, everything is fine and normal. Junmyeon knows he must feel it, must see what he sees, but still he soldiers on. ‘That we’d be able to solve it or avoid it?’ He chuckles then, amused by their ignorance. ‘We were never going to resist. It was just a matter of time before we gave in, or before we were forced to come together. That’s the point of this - it’s bigger than us.’
‘So we’ve been helpless?’ Baekhyun says, gentle and sweet and Junmyeon can tell he sees something is wrong, but he, too, continues, leaving Junmyeon to drown on his own. ‘The whole time, it’s just been inevitable?’
‘Most likely.’ Minseok’s voice goes distant, the blood in Junmyeon’s ears turning his answers into little more than white noise, a static that does not bring him comfort. ‘Yixing’s been alluding to it, and even when the Black Witch burned, she promised the cycle would repeat. It was always going to look different, but she told us it would happen.’
‘So it’s all just been dormant,’ Baekhyun reasons, pushing from the counter to settle in the chair across from Junmyeon.
He sees him do this, but he does not actually witness it.
Instead, the tears that had threatened to consume him spill from his eyes. He’s glad for this, briefly, because now it means he can see Baekhyun, but the heat on his cheeks sears him deep, hand raising to the skin and discovering that it is wet. Around him, the world falls silent, Baekhyun’s shape blurring into a smear of nothingness while Minseok’s voice dies, muted by the throbbing in Junmyeon’s head.
The wetness glistens against his fingers, warm and slippery, and he wonders why he’s never bothered to touch this - the water that comes from his own body. He coughs, not realizing he’s started to sob, lips and mouth wet as he struggles to breathe, shattered inhales of pain and remorse and regret and the horrific, candied flavor of ardor.
He cries and he cries, feeling everything all at once with greedy fingers, pulling at his memories and pulling at you, wearing the images as tattoos against his soul. Luhan died, and so did he, and so did every part of himself he thought he loved. And you lived, smiled like he was a whole and complete man, something worth loving, reminding him he never did anything wrong, he just got scared. And the water, all this time, pulled away and came back to him with an aggression he thought was normal - waves that cast up against his legs, reminding him they are one and they are together - but never kissing him the same way again.
And now, for the first time, he cannot remember the last time the rain felt sweet, everything about a storm casting a gloom that made his shadow grow tall.
The skin of his cheeks feels trapped, torn between drying the tears as they stream from the heated temperature of his blood and feeling relief, a lightness to his pores as they release everything they’ve kept inside. There should be a reprieve from this, a release from his body as he shudders and fractures, letting himself feel vulnerable and aching with the shame of being seen.
Minseok and Baekhyun stay with him, neither reaching for his hand nor running away, frightened. Their presence, though not a comfort, is an alliance, an acceptance he had not granted himself for centuries, excluding himself from brotherhood under the guise of leadership. They welcome him back, silent and aware, keeping him company as he breaks, neither judging him for the noise or the shape this sort of breaking takes. He empties himself with them, pulls everything from the vessel of his soul and lays it bare, before them and asking that they hold it with him.
And they do, having done this together, without him; having done this centuries ago, finally gladdened that their brother has come home.
The moon remains full for three days, an omen waiting patiently in the center of the sky and altering the night. A halo of red orange light bleeds from its edges, spilling blood into its center and changing its usual silver hue into one of flames.
Chanyeol feels it the most, having been separate from all the conversations, but awoken and rattled just the same. A wolf inside him fights his spirit, affected by the moon more intensely than he normally would be, barely sleeping and leaving the house at odd hours, needing to be outside and needing to be alone. Minseok offers Junmyeon knowing looks each morning, reassuring glances that say it would have been this way regardless. Still, he sips his tea too slowly and too long, the liquid going cold until it is almost flavorless, worrying himself raw and wishing his resolve meant nothing would change.
With all of his remaining strength, he avoids Smith Pool, tucking himself away from the bloodthirsty and severe shadows he knows the light will cast. He feels this unnatural avoidance in the tension that builds in his neck, moving his head from side to side at the shop to release the pressure, mind wandering and unable to focus on anything other than water. Nightly, instead, he submerges himself in the tub, pressed to the bottom and letting himself be held, nurtured, and cleansed. He experiments with the droplets as he rises, pulling them off his body and making shapes, making stars, feeling as though he is making you, before calling them back to skin and ensuring they do not dry.
It does not escape him, even as he does this, invoking play with his power at liberty rather than tucking it away, no longer cowering from it as though scorned, that Paimon is a part of him. The great release of his tears means he has started to accept the reality that all things above are mirrored below, and takes great pride in the fact that he holds water out of respect; the water bends and opens for him, because he loves it, because he lets it, not because he demands it, and not because he expects it to.
And on the fourth day, when the pain of staying away from the lake starts to hurt, the colour fading from his cheeks and lips, he brings himself out, anxious and starved. With every step, he feels the water call to him, lapping against his spirit and carrying him home, remembering their maker, and luring him towards the dock, lonely and needy in its anticipation. He'd longed for it, unsure how he had been able to stay away between the cycles of the moon, for years denying so many parts of himself in the name of leadership.
Sitting on the dock, he swings his feet over the surface as the moon seems to pull him forward, his hands digging into the wood to keep himself from tipping. Leaning into the light, he hums, the echo of the current easing his mind, the thoughts and worries falling silent, if only for a moment. Worn thin, he'd been thinking through his feelings, engaging and pulling at them, working through the how and the why and the when, but now, he simply sits. All his emotions bubble to the brim, and he luxuriates in them, accepting them for what they are rather than what he’d like them to be - what he’d make them to be.
Junmyeon breathes deep, the mist from the water seeping into his lungs, and rather than make him cough, he simply sighs, glad to have felt, and glad to have lived.
The water beneath his feet sloshes almost violently, erupting up and over the dock in a small wave to spray him, playfully, welcoming him - his true nature - and he laughs, loud and long, eyes squeezed shut in childlike pleasure. Against his skin, the memories in the water make his breath catch, memories of the lake being made, of his voice blessing the water on completion, of his feet - breeches raised high and toes wiggling on the stony bed below - running and chasing and thriving. There were children with him then, always. Children from town and children from school, calling him their guardian as they learned to trust the water.
The memories fade as soon as they came, dripping down and back through the crevices of the dock, the atmosphere changing as he senses your approach.
Straightening his spine, his pulse begins to race, lips parting on a silent exhale as he counts each of your steps. The last time he met you here, he'd been imprisoned, locked in a self made cage where his hands and heart could not reach you - trapped inside himself, he could not feel you, not truly. Now, he is whelmed by the totality of your soul, overcome and overrun, and he struggles to keep himself from turning to watch you.
One look at you, he knows, and there will be no hope for him. Once he feels you, he will feel all of you, and then there will be no pretending anything would ever be the same.
‘Welcome back.’
Your voice is full of joy, thrilled by the mere sight of him, and he closes his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. Biting the inside of his cheek, he feels the excitement, the noise of you, gather within his spine, and he suppresses a contented sigh.
Finally allowing himself the comfort of your warm eyes and full lips, he takes his time watching you thrive beneath the light of the moon, ignited and given wings as you approach. Digging his nails into the dock, his breath catches, and he takes a moment before he speaks, gathering his words to ensure they do not break.
‘Are we making a habit of this?’
Settling beside him, excitement rolls off your aura in waves as you take off your shoes and socks. Scooting to the very edge, you smirk, teasing. ‘I hope so.’
Letting your feet drop into the water, just the barest ends of your toes touch the surface. Upon contact, your grip the dock a little tighter, a small yelp emerging from your chest. Eyes wide with shock, Junmyeon looks from your face to your feet and back again, bewildered.
'Isn't that cold?' he laughs, amusement tainting his surprise.
'Yes,' you nod, giggling as your toes splash lightly. 'But isn't it terrible we only let ourselves be silly in the summer? The water is always inviting, even if we can't dive in.'
Awed by the mere existence of you, Junmyeon remains quiet, letting the serenity you provide seep down and deep into his pores.
‘You look different,’ you say, breaking the silence. ‘A little more free.’
The heat from your stare peels back his skin, exposing all hs fragile, vulnerable parts as though readying for a feast. But he does not hide. Now, he is proud of the difference, and, most of all, proud that you have noticed. Rolling his shoulders back, he watches the water as it makes swirls on your feet, glad that it touches you when he cannot.
‘I am,’ he affirms, grinning bashfully. ‘I’m glad you feel the difference.’
Chuckling, you avert your eyes to the water at your toes. ‘I can.’ Your brow furrows, distracted momentarily before relaxing once more. ‘You feel like home.’
The air in his lungs catches, startled to a halt and held in place by your admission. In the aftermath, you don’t recoil from it, simply turn to face him with a conviction that makes his limbs start to feel heavy. In you, he could drown, happily surrendered to the depth so your soul and spirit, heart pulled out and left open, craving the affection of your touch.
You small gasp breaks his thoughts, his eyes following yours to the water.
‘This is your power?’ you ask, amazement lacing through your tone.
Before you, a thin veil of mist rises up and up, pulled from and out of the lake, sparkling beneath the light of the moon. Stretching far above and into the sky, the droplets hold their shape, their makeshift curtain refracting the light and elegantly speckling the dock as your skin becomes illuminated. Even without his permission, he couldn't let the water stay away, adoring and worshiping you, mirroring his heart and his affections; glimmering, in the effort of anointing you as wife.
‘Yes,’ he admits, watching the curtain fall back down, silently. ‘I’ve been called the Water King.’
Reaching out a hand to collect droplets as they fall, attention rapt and lips parted with wonder, you sigh. Junmyeon shivers, feeling your touch through the water.
‘I see why this has been hard for you,’ you offer, moving your hand through the spray until it is gone, a small pout pushing your bottom lip forward.
His head falls, eyes downcast through his lashes. Unsure if he is ready for you to expose his nature or if he simply misses the feel of your touch against his heart, he keeps silent, conflicted and feeling small.
‘Nature magicians,’ you tease lightly, sensing his discomfort and softening to keep him safe. ‘You always feel Paimon more deeply than everyone else. My sisters -’
‘The herbalist,' he announces, remembering the way she cried, on this dock, clutching at Minseok to keep herself together.
You smile, glad for his attention to detail.
‘She needs Minseok.' As he says it, he blinks slowly at the taste of the words on his tongue. Sentiments like this used to come easily, rolling from his heart and mouth at will, honest and loving and gentle. Now, he is simply startled at the comfort they bring, taking shape as though he had been waiting to say it for years. 'I’m glad she has him.’
Eyes warm and full of devotion, nails digging gently into your thigh, you continue. ‘Another one of my sisters handles fire. She’s been...well, she never really lets us see how bad it gets.’
The water rolls forward against the legs of the dock, aggressive and foreboding. Too many nature magicians, he thinks, all located in one place. The hair on his arms stands on end, and slowly he realizes Minseok was right. It was always going to be this way, whether they gave in or not.
‘I’m glad she has you,' he says, an odd, distracted rephrase of his previous sentiment, but still he means every word. ‘That you see through to her heart. It takes incredible strength to do that, and not run away.’
‘And who do you have?’ you counter without hesitation, angling your chest towards him, unwilling to let him back down. ‘Do your brothers truly understand how it feels to be a part of nature’s mirror into hell?’
‘They try,' he shrugs, lowering his gaze to the wet wood beneath your hands. ‘I’ve told them what I can.’
‘I see the moon finally touched you.’
A rush of blood cascades in his ears, eyes lifting to greet yours, bashful and suddenly defenseless against your sweetness. Looking right down into him, you see, he knows you see, the way he let his heart break open, shattered into an irreparable state in the effort of learning to remake his soul. You see and you see, and he lets you in, feels your hands touch and caress all the parts within that did not used to exist - or did, have always exists, but were bent into irregular, inhuman shapes to make breathing hurt just a little less.
You see and you see, and so, he sees you too, drinking his fill until his fingers ache with the future nostalgia of your hair and his lips burn with the flavor of your tongue; having all of you, unafraid of being greedy in the name of love and lust.
‘She did,' he manages, eventually, words fading as a sigh.
‘But, I have to say,' you begin, holding his stare and demanding he does not look away. 'There’s really only one heart I’d rather be looking into.’
Tipping his head back slightly, he feels himself smile, ecstatic and impish and warmed to a flush that makes his cheeks sting. Looking back at you, he sees the hunger in your eyes and knows that he mirrors the intensity, watching a flush creep along your neck.
Junmyeon licks his lips, seeing just how far he can tempt your blush. ‘I know the feeling,'
‘I remember you saying that we can't.’ You toss his words back at him, running a hand through your hair and leaning into the breeze, seeking relief.
‘Does that mean you don’t want to?’ he challenges, inching closer.
The closeness of your body, with each small movement, sends an electric current up his spine, heart racing in his chest.
‘It’s like seals,' you murmur. ‘The more you’re told you shouldn’t, the more you want to.’
‘You know that I’d want you,’ he replies, words heavy and thick, ‘even if you weren’t a seal.’
‘I know.’ Wetting your lips, you breathe deep. ‘Me too.’
It would be easy, he thinks, to lean forward and catch your tongue before it slips back into your mouth. Easy, to press his fingers into the back of your neck, tipping your head back to kiss you and kiss you until the breaths you share together make you blood hurt. It would be easy.
‘Before the first war,’ he says, moving his eyes back towards the water, feeling his heartbeat like lead with the loss. ‘I wanted a family. I was ready to get married, ready to have children. I wanted to be a father, not a leader. Many would say they’re the same thing, but not really. With a family, you have a partner. And I never let myself have that, I guess, in the coven. But even still, it’s not the same.’
Considering his words for a moment, he feels you shift, pressing yourself against the dock as if rooting yourself and keeping your composure. He does not chance a glance however, blood alive like fire.
‘I was engaged once,’ you share, breathless and clutching at the dock, tone bewildered by this shift in topic. ‘A long time ago, about seventy years or so. He was a nice man, but something was lacking. He was kind and funny and warm, but I never felt anything for him, because I never saw him as my partner.’
In the water, he sees reflections of your past - reflections of a man who held you tight, but incorrectly, kissing at you with thick lips and careless hands. He wanted you, wanted all of you, and would have loved you as best he could. Which is to say, he would have loved you in a human, simple way that echoed commitment and choice without lust and passion. And you, looking up at the moon and looking at the stars, would have waited for the universe to ignite in your heart, waited to love him enough to make a sky out of your bed, withering beneath the permanence of a contract that did not taste cosmic.
He hates it. Down to his core, Junmyeon hates it. Hates the idea of someone's hands on you, feeling you without feeling the moon, without feeling your heart. Hates that your lips have been kissed at rather than savored, that your mouth and body and hands made moon for a man who could not give you the sun, and wants, with all of himself, to prove that the galaxies you inspire in his bones are not a fever but a fate. To prove, once and for all, that the only man who could love you enough to let you shine, is him.
The cold front sweeps in, merciless and relentless, blowing with a force that tells him the sky has felt him too. The rain falls, sudden and heavy, bathing you both in the intensity of his affections, soaking through and through until you are laughing in it - laughing in him - looking at him with wide eyes.
You don't say anything, know that you don't have to, studying the way he breathes deep, water dripping down his nose and cheeks, unafraid of hiding.
'I'm not sorry,' he says, emboldened. 'Please don't make me think about that again. Someone else's hands on you, I -'
'Yours are the only hands I want,' you announce, cutting him off.
In the deluge, he feels the heat of your skin, hears the erratic rhythm of your pulse, and the way your fingers twitch, halting in their trajectory to touch him. Finding it unfair that he should feel you so fully, with you only dripping for him, he raises his hand and guides the rain away from you, sheltering you from his storm.
‘Did you walk?’ he asks, gravel building in his voice from the sight of you wet and wet and wet with him.
Unable to speak, eyes dark as you hug yourself, pressing the water into your skin, you nod.
Junmyeon nods, watching as your nipples harden beneath your thin shirt. Blinking, he catches his breath. ‘We can talk in my car.’
And he doesn't know why he does it, only knows that he needs it, body moving without permission from his mind. Taking your hand in his, he twines your fingers together, the wetness of the rain drying immediately to press your skin against his. He gasps, and you sigh, both of you halting in your steps to gaze at one another, feeling the current grow between your palms, a thunder clap he'd been waiting centuries for.
He takes his time walking the short distance to his car, savoring the feel of your fingers rubbing against his knuckles. As he walks, he watches your profile, studies the angular slope of your jaw, the elegant vein of your neck, the tantalizing juncture of your neck and shoulders. How he could have wanted, how he could have needed, anything other than you - how he ever thought he'd survive without you. A laugh rises in his chest, amused by is foolishness, and he swallows it down, unwilling to admit just how quickly he craves surrender with you.
In the car, he lets your hand go, sitting silent with his palms resting on his legs. Staring straight ahead, you both watch the rain as it glides down the windshield, feeling sheltered and submerged. Idly, he wonders how far this reaches, if this storm is just for you or if he has covered the town, announcing that he has found you and he will never let you go.
The windows fog, warmed by the heat of your bodies as the temperature rises in the car. Sweat on his brow mixes with the drops of rain, and only when he thinks he may break, when the tightness in his spine, his thighs, and his chest is enough he fears he may break, does he speak.
‘Its killing me,' he says, almost whining. ‘Not touching you again.’
Bold and unafraid, he feels your eyes graze over his face. Inhaling a deep breath, he wrestles with his composure, breathing through his mouth so he cannot smell you.
‘So touch me,' you say, almost demanding that he disobey, reckless and thriving.
And he looks at you, looks at the way the rain has made your lips and cheeks wet; how your eyes glimmer, hopeful even behind the dark dilation of your pupils, brave under the weight of your desire. He remembers you saying you felt everything, all your emotions, all your pain and wanting and fear, with the totality of you, and only now does he notice you are shaking.
‘If I do, I -’ he chokes, watching your hands pull your shirt away from your skin, attempting to keep yourself cool. ‘I won’t hold back.’
‘So don’t.’
Junmyeon shakes his head, sucking air between his teeth. ‘You don’t get it.’
‘I do.’ It's the loudest you've ever been, confident and strong and so completely regal. ‘Every time I see you, I’m waiting for you to reach out and touch me. I’ve seen into your heart.' Chest heaving for breath, you continue. ‘I've seen how badly you need to be loved, and heard, and witnessed. Your mind is powerful, and it’s been given so much of the attention for hundreds of years, but your heart is just as magnificent. And I see you, I see how deeply you’ve been feeling everything and I’ve wanted to hold you. I lay up at night, thinking about you beside me and knowing that I’m supposed to be there, to make light of the moon less harsh. To hear you. To kiss you.’
His head falls back against the headrest, pressing himself into the seat as he looks at you, wanting you all over him and wanting to be all over you. His fingers drag along his jeans, the last threads of his composure fading away.
‘Minseok gave me permission,' he says, speaking just to test his voice, to see if he can. ‘I know I don’t need it. But still. I’m telling you. There’s no going back.’
‘Do you even want to?’ you almost plead. ‘You’ve let it go. Does the past even look appealing when you think about it anymore?’ Holding his stare, you tilt your head back, exposing your neck and chest to him. ‘Does it look better than me.’
Junmyeon angles himself in his seat to face you, fully, eyes demanding your attention. ‘I need you to tell me you want it,' he commands. ‘You know what will happen.’
If he has you, there will be no stopping him. He will take you, all of him, breaking open a seal with giddy, greedy fingers. He will bond with you, press himself inside you and demand you never be separated again. The world will end, and many will die, but he will love you and love you and love you until even the ashes of his bones is left mixing with your cosmic dust.
‘I know what will happen,' you press, insistent. ‘And I still want it.’ Leaning forward, you run your fingers through the wet strands of his hair, sending shivers down his spine. ‘I want you.’
The tightness in your voice, the raw and all encompassing yearning for him, washes over him, breaking through the last remaining threads of control to which he had managed to cling. Looking at you, letting himself fall into your eyes, he slowly comes to realize that the only consent he needed was not from Minseok, but from you. To be damned alongside you, no longer alone, walking into hell and lust and desire with his hand clasped in yours.
And when you breathe, sucking air into your lungs as your breasts fight against your shirt, he finds that it does not matter - that being damned does not matter, so long as the taste of you remains on his tongue, until the only thing he can ever remember is you.
Over the console, he reaches for you, lips coming together full of hunger and want, starved over centuries for the press of your tongue against his lips. Reclining his seat as far back as it will go, the kiss is messy, all teeth and tongue, wet from rain and wet from your mouths, rolling against one another to devour each other whole.
He nips at your bottom lip, pressing his teeth into the soft flesh and pulls, hearing you whimper as your hands fist at the collar of his shirt. Sliding his fingers up your neck, his hands gather fistfulls of your hair, tugging slightly and chuckling as he hears you gasp.
‘That’s it, princess,’ he murmurs against your lips, dipping his tongue inside the cavern of your mouth. ‘Let me hear you.’
Whimpering, you grip tightly at his shoulders as he pulls you, indelicately, over the console to settle in his lap. Straddling him, you grind your hips down into his, the heavy thickness of his erection pressing into your center through his jeans. Gasping at the contact, he peers up at you, at your swollen lips, your hair falling messily over your shoulders, and swallows thickly. Rolling up into your core, separated by all your clothes, your eyes flutter shut, and he brings one hand to the back of your neck, lowering you to his mouth where he begins to suck.
Your nails dig into his shoulders, as you hiss. ‘Right there, fuck. It’s sensitive.’
Against your skin, he smiles, biting softly without leaving a mark. ‘I’ve felt you,’ he breathes, running his tongue over the spot his teeth just touched. Beneath his hands, you tremble. ‘For so long in the rain, I’ve felt you.’
‘It’s not like me to hold back,' you moan, holding his face between your hands and tilting his head to kiss at his jaw. 'Ever.’
The feel of your lips against his bones ignites a fire in him, need pooling deep into his belly as his hips roll up into yours once more. Hands needy and urgent, he leans back in his seat, gripping the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head in one fell swoop. Your chest is flushed, breaths coming in hollow pants, and the supple skin of your breasts presses tantalizingly against the cups of your bra. Mouth watering, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you flush against his chest, lips moving against the space between your breasts.
'Unfair,' you gasp, pushing at his shoulders before reaching before tugging at his shirt.
Helping you, he releases his hold on your waist, skin still tingling from the feel of you, and lifts his arms over his head. Tossing his shirt into the back seat, your eyes rake over his chest, followed swiftly by the pads of your fingers as they press barely there touches to the curves of his muscles. With each graze of your skin against his, he sighs, hands coming to grip your hips tightly and pressing you against his groin.
‘Greedy?’ you smirk, bending down to kiss sweetly below his ear.
Junmyeon groans, rolling up against you once more. ‘Only for you.’
Holding you so close, the heat of your core resting against his cock, seeping through his jeans, he takes a moment to clear his vision, grounding himself in the moment. The rain against the windows rolls down in streams, the glow from the street lamps outside casting shadows against your cheeks and shoulders, and for a moment, you become the waterfall he has always craved.
The moment is broken by your agile fingers, pulling at the button of his jeans. Laughing at the way you fumble slightly, fingers slick and slipping along the button, he lifts his hips, holding you still against him, as you work his jeans and boxers down. Erection freed, he sighs in relief, only to choke on his breath as your strong hand wraps around him entirely, pumping his length slowly.
Biting his lip, his head falls back as his hands reach behind your back, unclasping your bra.
'Look at you,' he rumbles, throat tight as your grip squeezes around him. 'Fuck, you're perfect.'
Consumed, he presses up into your hand at the same time as he bends to take your breast in his mouth, rolling his tongue over your perked nipple. Your rhythm falters, releasing his cock as pleasure takes over, raking your nails over his biceps as he laps at your breast. Biting down slightly, he lets his teeth make bite marks, marking the soft skin as his own, claiming a part of you for himself.
‘Tell me if you want me to slow down,' he breathes, pulling away from your breast to pay the same attention to the other. ‘I’ll do anything for you. I’ll hold back for you.’
‘I told you want you,' you whine, writhing against him as his teeth graze over your nipple, sending static like tingles down to your core. 'I’ve been wanting you.’
Lifting his mouth, he releases his hold on your hips to scratch at your thighs beneath the thin fabric of your leggings. ‘I need to show the world you’re mine.’
‘I’m yours,' you nod, kissing at his lips messily, sucking his tongue briefly before pulling away to breathe. ‘Only yours.’
Invigorated, the tension in his hands reaches its breaking point, and he feels himself rip through your leggings without even realizing it. Blinking down at the exposure he created, he feels a blush of shame creep into his cheeks before you begin to laugh.
‘I’ll buy you a new pair,' he offers, apologetically.
Shaking your head with a smile, you kiss him deeply, letting your tongue explore the velvet texture. 'Doesn't matter.'
Pushing past the remains of your leggings, he moves your underwear to the side and presses two fingers into your core. Your head lolls forwards against his shoulder, one hand gripping at his arm while the other strokes lazily around his cock. He lets himself press knuckle deep, enough for your walls to clench around his fingers, hoping to keep him trapped inside, and a deep moan rattles against his ribs.
‘Already wet for me, baby?’ he manages, thrusting slowly into your heat before curling his fingers.
He's coated with your wetness, the slickness of you dripping onto his hand and signaling you are likely ready for a third, but he deprives you, wanting to keep you on edge. Pretty when you're needy, he likes the way you curl against him, whining into his touch.
‘What do you expect,' you manage, turning your face to bite at his neck, 'when you’re dealing with a water king?’
Hearing his name and title roll off your tongue, with pride and ardor and passion, he cannot help the possessive growl that overtakes him, a third finger slipping inside you as he lets his thumb rub circles against your clit. His chest grows hot, warmed to the brim of your and your sweet, inconsistent strokes along the veins of his cock, and he knows, for better or worse, he will bring you to orgasm on his hand if he does not slow down.
‘How do you want to come, princess?' he manages, stilling the fingers between your folds and letting them curl upwards.
Petulant, you grip his cock tightly, urging him to continue. Junmyeon shakes his head and clucks his tongue, wrapping his hand around the one that holds his cock, keeping you still.
‘Words, princess,' he says, voice dangerously low. ‘Use your words.’
‘Cock,' you whine, rolling your hips against his hand for some relief. ‘Need to feel you inside me.’
Junmyeon pauses for a moment, considering. He is not one to carry condoms with him, but he knows that Baekhyun usually keeps one in the glove compartment for nights when he feels the most lonely; nights in autumn and winter when the light retreats from his skin and he seeks a body to feel warm. The last time he sought a companion was a week prior, and Junmyeon is certain the condom no longer remains.
'I don't have a condom with me,' he says, pressing his fingers back into you in a slow, lazy rhythm. ‘I'll have to pull out.'
Clenching around his fingers, you nod vigorously into his neck.
‘Princess,’ he commands, halting his fingers once more and lifting his thumb from your clit. ‘Tell me it’s ok. I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.’
'It's okay,' you whine, pressing against him to have the contact once more. ‘Want to feel you inside me.’
'Are you on something?' he presses, being careful and making sure you mean every word you say.
'No,' you manage, kissing at his neck and squeezing at his cock to get his attention, hoping to hurry him along.
Stricken, he flushes, removing his hand from yours to tug at your hair. Peering into your wide, lustful eyes, he searches your face with panic. 'You could get pregnant…'
You nod, reaching up to smooth the hair out of his face. 'I know.'
It settles over him, the implication of your words and the way you seem so calm, so blissful, so at peace with the idea. There's no fear in your voice, no terror or uncertainty. You simple look at him, full of love, a full moon, waiting for him to kiss you.
‘What are you saying?' he whispers, heart thundering in his throat as blood rushes in his ears.
He'd forgotten what hope felt like, what it felt like to feel himself and his desires, the whole length of them from beginning to end. He'd forgotten, and now that he remembers, he does not ever want to stop.
Wordlessly, you bend down, capturing his lips and a sound, unhurried kiss. You suck at his lips, humming with a smile, as your let your hands wander over his skin, clenching around the fingers that remain inside you, reminding him you still want him, need him.
Breaking away from the kiss, he keeps his eyes on yours, needing to hear it. 'Princess,' he tries, a tiny, barely there whisper of the man he feels he could be. 'Can I put a baby inside you?'
And, once more, without any sound, you nod.
The motion breaks something inside him, his eyes suddenly going dark and wild, blood alive like liquid gold to press eagerly against your silver. It's unlike him, the vigor with which his fingers thrust inside you, spreading slightly to stretch you in preparation. Deep inside him, there is a deluge, something awoken - not altogether dark but not altogether himself - pressing at your skin, hoping to press through and live inside you.
'I want to get you pregnant,' he says, fingers pressing at your nerves and walls, hard enough to make sure you feel every hill and valley of his knuckles. 'Watch you grow my baby inside your perfect womb. Make you swollen and fill you so completely your body feels empty without me. Please, let me. Please, can I get you pregnant?'
Your hold on his cock is weakened, thighs and body starting to quake as he pushes you close to release. 'Yes,' you cry.
'Say it again,' he demands, pushing you against him to bite at your shoulder.
'Yes.'
Junmyeon lets his thumb tap roughly against your clit, swirling your juices over the nerves. 'Again.'
'Put a baby in me,' you moan, clutching at him as your finger smears pre-cum over his tip. 'I want to have your baby.'
Pulling his fingers from your folds, he smiles as you whimper at the loss. His hand lifts yours from his cock, and he grips the ample flesh of your hips, letting his fingers dip between the waistband of your underwear to press into your ass.
Holding you up, he bites at your lip before speaking. 'Sit yourself on my cock, princess.'
Moving your underwear out of the way, you slowly lower yourself down, holding his tip between your slit for a few moments, impishly keeping still. Guiding a hand between your legs, you hold onto him, keeping him still as your squeeze around his base, letting your nails idly tap against the veins. Junmyeon hisses, fighting the urge to press you down, to bury himself inside you to the hilt, and distracts himself by massaging your ass, hard enough to leave bruises.
'Gonna ride just the tip?' he grunts, eyes locked on the way he has just barely begun to disappear inside you.
'Just wanted to see how long you'd go before you broke,' you laugh, before sliding all the way down, taking him deep until there is no end to where you your bodies begin.
Settling your hands on his shoulders, you roll forward, gently thrusting against him to get used to the feel of him inside you. Junmyeon exhales through his teeth, the feel of your walls around him sending his body into overdrive, cock hard enough the ache in his spine has his breath coming in rasps. Lifting yourself, you fall back down on him, creating a rhythm that his him thrust up into your cunt in desperation.
Moving his hands forward, he holds onto your hip as he takes one of your breasts in his hands, massaging the flesh as you bounce on him, clenching tightly enough to make him gasp. In retaliation, he takes your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling the bud tightly until you hiss. And then, in one fell swoop, brings his mouth and tongue over pink nub, sucking harshly.
Your hands move to his hair, carding through the strands as you grip him, gasping through the sensation.
'You're fucking tight,' he groans, meeting your downward fall with an upward thrust. 'I'm gonna have to spend my life fucking you hard enough to fit.'
The power behind his words has your body shaking, the wetness of your bodies coming together filling the car as a symphony. His orgasm builds behind his eyes, the tension in his legs wrapping around him as a coil. Around his cock, you clench, desperate to hold and keep him inside, and the more you do the more his control slips away, body driven to powerful thrusts, seeking an end.
Bringing a hand between your bodies, he returns his fingers to your clit, tapping hard circles in time with his thrusts.
'Next time,' he groans, 'I'm gonna eat this pussy out for hours. Suck it dry and make it wet again.'
'Jun -' you moan, lapping at his lips as your bouncing becomes erratic.
'You gonna come, princess?' he breathes, smiling against your panted breaths.
All you can manage is a nod, aware that the noise in your chest sounds just like begging. Inside you, he is relentless, seeming to press himself deeper and deeper with each thrust.
'I'm going to come,' he manages, the first clear and well constructed sentence he's said since he's been inside you.
Admission means he's giving you one last chance, one brief opportunity to change your mind, and he thrusts so deeply inside you, he hopes his motive is clear. He wants you pregnant, swollen, carrying his baby, making sure all the world knows you are his and you are his home. He gives you this opportunity, because he can wait, he has been waiting - for you, he has been waiting, and there is a lifetime during which he can build the life with you he craves.
But you hold on tight, grind down onto him with a moan, and look him straight in the eyes.
'Come inside me,' you whisper, speech steady and careful. 'Fill me, please. I want it.'
Unleashed, untamed, and alive, Junmyeon presses against your clit, babbling into your ear as he feels his orgasm burn inside his belly. With each thrust, he sees it, sees you, full of him and laughing, body mooned outward because of him, and he suddenly cannot catch his breath.
'I'm gonna put a baby here. Right here. You're going to get big, round, so fucking pregnant you'll think you might been waiting for it your whole life.'
That’s all it takes, the mere image of you rounded and pregnant as you ride him, to send him over. He spills into you, hot and moaning your name, feeling you tremble around him as you come together, your legs shaking on either side of his. Your voice is thick and heated in his ear, wet cries of pleasure and moans, whispers of permission, of love, and hope dripping from your mouth. The whine of his name from your lips makes him gasp, pressing deep inside you as he feels his come spill out of you and back down onto his thighs, jeans, and your skin.
Trembling against him, you gasp to catch your breath, body sensitive as his cock softens inside you. Stroking your hair, he presses soft kisses to your cheeks and shoulder - anywhere his lips can touch, he kisses, reminding you he loves you, he loves you, he loves you.
With his eyes closed, body encased in bliss, he lets the world remain at peace, for this one brief moment.
And outside, outside the car where he does not choose to look, the moon comes out, but still it rains. It rains, unholy and unnatural, spilling backwards up into the clouds, up and up and up, defying gravity.
#suho smut#exosnet#kwriterskollection#kpopwonderlandtag#prettyboysnetwork#junmyeon smut#suho x reader#junmyeon x reader#junmyeon fanfic#suho fanfic#junmyeon au#junmyeon scenario#suho scenario#suho au#exo fanfic#exo smut#exo au#kim junmyeon
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The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas (trans. Robin Buss)
"'I have heard it said that the dead have never done, in six thousand years, as much evil as the living do in a single day.'"
Year Read: 2019
Rating: 3/5
Context: Last year’s year-long Les Mis read went so well, I decided to choose another intimidating classic to tackle in the same fashion this year. I know myself, and if I don't deliberately pace out a book like this, I'll try to read a thousand pages in a week, and it will just be a miserable experience. (That's not to say some classics aren't miserable experiences regardless of how you read them, but that's another issue entirely.) The Count of Monte Cristo was calling to me from the shelf, and by pure luck, I already owned the edition I wanted to read (plus a B&N abridged version that promptly went into the donation box). Reviews overwhelmingly praise Robin Buss’s translation for ease/modernity, and the Penguin Classics haven’t let me down yet.
For my less coherent updates in real-time: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX. My review is spoiler-free, but my updates are not, so read with caution if you’re not familiar. Trigger warnings: In a book with a thousand pages? Everything, probably, but for sure death, parent/child death, suicide/suicidal thoughts, severe illness, guns, abduction, poisoning, slavery, mental illness, sexism, ableism, grief, depression.
About: When forces conspire to have sailor Edmond Dantès arrested for a crime he didn't commit, he spends years in a hellish prison, fighting to stay sane. Through bravery and good fortune, he manages to escape, and he assumes a new identity for himself: The Count of Monte Cristo. Under this guise, he inserts himself into the lives of the French nobility, vowing revenge on those who wronged him.
Thoughts: Like most thousand page novels, there's no reason this novel needs to be a thousand pages, but the one thing I can say about them, collectively, is that I come away feeling like I have a relationship with them that I usually don't get from a shorter book unless I've read it multiple times. And it makes sense: I've been reading this book for a year. I've had relationships with actual humans that were much shorter than that. Dumas's prose (helped along by Buss's translation) is accessible and not overly dry, if not quite as humorous as Victor Hugo’s. Thanks to both of them, I now have a rudimentary understanding of the French Revolution and the difference between a Royalist and Bonapartist (because truly the only way to make me read about history is to put it in a novel).
Dumas proves himself more capable of staying on topic though, with one or two exceptions. The only margin note I cared to write was, apparently, "Horrible digression", and I stand by that. As soon as the novel leaves Dantès’s perspective, it gets less interesting, beginning with Franz encountering Sinbad the Sailor on Monte Cristo and continuing with the Very Weird and Terrible Side Anecdotes about bandits in Rome. Otherwise, much of the storyline is more or less linear, without the intricacies of Waterloo or the Paris sewer system. It grows more chaotic as the book goes on though, with frequent digressions into every character's backstory.
The plot takes such a drastic turn that it's almost like reading two different novels with two different main characters. At the beginning, it’s most like an adventure story. There are sailors, prison breaks, and buried treasure. Yet, for all those things, it’s surprisingly un-suspenseful. Dumas has a very stolid way of story-telling. The pace is almost supernaturally consistent, so that even things that probably should have tension in them are presented as a matter of course. (Or maybe I’m just hugely desensitized by media.) I wasn’t as excited as I thought I should be during some of the more compelling parts, but there’s something reassuring about Dumas’s relentlessly straightforward story-telling.
The middle takes a major dip in interest. Cue a lot of long and tedious backstories, plus Monte Cristo's elaborate set-ups to take down his enemies. It basically devolves into a soap opera of the various dramas of Paris’s rich and powerful families. Monte Cristo barely needs to lift a finger to destroy these people, since with a few mostly harmless suggestions, it looks like they're all going to self-destruct at any moment without outside help. The ending never really recovers from the action of the beginning, thanks in large part to the characters. There are more than it's worth keeping track of, including a lot of side characters, family members, and name changes. A detailed, spoiler-free flow chart of how everyone is connected to everyone else would have been helpful. (But be careful about Googling those because spoilers.)
Edmond Dantès is an easy hero to pull for, since he’s honest, good, and capable, and he has a kind of earnest faith that things will work out that’s endearing. He goes through a fair amount of character development in prison, and his father/son relationship with Faria is especially moving. On the other hand, it's difficult to like his alternate persona, The Count of Monte Cristo. Dumas goes a bit overboard in making him filthy rich and knowledgeable about literally every subject, and no matter how generous he is to his slaves, they're still slaves. Whether he’s playing the part of a pompous ass or is actually a pompous ass is sort of irrelevant by the end. There are a couple of flailing attempts at character development in the last sections where he wonders whether he had the right to do everything he did, but it's too little/too late to make much of an impact.
The story wouldn't work without some Shakespeare-level villains. Danglars is Iago whispering in Othello’s ear, and Villefort is even more insidious because his upstanding citizen act is so convincing. Caderousse is just a coward, and it’s interesting to see how jealousy, ambition, and fear all play an integral part in condemning an innocent man. Mercédès is a bland love interest; Valentine and Morrel are basically the Cosette and Marius of the novel, but at least there are some decent people on the page to pull for. Much as I dislike all the descriptors of Eugenie as “masculine” (because she must be less of a woman if she has a mind of her own), she's a powerhouse, and I was living for her lesbian relationship with her piano instructor.
It's clear Dumas has no idea when to end a story, since every time I thought we'd wrapped up a plot with a certain character, they'd resurface a few chapters later to spin it out a little further. Though everything (and I do mean everything) moves much more slowly than necessary, I was satisfied with the way it all played out. It's hard to come back from a main character I can barely stand though, and I happen to not like novels where nearly every character is terrible. While I found Les Mis surprisingly relevant on its social commentary, I’m struggling to see why Monte Cristo has stuck around. Only the first parts could reliably be called an "adventure novel," and the rest is purely middle of the road.
#book review#the count of monte cristo#alexandre dumas#monte cristo readalong#classics#3/5#rating: 3/5
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this is for hayley! @whistlingwillows a dear friend <3333
it’s meant to be a birthday present haha. i just want to shower you in love;;; so thought maybe i could go through as many of your fics and comment on them :^)))
(TO EVERYONE ELSE: please go to @whistlingwillows blog and read her fics!!! they are SO FCKIN GOOD AND AMAZING AND UGH HER MIND (it’s a lot of mcu and her bucky and steve fics are a*. i DEFINITELY RECOMMEND))
i wish you a VERY happy birthday and i hope we stay friends for many more years <3333333333
i’m going through your masterlist heehee ;)))
ah first off, nice theme! i never could rlly see it before because i’m always on mobile heehee. also sorry for not reviewing them before??? i don’t usually read fics on tumblr as you’ve probably guessed;;
anyways, IM GON REVIEW THE SHIT OUT OF THESE >:DDDD
far from home - bucky x stark sister!reader
firstly, i like how youre introducing the reader from buckys pov, like you can sort of already gather what shes like from them
‘Bucky can hear Tony’s soft inhale, feel the intensity of the man’s glare directed at Steve. He shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but a twitch of muscle would be enough to alert both men that he’s here. With the amount of tension crackling in the air, a brush against the wall would be equivalent to a thousand cymbals crashing in cacophony.’
IM CRYING ALREADY. the imagery in here is GLORIOUS. your tone here is so fitting! oo and the alliteration here is perfecto
ooooooo!! the backstory coming in 👀👀
‘despite what some people think that Steve and Captain America are two different personas, there will always be parts of Steve in the Avenger, and parts of the Avenger in Steve. They both want to believe in something good. They are, after all, one in the same.// Just as how Bucky and the Winter Soldier are the same man despite everything. HYDRA simply amplified the hate, fertilized the seeds of rage, curated the quiet thunder within his soul, within James Buchanan Barnes so that the Winter Soldier could thrive.’
yIKES! lol this is very character study like! nICE. it hurts tho, my poor children, i love you both
oo ‘starlight eyes’ that is a very nice way of describing them
‘“Then what was London?” The protesters. “São Paulo?” The earthquake. “Vancouver?” Freezing cold water.//“Look, I care if Stark’s gonna run us over trying to find her. I care enough because she’s part of our team. Come off it, Steve. I know she can take care of herself. I’m gonna take a nap. Dr. Cho said no partying post-Singapore and what do you know, we throw the biggest party ever.’
ooo singapore uwu and london? (coincidence? haha jkjk) and the hints abt reader and buckys background are so good?? but so annoying??? like i just wanna KNOW yknow??
‘The water runs copper and the sting bites at his palm as he tries not to think. Tries to focus on the numbing cold that runs over his skin.’
your imagery is so vivid?? im actually in awe??? i am so regretful i havent kept reading your fics. like i know they are amazing, i just keep putting them off??? idk man. hopefully this makes up for it (gd tho, im still not done with commenting on one fic. this is what im doing with my motivation teehee ;)
‘ He feels weak. Tired. He wants to go back to bed but he also wants to stay out in the sun for a few hours more. The sun kisses his skin through the windows and he squints against the blue sky, wondering ‘
mood during this quarantine lol
‘“Oh, right.” Your voice is flat, uninterested, cold, as you stare at him. “You killed my parents.”Shit.‘
OUCH LMAO THATS C O L D, O GOT +100 PHYSIC DAMAGE FROM JUST READING THAT
ooo robin as a nickname noice. very much gives me batman vibes lol
oh! and the way of doing the ‘flashback’ is neat! very original. it both tells us what happened AND buckys reaction to it again. he can re-analyse himself and reader. very cool
‘If you walk away now, don’t bother coming back!” Silence. Bucky can hear his own strained breathing, your soft sigh as you soaked in his ultimatum.’
👀👀 yikes that ultimatum. :// not good bucky. tbf theyre both trying to hurt each other but Yikes
eyy!!! readers pov!! finally! and the switch after we find out the outsiders pov? brilliant
oh no :(( more angst
‘When’s the last time you saw your therapist?”“Don’t have one. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”’ they BOTH need therapists;;;;
very good fic!!! :DD they rlly do hate each other! i definitely like how you went back and forth with the timeline! it gave me a v strong idea on what yn was like even before we rlly got introduced. i am now very curious on where reader is? i love your characterisations!
i will read the 10k+ fics but heck the last one took me ages lolol (i will comment in the future tho!! i promise <3 ) (that took me over an hour jjhghgdjh)
slipping away- amnesiac modern bucky x reader
omg,,, AMNESIA! >:DDDDDD
‘ Put your fucking seatbelt on’
oh no, istg theyre going to have a car crash arent they (’ doesn’t put the seatbelt on to spite you.’ NO PLEASE PUT IT ON U DUMBASS)
ok,,,,, at LEAST he put it on before he got hit, thank heck. but still. youre so cruel to your poor characters lmaoo
oh gosh
‘You fall apart slowly, like pieces of you peeling away until you’re nothing more than your broken heart. The sobs that wrack your body are relentless and you shove your forearm into your mouth to muffle your cries. You want to bite into your skin. You want to distract yourself from the agony tearing you to shreds. You want to feel anything but the pain.///Tears sweep into your hair, cloud your vision and your whole face floods with heat as you try to breathe through the pain. You’re cleaved into pieces on that bed, eyes squeezed shut as the tears keep flowing, and your throat burns’
this hurts damn, it is so vivid?? i can really feel it
i am so glad you got into writing yk?? so glad
NO PLS, TELL HIM. TELL HIM :((( ‘shes nice once you get to know her?? shes known nat for years now!! years!!
oh god ‘he looks younger without the burden of your time together’ this is so angsty omg
‘Well, he was stumbling through his apology and I just let him finish.” Your body fills with warmth as you remember his embarrassed smile, the way he shoved his baseball cap farther down his head, chin tucked to his chest, trying to hide that face. “When he was done, I opened my mouth to say something polite but what came out was ‘You look like someone I’d very much like to kiss’.”
this is so soft i stg im crying in the club
OH SHITTTTTTTTTTT , you left it off like that!!! thats so cruel!!!! i can’t!!! how dare you!!!! :””””””((( im typing this with tears in my eyes ill have u know!!
anyway!!! very good fic!! you could honestly make that into a longfic very easily lol. i felt too many emotions :((
i was just about to say where is the fluff!! where is it!! when i saw the next one and yay :))) pls i cant have more angsty stuff rn
.
cookies and rings and things bucky and reader
‘how much do you love me?’ ‘count the snowflakes, multiply by a million’
did you have to start the fic off with such a SOFT line? its so soft! so TENDER
‘He wonders what kinda insane person wears socks without any clothes on, but then decides that it’s the kind of person who’s fallen in love with him.’ jesus, the soft moments filled with love are the greatest <3
you can write fluff so well, whyd you have to pain me with all that angst ;””””) (1/10 hurt, 9/10 comfort is the way to go lolol) (jkjk ill read the angsty ones too when i have the spoons) (gonna reread that hydra steve one and ik thatll fuck me UP)
‘ Then, he can feel the cold metal of the ring she slid onto her own finger less than twenty-four hours ago and realizes that he had thought a lot of things shouldn’t be possible, and yet they still are. ‘
you literally brought me to tears reading this softness, you have truly found my weakness
‘ She’s so damn gorgeous with flour on her face and eye bags beneath her eyes that he’s sure she will inevitably make his heart burst ‘
he already likes her so much! i can’t believe this is affecting me so much :’)
‘Bucky is quite sure Sam is in love with his girlfriend in the fact that he’s in love with the fact that his girlfriend is possibly in love with Bucky’
this is so soft??? sam loves reader bc reader loves bucky sm. pls my hear <3333
you do fluff SO WELL DAMN
‘F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice echoes in his small little perch and he still thinks it’s weird without having the side effect of Stark in his suit chasing after him to hear the A.I. but he shoves that uncomfortable feeling of the dead man out of his head. That is too much regret to unpack right now on a mission. ‘
yike bringing back that reminder oof
but thats so soft??? (i am def overusing soft but,,,,, i love it and the vibe) she sent him cookies! god i can feel the love
‘She expresses her feelings through cooking, which Bucky has learnt the hard way. One time, they got into an argument over something stupid—he can’t even remember what started it—and came to the kitchen at 2AM to see her sitting at the kitchen island crying her eyes out and surrounded by baskets of muffins.’
<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 my hEART
you show how much they love each other in so many ways??? i am dying
“Alright, I like it.” Rolling his eyes, he pecks her forehead and she smiles victoriously. It’s so adorable that Bucky, with less than three hours of sleep, adds, “God, I want to marry you.//”“What?”//Oh.Shit.
oh my god! i am literally tearing up!!! AGAIN!!!!!!!!
oh shit o am literally crying
your fluff got me crying harder than your angst i hope youre happy
I really hope you enjoy reading this?? i keep forgetting to like text you but i wanted to do something for your birthday. especially in quarantine when everythings gone crazy. one year i swear ill do something REALLY good for you. not making promises bc i hate if i dont. but ill like, learn how to podfic because you D E S E R V E I T
ive spent like three hours doing this lolol
thank you so much for everything hayley!
#i love you sm hayley!!!! thank you for EVERYTHING#AND THIS IS A FIC REC PLS CHECK HAYLEYS STUFF OUT
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