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redstainedsocks · 3 years

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So I lost the energy to keep up with the last week of prompts but I wanted to finish off this little series the way I had planned and thankfully it still makes sense! This is the longest one yet, just to fit everything in that needed to make it work. Thanks for reading! I'll make a masterlist at some point too

30. (Alternate prompt) We think of the key, each in his prison - Escape | Multiple whumpee (mentioned)

Warnings: vague noncon drugging (magical herbal tea), attempted mind control, magical mind control, magical whump, intimate whumper/creepy whumper, noncon kissing, blood, escape and bargaining for freedom

One month. Thirty days. They’d made it. They’d survived. The deal was done.

Wasn’t it?

Celeste sat them down for tea around mid afternoon, only a few hours more until they could walk away. The tea tasted strange but it didn’t knock them out, as they’d first suspected it would.

Stone wrinkled their nose at the taste but swallowed it down.

“It’s not so bad, once you get used to it,” Celeste stated.

“What’s in it?”

“Herbs, flowers, things to make you feel content. You feel content, don’t you?”

Stone looked out the window at the early summer day, the sun dancing across the meadow of tall, bright green grass. The sky was clear blue and clouds scudded across it lazily. They breathed in the scent of steamy tea cups, fresh baked bread, sweet jam and cream.

They did feel content. Not a care in the world. They rolled their shoulders and felt the tight pull of the brand between their shoulder blades. It was so much less bothersome when everything else was alright, when nothing else hurt.

Stone nodded at Celeste, even as their eyes filled with tears. Why were they crying? They felt so happy but something was wrong… something… they just wanted not to worry anymore, not to fight.

Celeste stood and wrapped them in a hug, stroked their hair.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Stone mumbled.

“It’s going to be okay, soon you won’t have to make any more decisions.”

Just one big decision, just the choice to run and run and never look back and never have to live more of these confusing, bewildering moments. Never have her touch them again.

Never have to miss home, again.

Celeste stroked their temples and kissed their forehead. This could be home, a small voice whispered inside their head, and they shuddered. It sounded so full of promise.

As the sun set Celeste led them to the kitchen, in new clothes but their own boots, a bag of odd belongings—jewellery, sunglasses, a bookmark—slung over their shoulder.

“Our deal is fulfilled,” Celeste said, standing with them at the large kitchen island, the back door open. Sweet dusk air filled their lungs and they smiled. “You may now do whatever you wish.”

Stone looked at her, pulling away from the hand on their arm. “Tell me why? Why do all of this?”

“I get lonely.” She shrugged. “I need what humans have to offer, devotion, energy, love—or hate. None of you give it freely anymore so I take it where I can.”

Somehow the revelation that she wasn’t entirely human didn’t strike Stone as odd, it made sense, given… everything.

“Maybe if you asked,” Stone said through gritted teeth. “Or if you were nicer, and didn’t torture people—”

“Pain is invigorating. And when you ask, people have the chance to say no.”

Stone glared and shuffled away from her, shaking their head. “I hope you’re even more alone when I’m gone then you ever felt before.”

“I will be,” she sighed dreamily. “Until the next one. And you haven’t left yet, I wouldn’t be so sure that’s what you’ll decide.”

“What?!” Stone rocked back, stepped away but Celeste’s hand snapped out and caught them by the shirt collar and dragged them closer. “Of course I’m leaving that’s, that’s…”

She kissed them on the lips and their cry was muffled by it. The brand between their shoulder blades itched, then burned, until then the skin felt clean and new.

“You have until morning,” she whispered against their mouth. “If you’re still here then, we’ll have to strike a new deal.”

She left Stone standing there, heart racing, and disappeared into the quiet, dark mansion with a lilting laugh.

Hours passed and Stone stood rooted to the floor. The door was right there, open! Why couldn’t they just walk through it?

Images flashed behind their eyes, dredged up memories: her eyes in the mirror, the contentment of the tea, the dreamlike states where she flitted through their mind.

What did they really have for themself, out there in the world? It was like every possibility had melted away, all the good thoughts… gone. They could barely recall faces, names, places.

Barely. But, enough.

They had a life, a whole world, freedom. They had themself, if nothing else.

It was enough determination to take one step forward, to fight the feeling that kept them stuck in place. But just one step, only one.

At this rate they’d be here all night, it would be too late.

And what if they got away but some other poor person ended up taking their place? Someone who couldn’t fight back, who couldn’t take it, who crumbled under her hands and became putty for her to shape however she wanted? Stone shuddered at the thought.

They couldn’t let that happen. The thought settled around them. They could stay. They could take the fall for everyone else, even if no one ever knew. They could do that. They could take this.

The unease inside them quietened at the idea. It was the easier choice, just to give in.

“No.”

They spoke quietly and then louder. “No!”

They struggled forward another step.

Celeste had tried to rig the game, they understood now. Tried to make it impossible to walk away, so that the ‘choice’ to stay was made for them. So that come morning she could enforce a new deal—and even without knowing what it would be Stone knew it would be terrible. The rest of their life, maybe, traded away because that’s all they had to give and she would demand as much.

“I will leave!” They shouted, voice hoarse and dry. “But… but I will come back.”

Air rushed around them, like the house took a breath, like a spell of quiet was broken. They lurched forward suddenly, stumbling against the counter. “If I can’t leave freely, I will leave on my own terms!”

They stalked across the room, grabbed for a pad of paper and pulled a pen out of their jacket pocket. Their hand trembled and they took a moment to steady it.

“Evil, conniving, wicked woman,” they muttered. “But if this is how I get away, if this is how I don’t owe you everything.”

They grit their teeth and forced their hand to write out the agreement. Line by line, signed with their name, and—in a moment of hysterical laughter in belief in magic and knowing in their bones how it worked—they took a knife from the cutlery draw and pricked their forefinger until a bead of blood welled up.

Stone could breathe once it was done, they felt light and airy, like nothing held them down. Relief filled them, bursting forth like a dam they thought it might make them cry, or whoop with joy, or even fly.

They did none of those things. They left the note on the counter, hefted their bag higher, and ran.

They made it across the meadow as the sky turned from night-black to early morning blue. They made it to a road as the first hint of yellow splashed across the horizon. They made it far enough away that the spell was broken, morning dawned to find they were gone, and free.

Free until the price they offered had to be paid.

Celeste woke to a silent house, but it didn’t feel barren. It felt filled with life, still. Alive, happy. Not something she had expected.

She wandered the rooms looking for her newest conquest and was surprised to find it empty. Her bare feet moved quietly through the rooms as her grief and rage began to grow. She’d been so sure, with this one, that she’d done enough. So hopeful… but perhaps Stone had been too bullheaded, too defiant. Just as she was about to give up she found the note on the kitchen island. Amongst the luxury appliances and marble counter tops and glittering china-ware, a scruffy, hastily written bond, on a small piece of paper—crumpled and messy and so very Stone. With a fingerprint pressed in red blood at the bottom, sealing the offer with magic.

I, Stone Machart, will leave this house tonight of my own free will.

I offer this in my place:

I will return of my own free will once a year, every year, for the rest of my life. For one month of each year Celeste can have me, and only me.

This contract will be broken if Celeste hurts another in my absence. This contract will be broken and my freedom forfeit if I do not return within twelve months.

This I swear.

Celeste smiled and warmth bloomed in her chest. Without losing any more time she added her own thumbprint of blood next to Stone’s. Finally, she’d found someone worth keeping, and she had a whole year to plan how to make the most of the month with her beloved, Precious, Stone.

@whumpthisway @lonesome--hunter @kixngiggles

#defiant whumpee #nonbinary whumpee #lady whumper #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #non human whumper #immortal whumper #april is the cruelest month #escape #escape attempt #bargaining #noncon drugging #mind control #magical whump #blood tw #blood deal #blood magic

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damienthepious · 3 years

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yeah. hope y’all didn’t forget this one entirely.

You Want To Live (When Life Is Achingly Unfair) [chapter 3]

[ch 1] [ch 2] [ao3] [ch 4]

Archive Warning: Major Character Death

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Sir Damien, Rilla, Lord Arum

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Alternate Universe - Orpheus/Eurydice/Hades, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, (though there will NOT be relief until later chapters), Death, (Death but it’s Weird when the afterlife is a place you can just Go), Singing

Summary: Damien’s beloved dies in spring. His flower dies, among flowers. This cruelty is not without beauty.

Chapter Summary: Damien descends.

Chapter Notes: it's! been a while! i'm a fickle creature. idk sometimes i think just me and two other people like this one, but i guess i'm writing for them! so!!! it's fine!!!!!

The Lord of Death remains beside Rilla, and time passes, or does not. It is all- confusing, here. Rilla suspects that the bank around her changes-

No, she figures it's more likely that she is moving along the water. She has the impression that things don't really… progress, here. It does seem as if the bend of the sluggish river moves at her back, tufts of grass and scattered spurs of flowers shifting and reorienting, but she never notices the change itself, only the new configurations. The Lord of Death waits, and does not seem bothered to do so.

They speak, when Rilla feels present enough to do so, when she pushes through the obscurity of this place, the vagueness and distraction and timeless fog. They speak, and it is both strange and natural at the same moment.

The Lord of Death has a name, apparently, and not merely a title. Here, in his own realm, he is called Arum.

Rilla doesn't think that he told her. She knows, regardless. She's less irritated by that than she should be.

"How long have you been watching me, then? If I'm supposed to be some sort of... friend to you, that is."

Arum's mouth curls, something like a smile. "I am rather too busy with my duties to devote time to watching you, but I would say that I have known you since you first began to insist upon helping in your parents' work. And I do mean insist."

Rilla laughs, and this time she's sure she isn't imagining it- the realm seems to flicker brighter as she does, like soft, silent lightning.

"Yeah, well," she rolls her eyes, amused by the image of her own small self, jaw set as she made herself too helpful for her parents to usher away. Amused as well by the idea of the Lord of Death noting the presence of her small hands, passing instruments and medicines to those who better knew how to use them, until she was big enough to take them for herself. "I'm stubborn. I've always been stubborn."

"Yes," Arum says, an edge of sadness coloring his tone. "So you were."

"Don't do that," Rilla says with a scowl, and the god blinks. "Don't give me a tense shift, I'm betrothed to a poet, I know what you're doing. I may be- dead, but I'm here, and I'm talking to you, aren't I? You can't talk about me like that while you're speaking right to me."

"Hm. Very well," Arum says, his tail slowly coiling, and Rilla never expected the Lord of Death to have such warmth in his eyes. Least of all while he looks at her. "You, Amaryllis," he says slowly, "are stubborn. Presently."

"Even as a corpse," she says with a snort, and Arum's snout wrinkles, just barely concealing his own sad smile.

The crossing into the realm of death is too dreamlike for proper memory: Damien descends, descends, the notes of his voice fluttering behind him like ribbons in the breeze, and then he stands in a small boat on the bank of a quick river, uncertain of the transition.

"Sit, seeker," the ferryman murmurs.

Horns pierce through the hood of the dark, plush cape that obscures his face, and he holds the pole to guide their vessel in long, slender, scaled hands tipped with claws- but the grief and determination and song are too large within Damien to make room for any degree of fear.

"Sit," he says again, more sternly. "Sit, singer, unless you should like to put us both in these waters."

Damien obeys, carefully settling himself opposite the ferryman.

"You cannot stop," the creature says slowly, "can you?"

Damien realizes, after a moment, that the ferryman is referring to the notes pouring from his lips. He manages something like a smile, his eyes burning, his heart aching, and then he shakes his head.

The creature picks them slowly across the waters with his pole, his eyes downcast beneath his thick hood, and Damien tries to keep his mind fixed, attentive on his goal. The fog rises over the water, over the pair of them, disorienting and strange, and it seems to muffle every edge. Damien can feel it, can feel it trying to ease the grief within him, trying to lull his sadness into silence.

The song that flows from him is a help, in this way. His sorrow rings too clear a note, dispelling the curls of gray that edge too close. Distant, distant, subtle and soft, Damien thinks he hears an echo. A resonance, like the hum of glass when it senses a sympathetic note. He does not understand it, but he feels it.

"You cannot stop," the ferryman repeats, "can you?"

An echo of Damien's sorrow rings in his voice, now, and Damien knows that he means something different , now. He shakes his head again.

"I cannot," he croons, his eyes slipping closed. "I must descend, I must cross. I must find her again. I cannot stop, I cannot turn aside, I cannot forget- without her, I am... I am only the instrument of my grief."

"You still live," the ferryman says, low and full of more emotion than Damien expects. "More than an instrument is required, to weave beauty such as yours. Skill, and love, and magic. You are not so hollow as you claim, I assure you of that."

Perhaps it is something in the magic of this place, perhaps it is the earnest warning in the ferryman's voice and the shine of tears Damien can see flashing beneath his hood, perhaps it is the fact that he is closer, now, to Rilla than he has been since her death, but-

He feels... less hollow than he had, before.

"You can stop, if you wish. You have that choice, still, within your hands. There is still time. I may still turn the boat around, to return you where you belong," the ferryman says, his voice terribly soft, and Damien's heart falls. "Defying the laws of life and death will not come without cost, regardless of the beauty of your song. What would it take," he whispers, "to cause you to leave this place with your aims unfulfilled?"

"There is no prize of such worth, no consolation to be had, no gold nor glory nor favor that could wrench my heart from hers," Damien says, and his words shift to song as they leave his tongue, woven through with magic and such deep truth that he feels it sink into his bones. "I will not return to the land of the living without her by my side."

This is true as well. Damien knows, as he speaks these words, that this is both prophecy and curse in potentia.

She will leave with him, or he will not leave at all. They will both rise to sunlight again, or neither of them will.

"You believe that she would be pleased, to know that you would toss yourself into death to find her again?"

The way Rilla's eyes would flash, the scowl on her lips, her furrowed brow, the musculature of her arms as she crosses them furiously in front of her chest-

"She will be incandescent with rage," Damien keens, and the notes of the song bounce with his almost-sob. "I shall be so, so blessed to bear her ire again at last."

The ferryman stares for a long, long moment, the waters and the fog both curling past them, and at long, long last he sighs.

"You truly have no fear of Death, then?"

Damien considers. This river is a threshold; he can feel the way it pulls him in both directions. He can feel the memory of Rilla at his back, the glow of the living world. He can feel her soul ahead of him, in the more still waters.

"My greatest fear is behind me, already come to pass," Damien sings, gentle. "Perhaps there is danger ahead, but there my only hope lives, too." Damien smiles, despite the wetness on his cheeks. "Hope lives with death, now. With her."

#elle's fanfic #the penumbra podcast #second citadel #rad bouquet #lizard kissin' tuesday #lord arum #amaryllis of exile #sir damien #mourning bouquet au #bah. bah i say..

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xx-ingie-xx · 4 years

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Forgotten 14 Excerpt (oh, and hi)

Hi everyone,

I know, I know, it’s been f-o-r-e-v-e-r. And things have really changed since my last post. I hope everyone is safe and well and working to protect themselves and others through social distancing. I’m doing all right—I’m fortunate enough to have a comfortable home, and since I live alone I’m pretty used to solitude. The worst part is being unable to visit family and friends, or enjoy spring activities after a long winter. But it’s important that we all do our part to flatten the curve—reading the news reminds me of that every day.

In my last post I mentioned that I’ve struggled to find motivation to write, and that hasn’t gone away. I’m still not nearly as productive as I’d like to be, but I have started to push myself more. Social distancing has certainly given me more time to wrestle with this, so we’ll see how it goes.

Thank you so much to those of you who have reached out to see if I’m doing okay. I haven’t been answering messages, but please know I really do appreciate your concern for me and your interest in my work. I hope my lack of activity here hasn’t worried or offended anyone.

I have managed to complete the first scene of Forgotten’s next chapter, so I thought I would post it here. There are only two chapters left, including this one (plus an epilogue). Who knows, maybe I can find my groove and finish this thing before summer.

Thanks again, and I hope you enjoy it!

---

His eyes shone in the firelight, more indigo than blue, and his face bore an unspoken longing, one mirrored in her own gaze. Time slowed as a wordless invitation passed between them, an unspoken plea to abandon caution, to defy convention…

A spray of water soaked her back, and she whipped around to meet his playful grin. Feigning offense, she approached the bank and kicked up a splash of her own, shrieking when he caught her foot and pulled her in…

Fierce, icy winds whipped about her, veiling the dark pines in swirling gusts of white. Again and again she called to him, too focused, too terrified to heed her numbing toes and aching lungs…

He turned from the window, his bruised face shifting from annoyance to absolute shock at the sight of her. Raindrops streaked the glass behind him, obscuring his view of the mourners below…

She left the temple with heavy steps, her face a somber mask beneath the circlet which newly adorned her head. He waited at the base of the stairs, as close as the priests had allowed, beaming with pride as he moved to embrace her…

He lay on a black altar in a shadowy chamber, chained down by heavy, rusted manacles. His hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat and blood, and his dirtied face twisted in pain as he labored for breath—

Zelda woke with a start.

The images retreated, scattering like dust on the wind. Only fragments remained, all of them dim and distorted. The emotion was gone, the significance lost.

Slowly she sat up, blinking as a tear slid down her cheek. She brushed it away in a daze, taking slow, deep breaths as she waited for the sensation to pass. The fog soon began to clear, allowing her most recent memories to surface...

Link.

“Oh, thank the Sisters…"

Zelda looked up to see Impa rush to her bedside. Gently she felt Zelda’s forehead, her face drawn with motherly concern.

"How are you feeling?" she murmured. "Any pain?"

"No… I'm all right."

She did have a rather nasty headache, but she barely noticed it. It was nothing compared to the deep sense of loss she felt inside, as though some part of her had been pried loose and torn out.

“Where is Link?" she asked, meeting her guardian’s unwavering gaze.

Impa sighed. “He isn't here. He’ll be away for several days, I'm afraid."

“Away?" Zelda breathed. "To where?"

"He didn't say. He was… beside himself."

Zelda stared at her, slowly piecing together the gravity of the situation. Guilt churned in her stomach as she remembered her confrontation with Link.

"This is all my fault,” she whispered.

"Ne'lear, no," Impa soothed. "It was inevitable. This is something he must face alone, in his own way."

Zelda shook her head and threw the covers aside. “No, I can't leave it like this. I must go to him."

Impa caught her elbow to stop her. "You're not going anywhere until Maddox has examined you."

"I don't need an examination, Impa. He didn't hurt me. He would never…"

That, she realized, was the strongest revelation she had gained from her exposure to the bond: the truth of his love for her—or rather for his Zelda. It was tender and fierce and pure… Her recollection was vague and dreamlike, but she ached to feel it again—to receive such love and return it, without the burden of uncertainty or regret…

"You were out cold when Link brought you to me, and he was beyond shaken. You will not leave this bed until I understand what happened between you two."

Zelda glanced down at her hands, saddened by the thought of him in such a state. Gently Impa lifted her chin, her face reflecting Zelda’s sorrow.

“I want to help him too,” she murmured. “I want to help both of you. Watching you struggle through this… it hasn’t been easy for me either. Please... tell me what happened.”

Again Zelda hesitated, wondering how she could possibly find the words.

"We… connected. Our minds were… joined somehow…”

Impa’s expression did not change. "Can you describe it?”

Zelda closed her eyes and focused on the memory, trying to extract more detail.

She remembered feeling lighter, as though some unknown burden had fallen away. Another presence caressed her own, warm and hauntingly familiar. She had rushed toward its source, sighing with elation as their spirits joined together…

But the pleasure vanished as soon as it came, smothered in a flood of anguish and disjointed memories. It was a consequence she had failed to consider, and one he had dismissed. With the bond, there were no defenses, no separation.

Only truth.

"It was so brief,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “But… in those few moments, I knew him. I knew everything, felt everything, as though I were him—or a part of him. I can’t remember much of it, but I know it was incredible and painful and… just so much all at once…"

“Too much,” Impa murmured. “I did not expect him to go this far. He’s shown such control until now."

“No, Impa, I asked him to do it—I practically begged him. Don’t blame him for this, please."

And I kissed him, she recalled, her heart quickening. And he kissed me back…

It was something she had been waiting for, even yearned for, since her return from Zora’s Domain. Yet it seemed so small in retrospect, eclipsed by her experience with the bond, ruined by the pain she never meant to cause.

That kiss wasn’t for me, she realized with a pang of disappointment. I should have known better. He was tired… and vulnerable.

“You were not ready for that exchange, Zelda. Telepathy alone is still very new for you, but this…” Impa glanced toward the window, breathing a weary sigh. "He regrets it, that much is certain."

Zelda looked up, startled from her thoughts. "But I don’t want him to regret it… He’s miserable as it is, and I…"

Her heart sank as she remembered the more intense emotions she had felt in the bond. His emotions. Some had been directed at her—feelings like frustration and disappointment. But the darker feelings, like shame and loathing, he held entirely for himself.

He carries them every day, along with all his uncertainties, all his responsibilities…

“I’ve only made things worse," Zelda said bitterly. "I didn’t understand; I—I thought I could help him move on. At least, that’s what I told myself. But now…"

"How could you understand?" Impa soothed. "No one can truly understand another's grief, even with all their memories intact."

"But I've been pushing him… You asked me to consider his happiness when I made my choice, and I… I can’t say I’ve done that. I’ve had so many dreams, Impa. I’ve seen things, felt things I can’t explain, things I know I should ask him about. But those things scare me, and I… I wanted him to accept me, as I am now…"

Her face burned as she gave her confession, but Impa’s gentle gaze held no judgment.

"Even now," Zelda added, her voice thick with sorrow. "Nothing has changed for me. The thought of… yielding to her and vanishing into obscurity… it still frightens me. You said it's irrational, and maybe it is. Link thinks me selfish, and maybe I am. Maybe I have been blind and stupid in letting my ridiculous feelings guide me…"

She buried her face in her hands, unable to hold back her tears. Impa held her close, shushing her gently, comforting her like she had when Zelda was a child.

“You have the right to choose your own path,” she murmured. “We will love you just the same. Even Link will make peace with it… in time."

Zelda sniffled, too overcome to speak.

But why? A small voice spoke in her head. Why put your fears above the needs of those who love you?

With that thought, Zelda felt something deep within her click into place. Her tears slowed as her emotions calmed, giving way to a single, clarifying thought.

Why give into fear?

Slowly she lifted her head from Impa’s shoulder, blinking as she processed her newfound clarity.

"...You may be right," she murmured. "Maybe I could stay like this. Maybe it would turn out all right in the end.”

Zelda paused to wipe the tears from her face, her expression solemn when she met Impa’s gaze.

“But there would be damage. To you, to Link, to anyone who’s ever cared about me. You will all remember the person I was, and you would wonder what might have been, had I chosen differently. That sadness would never leave you. Even I might come to regret my decision, when it’s too late to change it…”

Determination swelled in her heart, and her voice grew stronger as she sat up straighter.

“All this time, since I woke without my memories, I've been ruled by fear. I did not feel seen, and I wanted control over my life. I can’t control my past, so I rejected it.”

Zelda sighed, feeling another stab of shame. "...But that was an illusion. And I didn’t understand how much pain it caused. Not truly. What I felt last night, in the bond… I’ve never known that kind of pain.”

“You have,” Impa said gently. "And your experiences are imprinted on your soul, whether you remember them or not. They will stay with you, one way or another."

Zelda fell silent, considering her words. “But, without my memories,” she said slowly, “none of that would matter, not to me. Those experiences might as well belong to someone else.”

Impa studied her with concern but offered no reply.

“I can’t be afraid anymore,” Zelda said. “I need to believe that embracing my past is the answer, even for me. I have to trust in you, in Link, and in the person I was… even if it scares me.”

A rare emotion crossed Impa’s face, and she drew Zelda into a tighter embrace.

“My brave girl,” she whispered.

“I used to be,” Zelda said, pulling away with a weak smile. “I’d like to think that much hasn't changed.”

Impa shook her head. “It’s ingrained too deep, ne'lear. But all of this can wait. You should rest and reflect on your decision, on all that's happened. Meditate on it."

"Meditation won’t help me. I was joined to the bond for only a moment, and I gained more clarity than I have from weeks of meditation."

Impa looked skeptical. "Those were Link’s memories, Zelda… Link’s feelings. You need to explore your own."

"But there has to be some way he can guide me. The bond is powerful magic… I can’t achieve that on my own.”

"Link has yet to master his telepathic abilities. Everything he knows, he learned from you. Using the bond might not be the best approach, for either of you."

Zelda gave a resigned shrug. "I won’t rest until I try.”

Impa sighed. “I don’t suppose you plan to wait until he returns.”

“Not if I can help it. I assume he took the Ocarina... Is there no way to reach him?”

“I’m sure we can track him down… but we’ll need a little help.”

#Zelda #Forgotten #Fortitude #excerpt

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b-kitsune · 5 years

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Many ways to say I love you: Day Six.

Kidge-a-palooza 2019 Prompt: Haunting. Pairing: Kidge (VLD) Universe: Victorian AU. Status: Part 1/4.

Katie heard a shot at a prudent distance that made her jump from her own steed with surprise when she chased her brother down the winding roads of the forest. She heard the birds lift the flight to the opposite direction from where the loud sounds came, making her hum irritably.

Matthew, her beloved older brother who was leading her to the provisional camp for that afternoon, approached her as soon as he realized she wasn't following his step, worried that something might have happened along the way.

''Pidge, is everything okay?'' Katie hummed again much more irritated at the mention of that ridiculous nickname that Matt had given her since her most tender years. Starting again the gallop of her faithful companion.

''I would greatly appreciate it that you don't call me like this in front of our father's guests today.'' She answered, trying to ignore a new shot that was heard much closer than the first time, making their own horses nervous. Matt simply smiled at her words when he pulled the rope to control his partner. ''Did they have to be so terribly wild with those shotguns?''

''Well, that's the idea, my dear and illusioned sister.'' Matt said with sympathy. ''Besides, even Bae Bae is enjoying today accompanying our father and his friends in the hunt. Wouldn't it be simpler for you to try to do the same, instead of grumbling like a dejected child all day?''

''No. It wouldn't be.'' Katie accelerated the pace after the latter, demonstrating her renegade posture towards her brother. Matt just sighed with regret.

''Well, then it will be a long day.''

Katie preferred to ignore her brother before throwing another scathing comment when she made her way to the supposed camp that she hoped was ready when she arrived. The undergrowth was surrounding the earth as it moved, giving it a dreamlike image through which it passed, the resounding of the birds became prominent along with the buzzing of insects around it, and thanks to the sun that heated that day with efficiency, she doesn't need to wear a second layer of clothes over her favorite dress to spend that afternoon.

The more time passed, every second, Katie was convinced that from the depths of her heart she hated nature. She found it haunting to think that many people enjoyed the outdoors.

When she arrived, she kindly thanked Commander Iverson for getting off her horse and walking towards the assembled people who settled in the valley. Iverson was a strict person most of the time and they battled countless times in her younger days, now she had a deep respect and esteem from him. Approaching one of the awnings that had been installed for the shadow, Katie could see Allura being bombarded by the affections of a charismatic young man who did his best to get her attention. Shiro had mentioned his name sometime last night, when he arrived at her home after a long business trip, alluding that he was one of the army cadets who were in the same grade as Keith, and would accompany them to the hunt this season. But she had forgotten his name so quickly when Katie heard from her beloved that he was an insufferable being.

By the face of her dearest friend, Katie could well give credit to his words, the boy didn't give up at any time, even when Allura was clearly indifferent.

''Katie my life, it's good you arrived.'' She heard her father came from her back with his horse at his side, apparently preparing for the hunt. ''We thought that something had happened to you before leaving the mansion.''

''Sorry father, I entertained myself thinking about the multiple tasks that I could have done this afternoon, instead of being in the middle of the forest.'' Another shot was heard in the distance, making Katie slightly trembled eyelid. ''And with the unbearable noise of your weapons.''

''Don't say that, my love. The outdoors makes you good from time to time, you can't be in your Father's lab all your life.''

''Is that a challenge?''

A gentle laugh caused Katie to divert her attention to his well-known owner, seeing when Keith approached them with a calm demeanor, dressed appropriately for the occasion, and also carried a shotgun resting on the side of his shoulder, and a wolf his around who watched her with curiosity. Katie took a step back, fearful; she had never seen a beast of that size at such close range, vaguely remembering that Keith had named him at some point in their personal meetings, that his family had trained those animals for hunting, and they had been faithful partners for many generations. But she feigned calmness as best she could, what she least wanted was to look like a coward in front of the man who courted her and her family's friends.

''From what I've heard, you don't seem to be very interested in the sport of hunting.'' Katie stood disdainfully crossing her arms over her chest, trying to ignore that wolf was approaching her.

''Certainly, that intelligent on your part to have realized.'' She answered sardonically, making her father call her attention.

''That's no way to respond like a lady, Katie.''

''It's okay, Mr. Holt. I have already become familiar with the 'sense of humor ' of the young lady here present.''

Katie smiled when Keith took one of her hands to bring it to his lips, a clear recognition of adoration to her person, and the expected courtesy of a man of his category, without losing eye contact on her at any time. Among all the suitors Katie had had since she came of age, Keith was definitely her favorite.

''You see father, Mr. Kogane understands my words.''

''Oh totally, but your father is right that it would be pertinent that you were a little more cautious, not everyone could be familiar with you... Charms.''

''Don't worry about that, my stay in this place will not take more than a couple of hours.'' She answered modestly, and something calmer as soon as the wolf approached Iverson with interest. Keith looked at her disillusioned.

''Don't you stay for dinner, dear? It is likely that this year's hunting will be quite charitable.'' Her father said with concern. ''Also, I don't think it's safe to come back on your own.''

''I will not go back home, Father, Allura has invited me to spend a couple of days in the Altea mansion, and it's a couple of hours away from here.''

''Miss Allura, who is being stalked by a dear armament partner, is likely to stay until dinner.'' Keith replied funny when he saw Lance finally get a couple of laughs at the girl mentioned.

''Seriously? She hasn't told me anything. What could have made her change her mind?'' Katie looked at him questioningly, Keith just shrugged.

''She hasn't done it yet, but it is the safest thing she will tell you before noon, my friend is very persuasive when he proposes it.''

''I attest to that.'' Samuel said a little compassionately. ''It looks like you'll have to stay for the whole evening, dear.''

''Wow, what a waste of a day.''

She said no more, completely dejected when she realized that she couldn't escape her own luck when Katie walked with them to the hunting area while all the horses were ready. Keith, however, was satisfied, alluding that it made him genuinely happy to know that he could be with her company all day, which made her blush a little.

Although it had been two seasons since she met Keith Kogane, she was still ashamed of the words of her beloved.

Katie knew at least half of the individuals who were preparing for the hunt that day, many of her father's workmates whom she had already seen at parties and real events, and junior cadets who were invited by the generals and lieutenants, to forge the camaraderie between companions, a fairly common use to diminish the conflicts between them, besides being used as an approach for the courtship of the daughters of the generals. Since the majority who entered the army were children of bourgeois and nobles.

Something like what had happened to Katie when Shiro started taking Keith to her family dinners. With the sole intention that both forged a friendship that would lead to a possible commitment.

And like everything Shiro did, it had turned out the wrong way. Since both were negatively enhanced. Although both had diminished their adolescent stubbornness for many years, they still had a fearful character and tended to complement each other dangerously when they had common goals.

Her brother had said that at least they worked efficiently together, and supported each other in an impressive way.

''Tell me the truth, Mr. McClain really has a chance to get the attention of my dear friend?'' Katie questioned when the horses advanced towards a possible deer seen in the distance. Keith snorted sardonically at the thought when he saw his wolf at his side.

''Not at all, Lance has no tact or courtesy, even coming from a noble family. It will end by filling it up before lunch.''

''What a liar Mr. Kogane is, you have tricked me into using my company!'' Katie pretended to be hurt, placing a hand on her chest. ''And using your best friend as bait!''

''Someone had to sacrifice.'' Keith replied proudly. ''Besides, it would have been a shame if you retired so early. Knowing how happy you make me spend time by your side.''

Katie smiled shyly at his words, calling him cretin gently when she moved toward her father. They approached with pause towards a group that had stopped to recharge the shotguns. There, Katie took advantage of getting off her horse to stretch her legs a little, burying the heel of her boots on the flimsy earth.

''Your daughter has followed the step without details, Samuel. I am impressed by her abilities riding a horse so big despite her ... Altitude.'' Samuel laughed nervously, thinking that her daughter preferred to keep silence to the mention of her stature.

''I appreciate it, Colonel. is my great pride with her brother Matt.''

''And where is your oldest son? I thought you would join us in hunting for this day.'' Iverson asked, noting that Matt wasn't around.

''He preferred to accompany Lieutenant Shirogane in the meadow, it's not ... Very close to this sport. None of my children, really. Katie is here because staying under an awning is not exactly her favorite pastime.''

''Don't you enjoy hunting, Miss Holt?'' Katie only shrugged when a lieutenant caught her attention, disinterested.

''If you allow me to say it, it seems to be an act of the most barbaric, sir.''

''That's because women don't understand about male assets.'' A third voice resounded in the environment, attracting the attention of more than one person due to its haughty tone. ''With all due respect, Mr. Holt. Don't you think it would be better if your daughter were limited to comment on interests that concern her?''

''And what are those interests, according to you, Mr. Griffin?''

It didn't go unnoticed by anyone that Katie almost spat the name of her lips. James Griffin was the assistant of scientific advance in the work of her father, and one of the best riders of the last promotion in the Garrison Navy, after Keith. She had spoken to him on more than one occasion thanks to the parties that the navy gave occasionally, without much interest in their conversations. And he had tried to woo her the first few months.

Katie had rejected him for his haughty attitude about his companions, and little interest in her personal opinions. Shortly after she accepted Keith Kogane's courtship, resentment resurfaced in Griffin's heart, which always came to light when she spoke openly on some subject.

But before Griffin could answer Katie's question, the barking of the wolf made his horse frighten, losing control of the reins and falling flat on his face before he realized it. Many people worried, others simply limited their laughter to their clumsiness.

''It seems that Mr. Griffin should limit himself to holding his reins well, before giving his opinion on matters that don't concern him.'' Keith's voice echoed through the crowd, generating James's anger when he got up, with one arm resentful of the fall.

''Defending the honor of a spoiled girl will not increase your courage, Kogane!''

''I don't need to defend the honor of anyone, Pidge can do it by herself without needing a savior.''

''That so true? When it is well known that Miss Holt barely manages to master her own haughtiness.'' Questioned superb, Keith growled annoyed by his imprudence.

''Of course, her honesty is unblemished. That's why she rejected you immediately when you presented your affections, Mr. Griffin.''

The awkward silence reigned for a few seconds before Keith's biting comment, but Samuel took the opportunity to stop them and order a couple of cadets to help Griffin with his right arm. Katie just caressed the back of her new friend, thanking it for his quick help at the right time. The wolf didn't generate fear when she saw him so obedient. Griffin only limited himself to heading towards his horse to reach the camp, finding himself unable to continue the hunt. There was no need for any response.

Soon everyone started moving again, avoiding commenting on the recent situation. Or it was well known that Lieutenant Holt's anger would be taken away.

Katie approached Keith when he got off the horse, staying behind the group that was heading to a next dam, much calmer than seconds ago while caressing the fur of his beloved fella.

''You didn't have to confront Griffin, Keith. Now everyone will think that you must defend my own value before others.''

''I didn't do it, he did it.'' He answered innocently while caressing the back of the ear of his pet. Katie smiled gratefully, ignoring the fact that Keith openly called her by her family nickname in front of the others. She had no reason to bother at that moment. ''Besides, there's nothing wrong with that, Katie.'' He took her face with his hands to kiss the outline of her petite nose, as a sincere gesture. ''You can always defend mine when I commit some imprudence.'' Katie kissed his lips sweetly when Keith took the reins of his horse.

''Whenever you want, dear.''

#peith #kidge #kidgefanfic #monthofkidge #kidgeapalooza #kidgeapalooza2019 #keith #keith kogane #keith (voltron)#katieholt #Pidge #pidge gunderson #voltron #voltronship #victorian au #lance mcclain #allura #maybe a shatt too?

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icarus-imagines · 5 years

Text

FallenAngel!Tokiya Ichinose X Male!Hunter!Reader

Word Count: 3,300

Category: Uta No Prince-Sama

~Come With Me~

-“The world of demons, Fallen Angels, is very real - a fact we need to know. We have to face up to this terrible reality so that we do not fall unsuspectingly into their hands and come under their tyranny.”-

A near depressing mixture of inferiority and insecurity latches itself onto your being as he stared down at you. His entire body was enraptured to the brim with immense power and overflowing dominance that made your own, much more vulnerable body, involuntarily shiver. Whether it was from the unexpected thrill of the first meeting with this being or the dark fear, you didn't quite know.

Standing with a background that consisted of the grand churches ridiculously tall windows made him look otherworldly. Windows of which were previously stained, hard work of the builders of long ago. Meticulous detail was brought forth in the stained window that depicted an angel praying.

The angel's face was gorgeous, the exact image one would imagine such a pure being to have. Hair of golden tresses, garments of creamy texture, and huge wings of blinding white. Their golden halo emitted golden rays to drown all over their body.

What made this all so surreal, all so dreamlike, was the sunset. It's sunny rays shot and pierced through the glass, bathing everything the full spectrum of colors allowed to be seen by the naked eye. Pouring through it made the one before you create himself an imaginary halo conjured of rainbows. Like a waterfall, the light fell through his shiny midnight dark blue hair, past his strongly evocative neck, and finally upon his clean-cut raven stained tux.

Looking at him so openly in such an intense way felicitated an odd and very unfamiliar feeling in your body. In the back of your mind, you felt a slight tug to your consciousness and you know you were becoming week. Just this one single look at him was making you pure jelly upon the floor. You could feel the heat rising to the top of your skin, highly likely from the new-formed embarrassment of the whole situation.

Your determined and guarded orbs fixated themselves on his broad shoulders for a second, finding them to be perplexed at what looked like fur on the collar of the black suit. A fleeting thought entered your mind that it might be the real fur of a wild animal originating from some exotic country. You didn't know whether to think of it as him being dashing or cruel for wearing such a garment.

With a pristine tie the color of fresh violet flowers in the summer, you would have called the male a gentleman, but you knew better than to do such a thing. This man was no human or man that deserved such fleeting compliments. Along with the fact you had never encountered such a ridiculously foul beast. He was a monster, yes a monster, that plagued the land of the beautiful Earth. One who tainted its glorious riches and purity with his very presence.

He is a demon.

A foul beast.

A monster of unpure origin that needed to be exterminated at all costs.

His perfectly shaped eyebrow arched up in an obvious spike of interest at your relentless, open stare. Seductive lips turning quickly into a devilishly evil smirk, he let himself be the first to speak.

"Finally, one of you has come to visit me," he drawled, mouth forming every word with perfect diction. But his next sentence made a chill run down your spine: "I've been waiting."

Your reply was given with much more venom than his own, "Enough of your petty words, you know why I have come." You keep your words short and curt, wanting this encounter to be over with. He was your first mission and you just wanted quick success and nothing else

The laugh that bellowed out of his mouth made you take a stuttering step back, but you stayed firm on the velvet carpets of the church. Hand reaching out to grasp the first pew near you, you tightened your hand on the smooth wood. He seemed to be mocking you, laughing at your obvious display of defiance and naive nature. For some reason, embarrassment was, yet again, blooming in your chest at his carefree laughter of the situation.

Unblemished skin crinkling at the outer edges of his eyes, you instantly could tell he was enjoying himself. He was outwardly reveling in your words like you were a child trying to be a rebel for the first time towards their strict parent.

They were the opposite of the angel behind him. He was beautiful, yes. A wonderful spectacle to behold, but none the less, he was evil.

His display of bubbly laughter made your hands, once slack at your sides, clench into balled fists. You could vaguely feel crescent shapes from your fingernails digging into your skin, but you were more concerned with the blatant anger beginning to brew under the service of your facade.

"W-why are you laughing!?" You yell through gritting teeth, whilst you curse internally at stuttering.

His laughter dies down a bit, but when speaking to you it comes in short bursts still. "I was waiting for someone more...how do I explain it? Different? Yes, simply different. You're not at all what I had imagined would come to slay me," he explains.

His right hands turn up to grab onto his chin in a sign of thought, his left coming to rest under the right's elbow. In this change of pose, you had to rip your eyes away from his hand that had grabbed your attention. It had made you look once again to his visage, that of which had the forbidden thrall like that of an incubus. Was it possible he was that type of creature?

"Just because I'm younger than my predecessors means nothing," You say with courage and pride for those that had trained you in their sacred ways. "I can kill you all the same."

"Oh no," he breathed out. "Do not think I was underestimating you. If you are truly one of their successors you must be more than powerful enough to take, someone like me, on. Though...," he drawled, "you still are different. You didn't attack me the first time you sensed me. Why is that?"

Embarrassment crawled it's way back to you at his question, realizing that is exactly what you had done. It would have been the sensible thing to do to attack and ask questions later. But you didn't. Why was that?

"I mistook you for an angel," you admitted shamefully, hands releasing their tension to dangle aimlessly once again. You could feel the dagger on your belt, the one that you would use to stab him through the heart, but thought against using it for the moment.

He was talking to you. A demon was talking to you. You had learned they were savage creatures with no intellect whatsoever other than to eat and kill. But this one before you. He was the exact opposite of what you had initially thought you would meet.

A man of this poise could not be a demon. How could he be? Dressed so immaculately, speech articulate gestures precise and delicate in their destination. Everything that had been engraved into your brain from before you could even walk was quickly flying straight out the window.

Something felt wrong.

But you could not pinpoint exactly why.

A chuckle came from within his throat again and the embarrassment came back in full force. Taking your hand away from the pew you held you instead clapped your hands together in a gesture full of nervousness. The situation was quickly diminishing from spiky hostility to something akin that of lives trying to come to terms with each other.

His chuckle subsided a bit as he started to speak. That sharpened nail against his lips when he spoke was not making the embarrassment you felt any better though.

"An angel? I must take that as a compliment for no one has called me such an angelic being in quite some time," he said softly. His gaze lowered a bit and staring at those dull grey eyes if his, you almost thought you caught a glimpse of regret. Or was it sadness? Whatever it was made him look older. Ancient and weary of living so long.

"I guess not, you are a demon after all," you said. For some reason, the atmosphere was calming. It felt oddly nice. The hostility that had once reeked in the air was gone. Maybe it was because you were the one that had brought it in?

Just then he looked up and you froze seeing his expression. Eyebrows furrowed together and jaw set tight, you felt the once calming atmosphere momentarily spike with negative emotion. His dull eyes sparked sharply with something you couldn't identify and this scared you.

"A demon?" he asked, voice edging on something dangerous. "Is that what they told you I was? A pathetic demon?"

"A-are you not a demon?" you asked quickly, trying to defend yourself and your actions. Even so, you felt a stab in your gut. If he was telling the truth it would mean those above you had lied to you. "They told me you were. I do not question their orders."

It was more like you can't question their orders.

"Me? One of those disgusting things? Far from it," he scoffed. You could feel the offense he took to the assumption personally, this you could tell.

"What are you then?"

At this question he let his arms fall to his sides. It was not that that had you frightened but the fact he was coming forward. Walking towards you. If you had been a sane person would have run out of there, but sadly you were not. You stayed and let him come to you.

Once he was within feet from you did you finally realize you had held your breath involuntarily. Quietly letting the shaky breath out you peered up at him, now did you only notice once again, that he was much taller than you.

You it was too late before you registered that the room had dimmed. But it was not because the sun has set, but it was because something was blocking the rays to enter any further. It was when your (E/c) eyes trailed upwards did you see the reason as to why.

Wings.

They were pitch black and it's size made you quiver. If the angel's wings on the stained window were huge then these in comparison were gigantic. They were spread wide and from your view, they looked godly. The orange, red, and yellow palette colors of the sunset slithered their way through the ends of the feathers and shined in slits upon you.

"But...," you tried to wrack your mind for reasoning away from confusion, "you told me you were not an angel, yet..."

"Fallen," he punctuated firmly. "I am a fallen angel."

"Fallen," you murmured, letting yourself think of this new information. Wishing to rid your mind of the embarrassment clinging to your skin at the closeness, you relied on your naive nature to save you by asking a question. "Why did you fall? Or how, if you prefer."

He chuckled at your innocent question but allowed to indulge himself in it. Nobody had ever asked him why he had done it. It felt new and nice for someone to lend their ear and attention to him.

"I wasn't always like this, personality wise. I had another name too, Hayato," he started.

His eyes were a bit far away even though he was looking directly at you and this pushed you to ask him about who he was before. "Hayato," you said, catching the way his eyes lost their glossy shade and looked at you fully. It was almost as if he was staring into you. "What were you, or rather he, like?"

"I hate to admit it, but quite eccentric. Like a pop idol in a sense in the way he would talk, the way he would act," he confessed and you thought you saw a small blush. "It irks me to think about it really."

"Then why the sudden change?"

"I evolved, in a sense. I learned that what I was taught was not what was true. The world was not a place of just beautiful and wonderful blessings. The world can also be cold. Callous and downright self-destructive," he told you, eyes darkening just a bit. "I rebelled and like a switch, in my brain, something clicked. I was never the same. I had changed and this is who I have become. I like this part of me, much better."

You nodded, spirit-lifting a bit at seeing a smirk ride onto his lips. His cocky nature was relaxing and left you at ease.

"We may be alike then...," you sighed out, voice cracking a bit. "Coming here I have come to the realization that I have been lied to. They used my trust for them against me. They betrayed my blind faith in them and have become my own demise."

The man once called Hayato looked down at you and you see a flash of an epiphany.

"They sent you here to be killed by me," He says simply and you nod.

"I cannot go back, but I have nowhere to go..."

He glances to the side for just a second before offering a hand towards you. You stare at in pure confusion before raising your gaze to his face. Those dark murky eyes stare into your soul and you have to plant roots from your feet to dig into the velvet red carpet below you both to stay steady.

He notices your confusion easily and vocalizes his reason.

"Come with me."

"Come with you?" you ask. "Where?"

"Any place you see fit. Any place away from those who wish to hunt you down. You don't want to actually stay and wait for them to find you, do you?" he chuckles.

You sigh, a smile adorning your face as your place your (S/c) hand into his own pale on. "No, that would be stupid of me."

"Excellent choice," he rejoices, the slightly sharper than normal teeth in his mouth looking less threatening when he smiles. "Now where do you wish to go?"

It all seems to be going too fast and you feel as if you are in a surreal dream as of current. But even so, you embrace it and obediently follow his lead.

"(C/n)?" you ask a bit unsure. You had always wanted to go to that country, and you felt your predecessors would never search there.

The smile he offers you with that shining glint in his eyes makes your heart flutter and palpitate at a faster rate. God, were you falling for him?

"Your wish is my command," he states, squeezing your hand in a reassuring manner. He begins to raise his wings, but you stop him.

"Wait-" you say, taking a step forward. Closer to him, closer to this being you should have never affiliated yourself with. Yet you are. Climbing into the abyss which is sinking deeper and deeper the more you converse with him. "Why are you doing this? I was sent to kill you. I'm still technically just a boy. Yet you are whisking me away with you... Why are you taking this risk?"

His right hand, his free one, comes up to cup the side of your face. It is oh so gentle in its hold and you have to suppress a shiver when you feel those black sharpened claws drive themselves to tangle into your (H/c) locks.

He hums a bit before answering: "I like you."

It is simple and quite vague, but either way, it makes the blood in your veins grow hot. This former angel openly told you that he likes you. If this was a dream you would surely feel disappointment.

Before you can ask him to elaborate more on what he really means you are swept into a lip lock. His are warm and inviting, enticing a shiver to wrack through the nerves in your spine. It leaves you tingly and wanting more, but he leaves just as soon as he came and you almost feel a whine beginning on your lips but you swallow it down.

You feel it is wrong to kiss him. He's a male and so are you. Yet you can't help but think that this feels so right. Damn the ones who had taken care of you to just send you to your inevitable death.

"No more words," he says, bringing you out of your daze. "Now...," he brings you close to him in an embrace that leaves you warm. Peeking slightly over his shoulder you see those gigantic wings stretching and rising. Warm breath wafting over your ear whilst he whispers against it you accept that this is a much better option than killing demons

"Come with me."

~*~*~*~

~Extra Ending~

~A Year Or So Later~

Free.

You were free.

It had been quite some time since you had become a runaway with your fallen lover and you had grown immensely since then. You had lost your naive nature and your eyes were opened the more time you had spent with him.

You learned what you felt for him was not wrong. It was natural. Those who had repressed your urges when you were younger were the ones who were wrong. Their methods, their teachings, their whole way of life was what was wrong.

You had learned that and even though you still felt sadness tugging at your subconscious you knew they didn't deserve it. They didn't deserve to see how distraught you were after learning everything your life had been was some big lie.

Choosing to come with him, this angelic man, was the one thing you felt you had done right. The one thing that would always feel as if it would fit. The perfect puzzle piece in a picture of distorted imagery.

For once...

Life felt right.

You swiveled your head to gaze at him in his glory. Pressed tight to his side with his wing cast ever you in a sort of, umbrella-like protection, you felt at ease.

You had also learned his name. Every time you spoke it, you felt a swift tug at your heartstrings.

"Tokiya," you whispered.

He turned to you and you took a second to gaze into those bright eyes of his. They reflected the cities lights and made it look as if he held the galaxies within them.

"Where to next?"

He hummed before placing a kiss on your temple. "What about (C/n)? This time of year is supposed to be the most lovely."

You nodded instantly imagining what it must look like. All you could come up with was something akin to being simply beautiful.

"Yes, that is perfect."

The smile on your face made him reflect it on his own.

"Then, come with me, (Y/n)."

In a single breath, you both took flight.

Off to places where your past could never reach you.

#x reader #oneshot #imagine #drabble #anime #utapri #utanoprincesama #uta no prince sama #tokiya ichinose #utapri tokiya ichinose #tokiya ichinose x reader #male reader #gay reader #hunter reader #fallen angel tokiya ichinose #au #starish #tokiya ichinose x male reader

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okimargarvez · 5 years

Text

FEW HOURS IN LUKE ALVEZ’S MIND - 1

Original title: Few hours in Luke Alvez’s mind.

Prompt: Luke’ POV, memory of war.

Warning: quote of 12x1.

Genre: comedy, family, angst, friendship.

Characters: Luke Alvez, Penelope Garcia, BAU team.

Pairing: Garvez.

Note: oneshot.

Legend: 🔦🐶.

Song mentioned: none.

Few hours in Luke Alvez’s mind- Masterlist

GARVEZ STORIES

Part 1-

I spend the whole evening thinking about what Rossi has told me. I was happy to receive that call. Being among the first to know that Daniel Cullen, aka the Crimson King, had participated in the great escape, was very positive. From that cursed day I couldn't take the image out of my head of that monster while was quartering my partner, and, what I never say when I tell the story of his capture, even my best friend. It's something that will haunt me for a lifetime. And of bad things, with the work I do, it's not that I have no way of seeing them.

Is not even to be discussed if I'll collaborate with the BAU, the answer is obviously yes. I want to capture Cullen as much as, but what I’m saying, far more than them. The only thing that kept me going in this period was knowing him right behind bars. But I don't want to definitively join the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I'm not a profiler. I don't see myself trying to penetrate the perverse minds of people like Cullen, or worse. And what I do now, I like it. I can't say I adore it, no, but I feel good and in the end, it's not that you can always expect the best.

Roxy enters the room, in all her splendor. As usual, she manages to make me stop thinking about work and tear me a smile. -Come here.- I say, making a sign her to sit on the couch next to me. And she does it, in a rather stormy way. A pillow falls on her head. I stroke her, and she reciprocates me with a kiss.

-What do you say, let's go to bed?- she seems to nod and so we get up, heading towards the bedroom, one next to the other. Another of the things for which I didn't completely lose my mind is her. She stayed near me, during this period. I love her more than my life.

I don't think I will be able to rest seriously, but I must at least try. Tomorrow will be a long day. Wake up early and go to Washington. Roxy certainly will not like the idea of moving. She adores the landscapes of this area, the long tree-lined avenues, the fragrant bushes. But at least until Daniel Cullen goes back where he has to stay permanently (on the other side of the bars), I'll have to go to Quantico very often, so I think it's better that we have a place to stay, so we don't have to come back and forth. And surely, I couldn't leave her here alone, I miss her terribly.

The alarm rings while I'm finishing to get dress. I anticipated it for a full fifteen minutes. As I had imagined, I could hardly close my eyes. I've traveled through several mini dreams, I don't even know if I can define them, I don't remember most of them, but I seem to remember the atmosphere, dark, absurd, properly dreamlike. Some of those were vaguely related about a sort of interview to be hired as a profiler, although it isn't something I want, in reality. Some people all the same, both as clothes and as a physical appearance, indistinguishable between men and women, they asked me quickfire questions, not even I was under questioning or they were making me the test of polygraph. And my answers were always wrong or inaccurate. Only the fact of returning to the real world, panting, sweating and with an extra weight on my heart, convinced me that I had slept at least one or two hours altogether.

Fortunately, the plane lands without a minute's delay, ignoring the fact that, predicting the worst, I booked to get to Quantico an hour earlier. Here I am in front of the headquarters of the Bureau: immense, very high, reminds me of certain buildings filmed in the poetic documentaries of the avant-garde (the influence of my brother is felt). It certainly helps to instill in those who are about to enter, a certain sense of authority and smallness by contrast. But I'm only here as a collaborator, what tormented me is just a dream and it doesn't come close to reality.

As soon as I set foot inside, I am shocked by the number of stairs that branch out in every direction and the counters with beautiful secretaries, apparently available. But I don't need to ask for any information, Rossi has already told me what I needed to know. And so, I take the elevator (normally I wouldn't do it, but I don't want to get sweaty right the day I get to know the other members of the unit, with whom I'll have to spend some time anyway...). I arrive in a flash, too quickly, and I'm immediately punished for this lazy choice: my head is now turning, and a certain sense of nausea is rising... Reminder for the future: don't take the elevator any more.

I risk of bumping into a blonde woman, busy carrying a lot of cards. It'll be my gaze, which despite my efforts is still disoriented, or it'll be her precarious position, the fact is that she raises her eyes to mine a moment before our bodies are likely to collide and this is enough to recognize me as the newcomer, the exterior.

-Hey, you are Luke Alvez, the man of the task force?- her voice isn't exactly as I guessed, it's decided and transmits a great determination. Apparently, she looks like a pretty, sweet woman, but I think she'll reserve more surprises. I nod.

-Exactly, I must have right a lost air, for being caught on the first shot...- I throw one of my friendly smiles. She gives me her right hand, I squeeze it. From the corner of my eye I notice a beautiful wedding ring in the ring finger of the other hand.

-Jennifer Jareau, but you can call me JJ.- it sounds good, it sounds good for her. -I imagine you're here for the case of the Crimson King...- just hearing that nickname make me nervous, but if her notice it, she doesn't seem to give it much weight. -Wait that I place these folder, then I'll show you the way.- she starts heading to a door, I follow her. -We were just about to make a meeting to talk about the progress made so far. Thanks to you, less than half of the escapees came back inside.- in saying the last sentence, she turns to me and gives me a very warm and sincere smile.

-I only did my job...- a lines that seems extrapolated from a classic Hollywood police film. JJ giggles anyway. She opens a locker, throws inside everything she has in her hands, then she closes it.

-Well, we can go.- I nod, without saying anything and I follow her, looking around intrigued, hoping that at least it won't be notice, everything: it is very different from the place where I work, is full of desks, each "decked out" personal way, higher up there must be the offices of the "big bosses". We arrive at the door, this is transparent but so that those on the other side can see us, but not us him. It turns out to be a fairly small room, in the center a round table, chairs, a screen, a blackboard directly attached to one of the glass walls. Sitting on one of them there is just Rossi, next to him a dark-haired man, completely focused on the documents he is reading, but even so it seems to convey a shady air. The Italian-American looks up at the sound of someone entering and realizes that besides JJ there is also someone new, me.

-Luke!- he stands up and reaches us. -I'm glad you managed to get there on time. I see you've met JJ...- we both nod. Even the other man, who should be the boss, is approaching. -Hotch, this is the boy- this term makes me feel extremely young -that helped us to take those criminals...- I feel a certain embarrassment or perhaps it is more awe, when I meet the gaze of the boss.

-Well, it's a pleasure to meet you. Aaron Hotcher.- the tone in this case fits perfectly to his person, but also reveals that behind that armor in one piece there is a man loyal to duty but that puts the whole heart in everything he does. Maybe I should really do the profiler, I do nothing but shoot judgments on anyone starting from nuances of the voice and ways of doing, as I have set foot in Quantico. He holds out his hand and for the umpteenth time, certainly not the last, I find myself doing this formal ritual.

-Luke Alvez.- at the same time a tall, slender, professional-looking brunette woman comes.

-Excuse the delay, the damn coffee machine has decided not to cooperate...- she notices me early enough, not that it is a very complex operation. Probably they didn’t explain to all members of the team the possibility of a collaboration on my part, because she appears confusing. I don’t know whether to resolve the problem directly or if I have to wait for the boss to introduce me. In the end, luckily, Rossi thinks about it.

-Tara, remember that we asked for someone who could help us to capture the escapees?- after a few seconds, she nods. For a moment she seems lost in who knows what memory. -Here, he is our trump card- if he continues like this, he will make me blush -Luke Alvez , task force.- I approach her, shake her hand, her is a very delicate hold, perfectly matched with the tone of her velvety voice.

-Tara Lewis.- I hope that for now the pleasantries are over, but it is a rather utopian desire. I seemed to remember that they were more, of course, a few months ago they lost one of their member, some voices have come in my house, he was kidnapped him and then someone had shot his pregnant wife... logical that he decided to move on. However, they still seem to me too few.

-Unfortunately we can’t begin, we must wait for our computer technician.- Hotchner explains, probably turning more to me than to others. I nod, everyone sits down, so I do too. A few minutes later the door opens (apparently for the last time) and, stumbling, hidden by a pile of yellow folders that remind me of the years in the police, and a computer, enters a woman, a spot of various shades of pink and yellow, the color of her hair. Of course, when the boss told "our computer technician", I thought he was referring to a man, but it was a masculine thought, the result of a legacy still present in our society, however much we would deny it and affirm the opposite. Resting the material on the table, finally she reveals her figure, even if for a few seconds. She quickly distributes the folders, one in front of me and I can’t help but notice the amount of bracelets and the variety of shapes that adorn her arm, as well as the colored nails in a very creative way. OK, the nerds are pretty eccentric, but I could never have expected a similar computer scientist. Rossi tries to get her attention, but she clearly ignores him, preferring to dedicate herself to the screen, which suddenly comes on.

-We can start.- Hotchner says solemnly. Nobody replies anything, only the blond woman, the only one left standing, who nods and handling what looks like a common remote control, starts the presentation of the case.

-As you all know, not the all evaded have yet been captured. Last night, in Durham, a man was sighted whose description corresponded exactly to that of the wanted number one: Peter Lewis, aka Mister Scratch.- first a map appears to locate exactly the detection area, next to a picture that I remember, one of the worst serial killers that America has known. Yet a part of me is distracted by the thought of how much the analyst's voice is sweet. Sweet, I can’t think of another adjective that can describe it well. -...unfortunately there are no cameras in that area, so we have only the testimony of a woman who was walking with her dog.- I try to go back to concentrating on serious things, even if it is a complex matter, because the gaze is attracted , willy-nilly, towards those bright colors that completely contrast with the things we are talking about in this room, with the photographs projected on the screen behind her (many victims of Scratch, almost used as a reminder to have one more reason to find him) and with the atmosphere in general.

-We have any kind of identikit?- Tara asks, sitting next to me. The woman, of whom I don’t even know the name, nods and here appears what is required. There is no doubt that there are significant similarities with the killer who enjoys not killing, preferring to push others to do so, prey to nightmares and dark visions.

-Unfortunately the situation remains virtually unchanged.- the comment seems to close the question, it’s the oldest in the room who has talking.

-Dave is right.- the boss is in agreement. -We can move on to the second topic of the day, the main reason why agent Alvez is among us.- I feel the lights of the spotlight on me. Without having to add anything else, every data about Lewis disappears and in its place, peeks out the seemingly normal face, perhaps even more frightening, of the criminal that I more hate, of the man who has ruined Phil's life and by reflex also mine, ripping off whole nights of sleep and serenity, that I will not get back...

-Daniel Cullen, also known as the Crimson King.- I realize after a few seconds that my hand is tigh in a fist. I try to relax, with poor results. -There is no news from the escape, but an anonymous source, a call from a telephone booth, to be exact. He told Durham police he had seen Cullen with Mister Scratch. This is the only thread we can follow to get out of the maze.- the joke rips out a few laughs to the colleagues, but not to Hotcher, who remains serious.

-If there are no other comments- he even says, almost scolding the blonde, who raises her eyes to the sky (probably they are used to it, among them will be a kind of game or ritual) -I would say that for today we can conclude. Agent Alvez, do you feel like joining us in the search?- is the simplest question someone could ask me. -We do not know exactly when the track on Cullen will open again.- he adds, but I have already made a decision.

-Sure.- he nods, satisfied.

-Ok, then if there isn’t other news, we will update tomorrow morning.- and repeated what looks like a formula now standardized, the meeting is dissolved, all stand up, JJ reaches the other blonde and exchange a few words with her, I can’t distinguish enough to understand the logical sense. And it should not interest me. I see Rossi and Tara coming out and, in a moment, we are left alone. It seems to me the right moment to conclude the presentations and finally to give a name to her too, which launches an almost painful and desperate look in the direction where her colleague has disappeared. Then I'll stop calling her just the blonde or computer technician.

-Hey, we haven’t be introduced yet, I'm the agent of the task force, Luke Alvez.- she seems to hardly direct the eyes in my direction and takes much longer than normal to allow them to cross with mine. Her are brown, but not dark, of various shades of hazelnut, framed beautifully by a pair of pink glasses (rightly matched to the clothes) and long and refined eyelashes.

-Penelope Garcia.- the tone is very different from the one she used during the meeting, absurdly it seems darker at this moment, than when she was intent on commenting horrible images. The name is interesting, certainly not really common, yet truly mythical or mythological. And the surname makes me think of a background that is closer to mine, and yet her appearance does not seem that of a Latin, American or not. We exchange a hasty close, which gives me the time to just guess the freshness of her skin. Even her ring finger, like that of JJ, is occupied by a ring, but unlike the other blonde, is in good company. You don’t need to be a profiler to say that she likes all kinds of wearable accessories. -Now I'm sorry, but I'm very busy.- said this, she takes her computer and virtually without even looking at me, leaves the room. That's why I could never be a good profiler: from the way she is dressed, she has talked and even from her tone of voice, I would have imagined anything but a woman as cold and detached as she seems now.

As I mull over, I look up and find myself in front of a tall, very young man, definitely more than me, lightly long and long brown hair, a particular look and a briefcase in one hand.

-Luke Alvez?- he asks and I wonder if by chance I don’t have an ID sticker printed on the front. I nod. -I’m Spencer Reid.- that name reminds me of some detail provided by Rossi (of course).

-Ah! No handshaking, right? Your reputation precedes you.- the other is pleasantly impressed and smiles.

-I just came back and we already have a case.- he goes to a desk, collects something, some sheets, a book, then closes his bag with a click. He turns in my direction and seems to be about to say something but is interrupted by the entrance of the three ladies of the BAU, two blondes and a brunette. The smallest accelerates the pace and reaches us.

-Spencer!- she exclaims with great joy, and then hugs him with a lot of transport. I move away a few inches, partly embarrassed to be unwittingly the third wheel in what seems like a private moment. Here comes the other two, Tara greets the young man with a smile, while Penelope takes the place of JJ, hugging him with a lot of tenderness.

-How are you, my boy wonder?- the voice takes with more force those sweet nuances that I had guessed while she was explaining the case and that has not had only with me. She doesn’t give him the time to answer. -And how is your mother?- but maternal is the adjective that I would use to describe her attitude, in general, towards Spencer. The way she scrutinizes him, apprehensively, her gestures, precise and delicate.

-She is much better.- he exclaims, opening his serious face in a big smile.

-JJ, where can I find your archive? I would like to see all the material you have about... Daniel Cullen.- the blonde nods, but glances at the computer technician.

-If you are looking for information, of any kind, she is the woman to whom you must address.- this phrase comes out with an almost complacent tone, even if I don’t understand the reasons. The other realizes that she has been called into question and turns towards us. -Garcia, could you help Luke find the complete file on the Crimson King?- she asks, before I can do it, leaving me a bit confused. I don’t understand why she seems to want to be an intermediary between us. Garcia nods, snorting and throwing a look that I would call homicidal, just directed to JJ, who smiles strangely once again. Something is happening that I'm completely unaware of. But for now, I decided to pretend nothing happened.

-Follow me.- says Penelope, without even looking at me, start to walking regardless of whether I'm behind her or not. I quickly greet the others and reach out to her. It makes me feel strange, that she is the only one that uses this formal tone. Even Hotch immediately talked to me in another tone and practically demanded the same from me. And after have seen her interact with Spencer, I don’t think she is a super formal type, but... maybe it's better to refrain from judging, for today. We enter a room surrounded by lockers, like those in the libraries where the old catalogs were kept. The rest is made up of files and rows of tables, each equipped with a computer that doesn’t seem to last generation at all. She approaches one, turning it on, typing in a password (even if I don’t have time to follow her fingers flickering on the keys) and the screen lights up. -Here, it is enough that you type the name you need in this space and you will see a list of everything you need. In part it will be directly present in the system in electronic format and if you want you can print a copy. Otherwise, an acronym will appear that corresponds to the location of the document you are looking for. At this point you will have to turn to one of the archivists.- she explains in a calm voice, totally devoid of those pretty inflexions she had just a moment ago. -Good work.- and she goes away.

-Thank you.- I reply, too late.

TAGS: @arses21434 @kathy5654 @martinab26 @reidskitty13 @jenf42 @gracieeelizabeth27 @silviajajaja @smalliemichelle99 @charchampagne14 @thinitta @myhollyhanna23 @garvezz @mercedes-maldonado @shyladystudentfan @cosmicmelaninflower @kiki-krakatoa @pegasus-scifichick @ leftlamphumanfestival

#garvez #criminal minds #cm #penelope garcia #luke alvez #roxy #aaron hot #david rossi #spencer reid #tara lewis #jennifer jareau #penelope x luke #luke x penelope #garcia x alvez #alvez x garcia #the crimson king #12x01 #luke POV

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esonikofanfiction · 6 years

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K: MIDNIGHT: A K PROJECT FAN FICTION: CHAPTER ONE: MIKOTO

December 20, 2012

Everything was wrong, horribly wrong. I could see Mikoto still but not like I used to. The image of him, his red, was fragile, barely hanging in the balance between here and nowhere; and in the midst of this, as I sat in Ashinaka High School with Izumo, listening to the uproar outside, I knew that something bad was going to happen.

A moment later, my suspicion was confirmed when once again, I felt Mikoto’s presence entering my mind. My consciousness descended to a dreamlike state and that’s when it appeared: I’m sorry, Anna, I heard him say. I’m sorry I won’t be able to show you that lovely red anymore.

The realization struck me and I gasped awake, dropping my marbles in a rolling splatter on the floor.

Izumo rushed to me and caught me by the arm, and while I couldn’t hear — my thoughts still carried in a dream, the dream that was Mikoto, his voice a whirling echo in my head — I saw Izumo motioning to me. No doubt, he was urging me to tell him what was wrong; and when I failed to answer him, he shook me once, then twice, yet all I did was breathe Mikoto’s name before I bolted out the door.

Down the hall and out across the concrete yard, conflicting auras — red and blue — surrounding me, I ran. Death and danger toppled in the form of earth and giant slabs of concrete that erupted and cascaded all around, their violent fury countered by the silent flecks of snow that littered every surface of the grounds. Ashinaka was a war zone, and yet I didn’t seem to see it, nor could I yet hear it. All I thought about, all I cared about, was him. Mikoto. I had to get to him before it was too late.

Racing over skirmishes like passing street performers — the brawls, the clashes, simple acts I paid no interest to — I vaguely sensed the darting auras whizzing past, and still I made no effort to evade them. I remember thinking clearly that their power couldn’t touch me. Not yet, at least, I told myself. Not until I have a chance to save him.

Gradually, I felt my senses trickling back to me. I caught the rhythmic labor of my breathing as it hit the wintry air in hazy little gusts. Even so, the rumbles, booms, the screeches of the battle, were but echoes in my ears.

And then a blast above the others shook the earth and threw me to the ground.

I’m sure I cried out as I felt my palms colliding with the frozen dirt, icy fractals tearing at my skin.

I felt a sudden pounding in my head. My temples throbbed. A line of warmth emerged – the heat of my own blood oozing down my cheek.

The ringing in my ears made me dizzy, the pitch growing louder until a reverberative rush swept over me, and the throes of battle became audible at last.

They nearly overwhelmed me, diluting my already foggy consciousness. I thought I might throw up, but instead, took a deep breath in and bat my eyes until the world stopped spinning. When it did, I scanned ahead, focusing my sight and searching for the source of what had felled me, certain it would lead me to Mikoto.

Far into the distance, in a grove, I glimpsed a swarm of nonexistence color whooshing through the trees. It swirled above their prickly tops in contrast to the wind. By the eerie look of it, I understood exactly what it was. On my own, and without my marbles, I knew. “Mikoto,” I said again, and took off toward the grove.

The place was a miniature forest, untouched by the battle. The closer I drew, the more quiet it became. The howling of the war began to dissipate behind me as I found myself trampling not through upturned sidewalks and fallen iron beams, but dense thickets laden with snow and hidden turrets I fell into here and there, until at last, I came upon a clearing, drenched, battered, and out of breath.

There, the quiet solitude of the forest spat me out into another gruesome scene.

I glimpsed a pair of Kings, Mikoto and Reisi, charging one another not a hundred feet away across a frozen pond. Mikoto’s Sword of Damocles was surging to the ground. Before I had a chance to move, to breathe, or even blink, a glint of blue flashed as Reisi’s sword pierced deep into Mikoto’s chest.

The effect of this was twofold. The first: Mikoto’s sword held fast, hovering mid-air atop the surface of the earth; the second: I myself held fast, locked inside a similar kind of hold, that of a mere image. Swiftly, as a thief out of the shadows snatches up its prey, I found it latching onto me, refusing to let go, this vision of another world: a world without Mikoto.

The weight was all-consuming. What other thoughts prevailed before eluded me as agony took root, drowning me beneath a sound I realized was my own voice screaming louder than I ever thought was possible, for in that splitting instant, I had lost myself completely.

The world about me vanished like a fog, and all I felt was emptiness and pain. The thought, and then the image of Mikoto, fading into death had spurred on one of my episodes, yet this time, it was nothing like the fits I underwent before. This time, I could feel my power writhing to the surface, shattering the bonds that previously kept it — and the whole of me — contained. No barrier existed anymore. My power was unleashed.

From the pit of my lungs and outward through my lips hung open in that same shrill cry, from the tips of my fingers and the root of my chest, the heart beneath it beating with the wild savagery of life, it soared into the air: a red of uncontrollable wrath; his red; my red. It burst into a rumble, shooting, swaying, twisting to the rhythm of my anguish.

Reaching out a hand, the red followed me, answering my will, a force no longer trapped but unequivocally and beautifully freed.

My fingers closed tightly in a fist. My soul-filled aura clamped itself around the form of Reisi, clutching him, his sword, and thrusting them away. Both flew out of sight into the trees.

My other arm, I cast up toward the sky, and with it, Mikoto’s Sword of Damocles shot back into position high above us.

But that was not the end. Deep within, inside the furthest chasms of my soul, another life force sprung into being.

The red reacted to it, seemingly in wait for it. As I looked up toward to the sword, I saw the red begin to turn. Lightning sparked within it, then a powerful flash turned the aura black. It darkened into thunderclaps that zoomed around the sword, coiling up and down it as the sword repaired itself.

The aura carried outward, weaving down and over me and capturing me whole inside a whirlwind of thick, fiery fumes and electric sparks. Finally, my aura — my true aura — had awakened.

Hidden for so long, I felt my strength begin to rise. Blood coursed through my veins, healing me, changing me. As new air fortifies the lungs, so my aura forged in me new life.

My little bones were lengthened and solidified. My hair grew long. My features changed. I saw the world grow smaller as I rose at last to face it, once more as I was, radiant with power, my every fibre throbbing with the vigor of expansion and an all-consuming force I knew to be my own.

I then stood complete, transformed, finally made whole – the image of my former self alive in me again.

For the first time since the moment Reisi's sword had pierced Mikoto, I saw clearly all that lay before me.

I stared across the pond. Mikoto, then released, began to stagger, a stream of blood cascading from his wound to stain the snowy patches at his feet.

I watched him start to fall and felt a burning urge to fly to him, to reach for him, to draw him close to me. No sooner had I thought this than my aura, by way of an answer, produced a pair of midnight wings. Long, beautiful, made of shadow, they lifted me above the ground and carried me across the pond, the tips of my feet twirling the fine layer of frost atop the ice as I passed by.

Just as I had wished, I caught Mikoto in my arms and fell along with him, my aura gently buffering the fall. We then lay together, he atop the ground and I on top of him, his head wrapped neatly in my hands.

I saw him wince, eyes closed, as though he were annoyed and not in pain, as though he were asleep and suddenly agitated at the prospect of being woken. I don’t think he cared enough to realize what had happened. But I did, and I wasn’t going to let another moment go to waste.

In a sudden rush, I felt my aura branching out, probing him, feeling for his wound and quickly finding it. From beneath his bloodied shirt, I saw it start to heal.

A moment passed, color creeping back into his face. His brow relaxed, his tight, convulsive breathing grew to longer, fluid breaths as those of one emerging from the depths of heavy sleep. It was then, I clearly sensed what I had feared was gone forever – a red so warm and lovely, one so utterly majestic both in beauty and destruction, had returned. He had returned.

A shaky sigh, grown heavy as relief consumed me, carried through the air. I wasn’t too late, I said to myself. He’s here. He’s alive. He isn’t gone.

I trembled as I ran my slender fingers through his hair, as though in need of further reassurance. I closed my eyes, feeling as before, Mikoto’s presence linked with mine. “Never gone,” I whispered quietly. “Never ever gone.”

Mikoto must have heard me, for he drew a deep breath in, blinking his eyes open to his Sword of Damocles, clean, perfect, lingering above us. Silently, he gazed at it, frowning, wondering, trying to piece together what had happened, and quickly giving up.

He coughed a bit of blood that dripped out from the corner of his mouth, and turned to see my aura circling around us. The red that he had given me was warped across an endless onyx skyline like the branches of a tree aflame at midnight. It too, he seemed to stare at with a sort of disillusionment, as though he failed to grasp what he was looking at.

Then he looked at me, his amber eyes as fiery as ever – those eyes that drew me in the moment I first saw them, the ones I nearly lost. Silently, they pondered me, their force a growing hold inside of me. I eagerly gave in to it. And then they widened somewhat, as those in disbelief, genuine, soft, while something of a gasp escaped his lips. “Anna?”

Instantly, relief turned into anger and I frowned. “Mikoto, you promised,” I said low to him.

Mikoto leaned his head against the grass, staring at his sword. “Yeah, I lied.”

I heaved a bitter scoff. “Idiot.”

Mikoto gave his usual ‘Humph,’ a signal he was fully back to normal, at which, his eye fell back to me — too far, in act, in an overly indulgent downward glance along my chest pressed up to his. It was a lot fuller then, and a good deal more exposed, particularly from his angle.

I felt myself blush, remembering at once, my sudden transformation just a moment before; yet in the midst of this, his unrepentive stare that set my cheeks aflame, his angled brow increased. "Huh. That's weird.”

“What’s weird?”

“I didn't think it’d happen to you just by killing that guy – the Colorless King. But I guess it makes sense," and for a moment he was silent. "In the end, it all worked out, just like he said it would.”

I let my shoulders drop, scrunching in my brow. Not only was he wrong, but he had to mention Tatara as well. At that, I couldn’t help but be annoyed. “You really are an idiot,” I said to him.

Again, he'd grown confused, though instead of being angry, I loosed a tender sigh, leaned in close, and kissed him, feeling as I did, a pair of strong, familiar arms creep over me and draw me further in, tighter and tighter still. Just like before, it seemed to him, I was never close enough. I didn’t mind it then, certainly not now.

“I wasn't going to let you break your promise,” I said at last, savoring the warmth of his red intertwined with mine. “Especially when the one responsible is still out there.”

I heard Mikoto humph another question as I pulled the last of my marbles from my pocket, holding it an inch above his eye. "See?"

Curious, he frowned at it, watching as the red within it glistened with a tinge of green that danced across his eyes.

Instantly, he froze. “Whoa.”

(Next Up // Chapter Two: Colorless)

(K:Midnight is an Eso Niko Fan Fiction series based on the anime/manga series K, written by GoRa and produced by GoHands. All fan fiction works written by Eso Niko are categorized as ‘unofficial fan fiction,’ and are in no way affiliated with GoRa and GoHands.)

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onestowatch · 2 years

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MEYY Conjures Up the Ethereal World of ‘Neon Angel’ [Q&A]

Photo: Michael Smits

MEYY makes music for those unafraid to lucid dream. The London-based Belgian artist crafts hypnotic R&B equally informed by neon-lit soundscapes and the artist’s otherworldly musings. All this comes to life on MEYY’s sophomore EP, Neon Angel. Over the course of four entrancing tracks, the ethereal talent whisks the listener away into tales of love, lust, and far-off journeys informed by textured, evolving sonics.

We had the chance to speak with MEYY about the desire at the core of Neon Angel and plenty more.

youtube

Ones to Watch: Who is MEYY? What is she all about as an artist?

MEYY: MEYY is about digital ethereal emotions.

What is Neon Angel all about?

Neon Angel is a celebration of love and all of its contours. It’s also a manifest for my emotions and accommodated imagination. It’s a succession of dreams. A compilation of songs that beautifully reflect the dreamlike state I enter when making or listening to music. It reflects different dimensions of my world, but they all blend in perfectly through the soundscape I created together with my incredible producers. It’s a delicate project that I curated carefully and the songs were made in the intimate setting of my bedroom. To me, this project sounds like underwater flowers moving. That visualization covers the fragility and yet wavy texture of this EP. When listening to Neon Angel, I hope you can create your own dream world and that it sparks a desire for moments from the past, the present, and the future. That you mentally create your own visuals, as vague or subtle as they may be. I hope it makes you feel the radiance you have within yourself and that you can enjoy the beauty of it. I want my music to take your mind to places. I'm intrigued by the surreal power that music can have. One form of auditive input can set off so many dimensions like the physical, emotional, personal and memorial. I wish my music allows you to transcend the reality we live in every day, even if it’s in a very small and subtle way and that it radiates colors, emotions, desires, and dreams but above all: I hope it beams angelic neon lights.

The EP explores a lot of space on the track, almost soundscapes. Is that a deliberate part of your art direction?

Whenever I start making a song, I’ll immediately have colors, images, lights or sceneries going around in my head. I think this all from it’s foundation in my vivid sense of imagination. Once I have the imagery, it’s easier to curate sounds or lyrics around that. And also by working with my amazingly gifted producers of course. I feel like their taste just added perfectly to the ethereal digital sound I envisioned but couldn’t literally embody (since I’m not as good of a producer as they are). They got the direction I want to go soundwise, and lifted that aesthetic to an even higher level.

You have excellent features on the EP (Joanna and Jelani Blackman), how do you go about selecting them?

Jelani and I linked up through our label initially and then he asked me to open for him at his sold out show at Bush Hall back in October. We had a good connection, and I love the aesthetic in his voice and flow and his whole project really so when we were looking for a feature for “Rain” I immediately thought of him. Joanna and I had done a session before and she is just such a goddess – a big inspiration. So I asked her to hop on “Do It” which aesthetic she effortlessly augmented.

How does your dance background influence your sound if at all?

I guess it gave me a sense of movement and fluidity, which is very important for my music.

Can we expect more of this style in the future, potentially on an upcoming album?

It’s too soon for an album, but I’ll definitely keep on releasing music in a steady flow and deepen out the sound curation I have going on now.

Besides this excellent EP, what else should we be on the lookout for?

The growth of the project in general, come on this journey with me :)

What's inspiring you right now outside of music?

Love and all of its contours (my eternal inspiration).

Who are your Ones to Watch?

Ashley Morgan, Pippin, Cosha, Ojerime, onmyones.

#meyy #interview #neon angel #R&B #soul #album reviews

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shoppingstars · 7 years

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what is BPD?

Even though I have a blog about BPD, a lot of people have a lot of doubts about it (about the symptoms, terms, etc). So here is a post about BPD and, please, if you are neurotypical don’t comment “wow I have it” just because you read my post.

Borderline Personality Disorder is diagnosed when there is a persistent pattern of unstable interpersonal relationships, mood and self-image, as well as distinct impulsive behaviour, beginning by early adulthood and present in a variety of contexts. These difficulties are indicated by five (or more) of the following:

frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment.

a pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterised by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation.

identity disturbance: markedly and persistently unstable self-image or sense of self.

impulsivity in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging (e.g. spending, sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, binge eating). This does not include suicidal or self-harming behaviour.

recurrent suicidal behaviour, gestures, or threats, or self-mutilating behaviour.

affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood - intense feelings that can last from a few hours to a few days.

chronic feelings of emptiness.

inappropriate intense anger or difficulty controlling anger.

transient, stress-related paranoid ideas or severe dissociative symptoms.

What is FP?

FP means, for someone who has BPD, favorite person. It is a term that refers to the person you most idealize, usually it is someone you have romantic feelings for, but it can be a friend, fictional character, someone in your family, etc. Not everyone who has BPD has a FP, but it is something common. Having a FP is not something beautiful and shouldn’t be romantized, your mood starts depending on that person, on the way they talk to you, you have a lot of mental breakdowns when they’re gone and it’s something that puts you in risk, because you’re willing to do basically anything for that person.

What is “split”?

Splitting is the action of feeling extremely angry at someone who you usually idealize, for example, your fp (but it doesn’t have to be necessarily your fp). Someone who suffers from BPD usually has black and white thinking or feeling, loving or hating someone, doing something all the time or not at all, basically no harlf term. When someone splits, it means that they were from a extreme to another about their feelings to someone. It can happen for big and important reasons, when someone actually does a serious mistake or it can happen when someone does a “small” mistake and we react extremely, due to BPD hypersensitivity.

What is dissociation?

That’s what Wikipedia says: “In psychology, dissociation is any of a wide array of experiences from mild detachment from immediate surroundings to more severe detachment from physical and emotional experience. The major characteristic of all dissociative phenomena involves a detachment from reality, rather than a loss of reality as in psychosis.”. Dissociation is the match of despersonalization (“Depersonalization can consist of a detachment within the self regarding one's mind or body, or being a detached observer of oneself. Subjects feel they have changed and that the world has become vague, dreamlike, less real, or lacking in significance. It can be a disturbing experience. Chronic depersonalization refers to depersonalization-derealization disorder, which is classified by the DSM-5 as a dissociative disorder.”) and derealization (“Derealization is an alteration in the perception or experience of the external world so that it seems unreal. Other symptoms include feeling as though one's environment is lacking in spontaneity, emotional colouring, and depth. It is a dissociative symptom of many conditions.”). Basically, it is feeling like YOU are not real + the WORLD is not real. Okay, I’m not sure about what I’m going to say now, please someone correct me if I’m wrong, but I think that there a lot of dissociative disorders, but in BPD people usually suffer just from dissociative symptoms.

Self-Harm?

Self-harm is when you intentionally hurt yourself. Okay, but why? Some people self-harm to relief the pain, a lot of people with BPD also relate they self-harm to feel real during dissociative episodes or to feel something when the emptiness sensations are acting out. For some people, self-harm is when you hurt your body tissue, for example, cutting or scratching yourself, but, personally, in my opinion, thre are different ways or expressing self-harm before it becomes something extreme, for example, starving yourself, triggering yourself, doing something you don’t want to just because you “deserve it”, etc.

“People with BPD are always abusive.”

That’s absolutely not true. A lot of websites make articles about BPD and, because of a lack of information, they mention we are abusive and things like that. The truth is that no one is automatically abusive JUST because their mental illnesses. Abuse is something related to someone’s behavior, regardless if they’re mentally ill or not. “Okay, so why a lot of people say BPD makes someone abusive?” Maybe it’s because PDs are not a very discussed topic and people are always afraid of the unkown, so it’s better if they just judge us. Also, maybe because people with BPD are often seen as “attention seekers”, which is not something bad, in my opinion, because everyone should receive enough attention, since they’re not using bad mechanisms to get it.

About some other symptoms

Mood swings happen when someone goes to an emotion to another. For someone who has BPD, it happens a lot of times during the day. For example, if you got a friend and they have BPD they can talk about suicide and how hopeless they feel and a few hours or minutes later they can talk about future plans and how excited they are about things. It impacts our affective instability too, so sometimes we get lost thinking if we like someone or not. We can easily “get tired” of someone and then becoming totally dependent on them after some time.

Our instability also impacts our sense of self, sometimes it makes us question even if we are real (going back to the dissociation aspect). That’s why is so hard for us to do things like choosing a career, because today I can feel like becoming an actress and then tomorrow I want to be a doctor. Our decisions and moods are constantly changing.

Our fear of abandonment controls our lives, we can do things that we don’t even want to just to have someone by our sides. Also, some people with BPD can get too clingy or too distant to someone they love, clingy to avoid the abandonment and distant because of a “leave them before they leave me” thought. That’s why our relationships are very unstable.

Compulsion and impulsivity is a form of expressing our confused feelings, like if we need something to rely on. We can drink too much, eat too much, waste too much money, etc. It can happens for a lot of reasons, for example, to fill the feelings of emptiness or to avoid a breakdown, specially when someone leaves.

Quiet and explosive borderlines

Explosive borderline is someone who is the “classical” borderline. They will act out, they may yell at people, they may get involved in fights and etc. Someone who is a quiet borderline will act in, holding their pain agaisnt themselves, for example, with the self-harm. They may not usually yell at people or get involved in fights, but, instead, they will do terrible things with themselves. There is not a “worse or better type of borderline”, they’re just different types. We all suffer a lot.

Sorry if my grammar wasn’t very correct. English is not my native language. I hope it was a helpful post for some help here on tumblr. Stay strong, borderline community!

#actuallybpd #actuallyborderline #borderline personality disorder #borderline #bpd #quiet borderline #help #long post #ref #information #mental illness #mental health #psychology #personality disoder #actuallypd #actuallymentallyill

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hotelsweet · 6 years

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you might kill me with desire - chapter 3

With his feelings in the past, Jake returns from his undercover stint with the Ianuccis. Only months later, he and Amy are assigned a hugely high-profile case, and life seems set to become incredibly exciting- Until all at once, everything from their relationship to an unexpected string of murders gets complicated.

THAT’S RIGHT BITCHES I FINALLY UPDATED AFTER WHOLE ENTIRE MONTHS

ao3 link if you’d prefer it

In a whirlwind of lost, inaccessible shapes, Amy is running.

Air aches sorely in the back of her throat as she tries to catch herself breath; none of this is makes any sense. The world around her isn’t hers. It’s dark, and dreamlike, and quite distinctly wrong.

Why she’s running, she’s not quite sure, but a sense of urgency rings around her- she has somewhere to be and if she doesn’t push on, something will go wrong. She knows it.

A figure appears in front of her. It’s a man, facing forward; she can only see the back of him and what appears to be the suit he’s wearing. For a second she thinks it’s her eighth-grade math teacher- who, for some reason, has a regular starring role in her dreams- but then she notices the unmistakable silver-blond mop of hair on the back of his head.

It’s Kristoff Clare.

He’s only a couple of metres ahead of her, so close she could reach out and tap him on the shoulder- as she does it, his shape jumps forward, as though he’s running even faster. With some effort she picks up her pace, hoping to catch up with him.

“Stop,” She’s choking. Her ribcage aches against the swell of her lungs, and her throat has gone numb- she can’t keep going much longer. “Stop-”

He turns so quickly she jumps in shock, everything around her blurring for a moment.

“What?” Kristoff’s voice is weak, a croak, as though he’s about to cough.

“You’re…” She can hardly find the words to speak. He splutters a little. All she can do is watch on in horror.

“Amy.” This word is clear.

“I’m here,” Amy tries, but she’s too quiet, and a lump has formed in her throat.

Not that it matters; his coughing is developing into a kind of fit, spluttering and choking louder and louder until she’s anxious he might throw up.

Instead, he manages to stop, and clears his throat. Momentarily, relief floods over her.

“Amy.” He says her name again, crystal clear, his cold blue eyes wide and fixated on her now.

She opens her mouth to reply, which is when she sees thick blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. It’s disgustingly dark, a jarring thickness noticeable as it trickles out of him and over his chin, dripping oddly onto his jacket.

Her head is spinning. It’s just like it was at the crime scene- only now, she’s watching him die. His eyes widen as he coughs even more, blood splattering into his hands and through his fingers.

Amy can’t help it. A shriek escapes her at this- it’s like something out of a horror movie.

“Amy,” he tries again. His voice is becoming robotic, warped. “Amy.”

“What?!” She almost screams.

“Amy, wake up.”

***

“Amy, wake up.”

In the darkness of her bedroom, Jake’s shaking her shoulder gently. He didn’t want to have to touch her, not after the events earlier in her living room, but she’s in so deep a sleep that she’s barely moving. She’s so peaceful, completely beautiful despite the visible exhaustion in her face. Part of him feels responsible for this; if he’d not reciprocated that kiss then he never would have had to make it awkward and push her off. Maybe she’d be a little less tired, a little more peaceful, if he’d not added to the ugly, alien stranger their relationship is becoming.

He doesn’t want this. In fact, he’d rather do just about anything other than stay away from her, if not simply because the images from that first night together seem intent on remaining stuck in his mind. It’s ridiculous; they’re good friends, even better colleagues, and now everything’s falling apart. To make it all even better, he now needs to wake her up with bad news.

Part of him is genuinely worried- he’s been trying to wake her up for a good couple of minutes. Thankfully, she starts to stir, twisting over with small, confused noises.

He doesn’t blame her- it’s almost five in the morning, so not only has she only been asleep for about four hours, but it’s still dark outside, the only light in the room streaming in from the lamp in the hallway.

Suddenly, Amy gasps, so loudly Jake jumps. She jolts upwards, onto her elbows, looking around her room strangely. Her expression is pained, tight, in a way he recognises- she’s got a headache.

“Hey.” He says flatly. “I’m sorry to wake you up, but there’s been news-”

“Why are you still in my apartment?”

It’s not a question. That much is clear.

Suddenly, any trace of what he was about to explain disappears from his mind; she’s looking at him like he’s broken in, and he’s got no idea how to process it. As a pair, they’re a lot of things- but they’re not hostile. The sentence turns over in his head as he attempts to find a response.

The look she gives him hurts more than any of the confusion of the last couple weeks; it’s like he’s an intruder, like he’s done something wrong. Maybe he has. No, he definitely has. She looks at him pointedly, as if her asking this is obvious- it’s cutting, unfriendly, and so completely un-Amy that Jake, for the first time in a long time, finds himself speechless.

“You told me to sleep here,” he says quietly, a little more defensive than he’d like, feeling stupid the second he says it.

Amy sighs, pressing her fingers over the bridge of her nose. She rubs her eyes and pushes back her covers, slipping out of bed. As she walks around the bed and heads for the door, Jake notices she’s in almost exactly the same state as they were when they got home a few hours ago.

He stands up from the bed and starts to follow her down the hall and into her kitchen, where, sleepily, she flicks on the coffeemaker and leans against the counter. It’s hard not to let this anger him, if not confuse him, the way she’s moving so seamlessly around her apartment after the way she’s just spoken to him. Eventually, she looks up at him, straight into his eyes, and all he can do is look at her in disbelief, waiting for an answer. He widens his eyes a little when she doesn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry, I just…” she murmurs, “I kind of figured the invitation was retracted after the whole thing before I went to bed. Or at least that you’d want to get away from me.”

A little surge of guilt courses through Jake’s veins. She seems equally as confused and hurt as him. Inwardly, he curses himself for kissing her again; it was both of them, sure, but he’d sworn to himself after the awkwardness resulting from their night together that he wouldn’t risk it again.

A voice in the back of his mind, deadly quiet, aches. It wants to ask how she could ever fathom, in any universe, that he’d want to get away from her. Tell her the only thing he regrets is hurting her. Instead, he manages two tactlessly small words.

“My bad.” His voice is quiet, but only because he knows if he’s any louder she’ll hear how much this is affecting him. Guilt churns within him, grim.

They stand in this horrendous silence for a good ten seconds before the coffee machine gives a small beep! and Amy’s turning away from him again.

“So! Y’gonna tell me why you woke me up at…” Amy lifts her phone from where it’s charging on the counter. “Jesus, 4:56 in the morning?!”

“Oh.” Jake grimaces- for just a second, he’d forgotten. “Vulture texted about five minutes ago. Oliver’s neighbour called the cops because she heard weird noises, so we need to go. Now.”

Her face changes at this, and he knows she must have a thousand questions. But she doesn’t ask them, and he knows it’s because she doesn’t want to talk. Not right now, anyway- give her a couple cups of coffee and five minutes of vague organisation and she’ll prioritise the work, but right now Jake can tell the resentment towards him is preventing her from talking. Perhaps the best thing he could do is get ready. That’ll help.

He turns brusquely and leaves the kitchen, heading back out into the hallway to find the cardboard box he knows is buried somewhere in her closet, filled with clothes and other miscellaneous items he’s left at hers over the years. He needs to freshen up.

In the minutes that follow they prepare to leave, in complete silence, not uttering a single word to each other.

And although he knows it’s the both of them, he can’t help but think, but ache, that it’s his fault.

***

At just short of half five in the morning, Jake’s knocking on Oliver Clare’s front door for the third time.

“One more warning, Oliver,” he raises his voice firmly, “this is Detective Peralta. I’m here with the police. Open the door.”

He looks over to the Vulture, who widens his eyes aggressively, gesturing to the door.

“Okay, we’re going in,” Jake says firmly, quietly to the small group around him; Amy, Pembroke, and a few slightly tired-looking officers called in for backup that Jake doesn’t recognise.

With his fingers, he gestures a countdown- three, two, one.

The slight pain jarring through Jake’s shoulder is a frustrating reminder that he’s a little out of practice when it comes to breaking down doors- but that’s the last thing on his mind once he’s inside the apartment.

On sight, everything has changed.

A sickening rush floods into Jake’s head and for a second he feels faint. There’s a murmuring hubbub of discontent, as far as he can tell- the only voice of which he’s certain is Amy’s, when, under her breath, the words oh, god slip out.

Orange patches of streetlight only give light to about half the room. But it’s more than enough to tell that Oliver Clare has hung himself.

In all his years on this job, Jake’s only ever encountered a few suicides- but this is the first by hanging. It’s pretty safe to say he’ll never forget it, the panicked burning in his chest a clear indication that this is evolving into a mental scar.

“Jesus.” Pembroke’s voice, disgusted, is the first one to break the silence.

“Uh, nobody go any further,” Jake hesitates, realising by knocking the door down they’ve potentially just affected the scene. He’s not proud of the way his voice wobbles, but he can’t unsee what’s in front of him, the lifeless eyes, the pale skin-

“Peralta?”

A hand belonging to one of the men on Pembroke’s tactical team is on his shoulder, which is when Jake realises he’s frozen in his place. He looks at him questioningly- Jake swallows thickly and nods at him, I’m fine, and turns to look at the others.

His surroundings are a blur. Both Amy and the Vulture have their radios to their lips- Amy jams a finger into one of her ears as she speaks, distracted. Jake wills himself to move, or speak, or just do something, but the image of what he’s just seen is momentarily burnt into his brain and he’s not sure he’s actually capable of anything, for now.

Why’s this bothering him like this? Before he knows it he’s pacing out of the room, removing himself as quickly as he can. He can’t just stand in the middle of this room and do nothing. He’ll make some calls, figure out just how far they can investigate this- but first he needs to breathe.

After a few minutes, the first of many nasty thoughts reaches him.

You could have prevented this.

Perhaps it’s true. Perhaps it’s not. Jake isn’t particularly fond of the voice in the back of his head, especially recently, what with his seemingly ever-imploding relationship with Amy. He’s secure enough to know it’s unrealistically negative, but he’s miles away from being able to drown it out. It won’t leave him. It’ll keep him awake, strong and certain and doubtful of everything Jake knows. And he hates it.

“Jake.”

Amy’s beside him, stony-faced and a little pale. Despite this, there’s concern in her eyes, and although everything’s crumbling down, he knows she’s there for him. This is why she’s good at what she does, he thinks, a complete professional in response to all of this, while he’s cowering in the hallway.

“They… uh, there’s a note,” she says quietly, her voice sad, and low, and even a little resentful. “Jake, he admitted to everything.”

“Wait. What?” Jake finally manages words, stunned now into a different layer of shock. “Oliver killed his father?”

Amy nods, pressing her lips together. Her expression is almost blank, eyes wide with confusion.

“For the money?” He utters quietly, speaking to himself. “No. That doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe it was something else. He’s got a record… he was difficult to speak to…”

“No, no way-”

“I’m just saying,” Amy raises her voice over Jake’s protest, “We’ve barely spent any time on this case. We don’t know everything.”

“It doesn’t feel right.”

As the sound of sirens begins to near in the streets outside, promising further chaos, Jake watches Amy come closer to him, turning so they’re both looking into the room where Oliver Clare’s life came to an end.

“I know.”

***

“What was his behaviour like at home?”

Under the table, Amy’s picking at her fingernails, peeling and pulling until they’re stubs. It’s a bad habit of hers, and one she needs to watch- on a particularly strenuous case several years ago she managed to make one of her fingers bleed without even noticing.

Across from her sits the Clare family’s last maid, an older woman by the name of Greta. She’s kind, and warm, and as hideously shocked and sad as everyone else is about this mess. Something about her calms Amy- which is just as well, seeing as it’s been almost a week since Oliver’s death, and neither Amy nor Jake seems able to find anything suggesting it was suspicious.

“Quiet. Brooding. Angry,” Greta nods, her gaze distracted, brows furrowed. She too, Amy thinks, must be realising that Oliver was far more dangerous than she ever believed. “I suppose, to me, he just seemed like a typical spoilt teenage boy.”

The unfortunate fact is that everything adds up: from Kristoff’s colleagues to the family maid to the only friend of Oliver’s they’ve been able to source, it’s become clear that this boy, this man, was distant, cruel, and bitter.

Neither Emilia or Angelica are ready to talk. With two family members gone, just like that, in less than a month, nobody’s surprised. Nevertheless, with absolutely no leads and a gnawing feeling that something’s not right, Amy’s spent the majority of each of these interviews wishing she could talk to one of them, listen to something that’s not coming from an outsider to Oliver’s home life.

“Was he ever violent? Threatening?” At the sound of the tiredness in her voice, Amy has to straighten her posture in a bid to convince herself that she’s still awake and professional.

Thankfully, Greta doesn’t seem to notice- she’s deep in thought, her face crumpled up, gloomy eyes fixated on some random spot in the corner of the room.

“Once,” she says, finally.

Amy’s ears prick up at this, at the defeat in Greta’s voice. She hates how desperate she is to hear something different, an answer that isn’t suicide. Perhaps it’s selfish, but if this case ends like this, she’ll never forget it. It’ll never really feel like the right thing has been done, if this case has to be shut with two grieving, horrified women left behind.

Greta seems to be struggling, hesitant to explain.

“Take your time,” Amy says in a voice she prays is reassuring. Greta smiles sadly over at her.

“Years ago. There was this… flask. A decanter. Crystal. It was priceless,” she tuts, shocked, as if reliving the incident. “Oli couldn’t have been older than thirteen or fourteen. He was arguing in the kitchen with his father, louder and louder and louder until suddenly it went very quiet. That normally meant Kristoff had won. And Oli came storming out into the hallway, and picked up that decanter, and threw it through the doorway to the kitchen. At Kristoff.”

“Was Kristoff angry?” Amy’s voice is small, unable to comprehend what might have happened if anyone had deliberately smashed something in her childhood home.

“I’ve never seen him like it,” Greta admits, looking at Amy again now. “But they were always like that. Fighting.”

Amy sighs. It all lines up- violent, resentful son in line to a hell of a lot of money killing his father.

“Thanks for your time, Ms. Alfonso. That’s all I need.”

They stand up, and Amy walks her to the door of the interview room, where a tall male officer is waiting to escort her out. Amy waits until she’s out of sight before she makes her way into her and Jake’s workspace, A.K.A. the armpit of Pembroke’s office.

Jake’s at his desk, an earphone in one ear, kicked back in his chair with a stack of papers in his hands, which he reads intently. He glances up as she walks into the room, then back down again. They’re not exactly on the friendliest terms, after that night in her apartment, and the fact that this case seems to be spiralling towards a bitter, shitty end isn’t helping. Sure, they’re working together, but the whole mess lingers- you could cut the atmosphere with a knife.

“This is bullshit.”

Jake’s eyes widen at Amy’s use of profanity at work. She’s sunk into her chair, defeated.

“No luck with the maid?”

“No,” she says simply, avoiding Jake’s gaze, choosing to stare at the ceiling instead. “I think there’s a real chance Oliver was a messed-up dude who wanted revenge.”

“Yeah. I think so too,” Jake agrees, leaning forward and pulling out his earphone.

Amy looks at him questioningly. The last week, he’s been even more desperate than her to find something to prove someone else was involved somehow, almost worryingly so- if there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s being a let-down.

“Go on.”

“School records,” he announces, flicking through the papers on his desk. He licks his finger and pulls out a slim percentage of the papers, before stretching over his desk so he can hand it to Amy. “He’s been in therapy on and off for years.”

“Oh my god.” Amy feels her heart sink a little lower as she examines the papers. “If we’d just been looking in the right place…”

“I know. I keep thinking that too.”

There’s a pause, the weight of this whole ugly thing hanging in the air. They’ve had a maniac under their noses the whole time, right in front of them. There’s no noise of the nine-nine to soften the blow, no even mild pride that they were even close to bringing Kristoff and his family to justice.

Amy looks at the clock on her phone. 5:13pm.

“My place?” She says out loud, standing up and swinging her bag over her shoulder. Jake looks at her oddly. “Not like that, obviously,” she sighs. “I don’t want to stop working.”

“No, neither,” Jake yawns, stretching in his chair.

She moves towards the doorway of Pembroke’s office, but finds she’s stopping herself, one hand on the doorframe. Behind her, she can hear the shuffling of Jake and his things as he prepares to follow her.

“Hey,” she says quietly, not looking back at him. “Can we just be normal tonight?”

It sounds far less like a question than a demand, she thinks, and perhaps that’s because that’s what it is. She still feels weird, and conflicted, and maybe a little hurt, and she’s sure he does too. Talking it through makes no difference, as proven by their conversation outside Julian’s. Besides- functioning on three hours of sleep and endless Clare-case horror stories, she’d rather die than talk about their relationship right now. She wants to work, and get something good out of this case, and rest.

“Yeah.” Jake’s voice is a little indignant, like he wouldn’t expect it any other way. He’s being nice.

Amy turns now to give him a small, tight smile, and walks out of the office.

The clean, polished interior of Major Crimes is, in the darkening early evening, lit by grim fluorescent lights. These offices are filled with strangers. Amy’s almost grateful; she feels ill with guilt.

As her fingers press the button to the elevator, the tiniest part of her wonders whether they’d have been in the right mindset, figured all of this out a little sooner, if only she hadn’t kissed Jake that night.

She doesn’t want to know.

***

“Ames, wake up.”

Jake’s voice is low.

Amy jolts upwards, her head hanging back. It’s fine- she wasn’t really asleep, just heading in that direction. Eyes closed, body begging for rest, all that nonsense.

“What time is it?” Her voice is a croak.

“Almost one in the morning,” he replies, rubbing his eyes.

“And we’ve got nothing.”

“No.”

Honestly? Amy kind of feels like crying. Perhaps that’s just the exhaustion and the interchangeable diet of either takeout or coffee every twelve hours. She leans forward and picks a piece of chicken out of a satay box. It’s not as good as it was two hours ago, but it’s food. Jake seems similarly deflated. Surrounded by papers, his eyes drift back and forth over the same things, not really concentrating. It’s a habit of his, when he gets stuck and won’t ask for help, one with which she’s all too familiar.

“What’re you looking at?”

“Uh. All the behavioural stuff. School records. Everything on the system.”

“Why?”

As soon as Amy’s asked this, she regrets it. Jake’s expression turns from tired confusion into disbelief.

“The same reason you’re still looking at your notes, Amy. We let a murderer slip through our fingers and end his own life before we could make sense of any of it, and now we want there to be another explanation.” He sighs. “I need coffee.”

He stands up and heads for the kitchen.

Amy’s never seen him like this. It’s not anger, per se, but it’s not far off. It’s like she can see every doubt and concern churning over and over behind his eyes. He’s tired. He’s stressed. And she completely understands. For a moment she’s filled with a little hope- if they can just repair themselves a little, know that they have this case in common and go back to normal, this entire mess doesn’t have to be in total vain.

“Maybe…” she follows him into the kitchen, leaning against the counter while he fiddles with her coffee machine, a seasoned professional. “Maybe we have to consider the possibility that Oliver would have done this whether we’d been onto him or not.”

Jake doesn’t reply to this- instead, his brows only seem to knit together more closely. She’s just added another thought onto whatever’s already brewing in his head.

“I just mean,” she adds softly, trying not to sound patronising, “I’ve been thinking about it and I think we’re being harsh on ourselves. It’s not our fault.”

Instantly, Jake’s looking at her, those dark eyes shooting straight into hers. For a moment that feels like forever, he doesn’t say anything, and Amy genuinely can’t fathom what he’s thinking. There’s some anger there, absolutely, but he mostly just looks lost.

“Amy, if we both feel guilty, and tired, and overworked, and we know our relationship is making this more difficult, then why aren’t we talking? I mean, y’know, we’re talking,” he stammers, “but not like we used to. Not normally. Even when we try.”

Amy feels her hands go clammy against the counter. Unfortunately, she’s been asking herself the same question for the last week or so, and the only conclusion she can come to is that they can’t find the right time to talk, which, honestly, seems a copout. She’s not wrong; they’re busy, and stressed, and under pressure, and adding the pressure of beginning a romantic relationship would just be ridiculous. But he’s right- they need to be able to lean on each other for support, and after the almost-incident at hers the other week, going near each other has felt a little risky.

“Because we had sex,” Amy says simply, “and sex ruins everything.”

Jake laughs weakly, but she can tell it’s genuine. The moment gives her hope, a small feeling of what they were like before this all happened. He sighs, a long, deep release, as if abandoning some of his anxiety, allowing his hands to find his eyes.

“I need sleep.” His voice is muffled, speaking into his palms.

“I think,” Amy steps towards him, snaking her arm around him and flicking off the coffee machine, “that’s a very good idea.”

They’re close. She can smell what’s left of his cologne, a masculine, warm scent, and it almost makes her shudder, breaking a drunken memory of that smell as close to her as humanly possible. But neither of them moves.

Amy can’t bring herself to look up at him- as cliché as it sounds, she knows she’ll kiss him on sight, or worse.

“Jake.” She steps back but avoids his gaze, fiddling awkwardly with her hands.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and still wonder what you’re thinking, or if I’ve ruined our friendship-”

“-you?”

“- so I feel like we should talk.”

“Me too.”

“Obviously, I have feelings for you.”

“You do?”

For a second she thinks he’s joking. When she finally looks up at him she realises he’s not.

“Yeah,” she says reassuringly. “We may not have the best timing, or make much sense, but… y’know…”

Her heart is pounding in her chest. She feels like she’s twelve years old.

“Yeah. I know. I like you too,” Jake says easily, a smile spreading across his face.

Amy smiles up at him. They enjoy this for a second, the first genuinely sweet moment they’ve shared in weeks.

“I think it’s pretty clear, what with everything that’s happened thus far…”

“Thus far,” Jake teases, his grin reappearing as he rolls his eyes. She hits his elbow, but inwardly thanks the stars he’s acting a little more like himself.

“… we know shouldn’t be starting something serious right now.”

“Yeah. We’ve learnt our lesson.”

For some reason, his willingness surprises her.

“But we do need to be there for each other, and work together, because that’s what we do best. We work this case and accept that sometimes there’ll be weird romantic things and we’ll need to move on, because…” she pauses, desperate to find the perfect words. “Because we deserve a chance to figure out what we are outside of this case.”

“Exactly,” Jake nods, apparently as relieved as her at whatever this resolution is. “For the record, once this case is really, actually over…” he fumbles for thought. “I’d totally have drunken sex with you in an elevator again.”

Amy snorts. She draws her hands over her cheeks, embarrassed, feeling how warm they’ve become. He laughs, too, and she catches sight of that huge, joyful grin, bringing her a true moment of peace.

“I can’t believe we did that.”

“I can.”

In the dim, occasionally flickering light of the kitchen, he smiles over at her.

She lights up.

***

After the moment they both need to get their breath back, Amy and Jake lie still, pressed against each other, no clear feeling of what to do next.

Jake wills himself to say something funny, ease the tension, but all he can focus on is the cold tile of Amy’s kitchen floor against his legs and her still very naked body underneath him. Suddenly he’s worried for his weight on top of her- He should move, he thinks, let her get up. When he’s rolled over she sits up, looking at h

“Didn’t we just agree not to do that?” She laughs weakly, pulling her shirt down from the counter and slipping over her shoulders.

“I mean, depending on how you look at it, that wasn’t serious,” Jake smiles.

Amy smiles back at him, pulling herself up off the floor. Her hands find her arms, rubbing them vigorously- she’s already cold, he realises, his chest lighting up affectionately.

“I should probably spray down these counters.” Her voice breaks into a laugh as she says this, like she can’t believe she’s saying it out loud, and Jake’s heart swells so hard he momentarily feels a little dizzy.

“What time is it?” He asks, following her as she pulls on the pyjama shorts she’d been wearing before all of this, trying not to ogle at her bare legs like the teenage boy inside wants him to.

“I don’t know, like… three? Where’s my phone?”

“Couch?”

“Right,” she smiles, tired, and heads back out towards the living area.

In his hands he holds the clothes he was wearing earlier on- a shirt, his hoodie, his jeans. He’s exhausted, and the idea of putting any of these onto his body again is almost distressing, which is impressive, seeing as he’s currently stood ass-naked in her kitchen while she dresses herself.

“D’you have any of my other clothes here?”

“Yeah, same place as usual,” she says, distracted as she digs around the couch cushions for her phone. He walks as stiffly as possible out of the room, conscious of his bare ass being the last thing she’ll see as he walks away.

Jake’s heart is hammering away in his chest, racing so quickly he’s not sure if he’s excited or anxious. He snakes around the counter and down the hallway towards Amy’s room- next to her dresser, on the floor, is the Jake Box, filled with whatever crap he’s left here over the years. Sweats, shirts, trash, and even, at one point, his badge.

He finds some suitable attire and pulls it on quickly, immediately pleased with how comfortable they are. For a moment his eyes go to her bed. If they’ve just had sex, surely that means he’ll be sleeping here tonight, right? The excited pumping in his chest turns to something more anxious, realising how many moments like this they’ll have if they begin dating. It’s not like he cares- he likes Amy romantically just a bit more than he loves their friendship, and has no hesitation about crossing that line- but he’s not hugely confident he’s the best at handling stuff like this. Every relationship he’s ever had has been strictly romantic. This is his best friend, and his colleague, and someone who probably doesn’t even know how much he cares about her. He can’t afford to screw it up.

The sheets are impossibly well-made, crisp and fluffy as though they’re brand new. Softly he brushes his fingers over them, curious, more than anything, subconsciously trying to picture what it’d be like to wake up here with her, live here with her. Which side of the bed is hers? Does he still hog the blankets? He should try not to. A noise from the kitchen snaps him out of it, which is when he notices she’s not yet appeared- she must still be looking for her phone.

The whole apartment is dark. As Jake approaches the living room Amy is methodically drawing the curtains, switching off the lamps, flicking off the TV. He smiles to himself- it’s like she’s putting her home to bed. The lights in the kitchen, too, are no longer cast out into the living area. Sure enough, there’s also a bottle of surface cleaner and a cloth on the edge of the counter. Just as well, he thinks, after the things they’ve just done on those surfaces. Amy works quickly.

“Hey,” he says quietly, moving over to where she stands by the window and slipping a hand around her waist. “Let’s go to bed.”

She twists so she’s facing him, and immediately he knows something’s wrong. He’s not sure what- she’s smiling up at him, leaning herself into him, but her eyes are far darker than usual, almost sad.

“Y’okay?”

“Mm,” she says, too quickly. She smiles a little meekly. “Tired.”

“Did you find your phone?”

“Oh, yeah. And yours,” she says, handing it to him. “C’mon, bed.”

Like that, she’s taken off, the sound of her bare feet against the floorboards creating an audible trail of her heading towards her room. He watches her, concerned. Maybe he’s overthinking, and she really is just tired.

When he opens his phone, guilt surges through his system.

(718) 499-8108

Hey. The other night after the bar was really fun. I don’t know if you remember giving me your number but we should do it again. S

He most definitely was not overthinking, and now god only knows what’s going through Amy’s head, if she’s even seen it. This lightens the load by the most miniscule percentage- Amy might not have seen this. But if she has, oh god, if she has, he may never forgive himself. He feels a little sick.

All he can think to do is find her, see if she says anything. If she hasn’t seen it then he’ll mention it tomorrow, assure her this woman was before anything had happened with her, and he hadn’t even told Charles about it, literally because he was so embarrassed about how little it meant to him-

When he reaches Amy’s room she’s passed out on top of the covers, clutching her pillow.

After he’s occupied the other side of the bed as quietly as he can manage, Amy twists over onto her back. Her hand reaches out lazily, her eyes still closed, and her fingers interlace with his.

At her touch his worries immediately melt away, and soon enough he finds himself drifting off alongside her, only the vaguest remainder of troubling thoughts left over in his head. Of only one thing he is certain:

He can’t mess this up.

***

A rare spot of afternoon sun filters through the window into the office, warming Amy’s shoulders. The day’s been long, and slow, and a little depressing- in all corners of the office the word is out that this case is over. No more media, no more theories, no more celebrities being probed for evidence.

After a morning re-evaluating every scrap of evidence they had left, they’d resorted to completing the finishing paperwork for the case. Emilia and Angelica were both notified that it was looking unlikely to impossible that anyone other than Oliver could have killed Kristoff, and Jake had even sworn he heard the Vulture talking about speaking to the press for a final time.

It’s over.

This angry, nasty little phrase keeps cropping up in Amy’s head, and, to put it shortly, it’s pissing her off. They’ll have to go back to the nine-nine with no semblance of success, knowing that Holt is probably disappointed in them. They were called in as his favours, and they’ve clearly let him down. The only potential benefit of this whole thing ending is the freedom they’d have to start seeing each other, romantically, and even that still feels complicated and daunting.

She hadn’t meant to look at his phone last night- it’s a newer model than hers, and the screen lit up when she picked it up. Her heart sank so hard she wondered if it might fall out of her ass. She’d needed him last night, and she knew he needed her too, so to think of him with another woman only minutes after they’d slept together was a little… much.

It could have meant anything- she couldn’t bring herself to confront him about it. He hadn’t said anything all day, so it doesn’t seem like it’s a big deal. Of all people, he’s not a cheater, and of this she’s completely certain, even with him receiving texts from another woman. The problem is that since they had sex that first night, they’re not, and never really have been together. They’re not boyfriend and girlfriend. They’re not in the beginnings of a relationship. Or maybe they are- the only thing Amy knows is that he likes her, and she likes him, and they can’t seem to keep their hands off each other. That, and that they’re going to try and be in an actual relationship once this is all over.

Across the room, he’s sat at his desk, his gaze darting concentratedly between the computer monitor and whatever paperwork he has in front of him. She’s not sure she’s ever seen him so focused in his life.

In the quiet, accepting this is all coming to a close, she lets her mind drift. So she’s had a huge professional screw-up, and it’ll almost definitely look bad on her record. But on the horizon is a romantic relationship with Jake, which does just about everything from shocking to scaring to exciting her, electricity bubbling in her core at the very thought of him. It’s like being a teenager and having her first real crush all over again, completely unable to keep him out of her mind. Except now she doesn’t have to fantasise about him; she’s felt every centimetre of him, and it only makes her want him more.

Her phone buzzes so violently on the table it makes her jump.

Jake looks up curiously, and rightly so- she never lets her phone go off at work. It’s an unrecognised number, but she recognises it, even if vaguely.

“Hello, Amy Santiago speaking.”

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Jake smile to himself, amused by her greeting. She ignores him.

“Hi, Amy, I know you’re busy. This is Emma-”

“Emma as in Emma the M.E.?!” Amy sits up.

“Right! We spoke a couple days ago. You reordered the autopsy for Oliver Clare.”

“I did,” she replies carefully, remembering her desperation. Internally she steels herself for the bad news. It was a dead end, but one she had to chase.

“I think you made a good decision, Detective Santiago.”

“Oh?”

“It’s not… definite, but you told us to look for anything.” There’s a small pause on the line. “I’ve found a small indentation at the back of his skull and a small mark above the nape of his neck, potentially signifying-”

“Oh my god,” Amy jumps up, now on her feet, earning a startled look from Jake. “He could’ve been hit.”

Emma keeps talking, explaining that they’re putting the report together right now, but that Amy is free to visit the office if she has any questions, but it doesn’t matter, because Amy’s hardly listening. All she can hear is exactly what she wants to hear, over and over and over again.

Oliver Clare was murdered.

#SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG !#I literally started writing this in september lol #rip #trigger warning for suicide btw #/ suicide #please if I've tagged that wrong someone warn me or let me know bc I want it to be right #anyway enjoy this literal bitch of a hellfic full of angst and fire and sex #my writing #jake x amy #jake x amy fic #b99 fic

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qulover · 6 years

Text

Booklet about TD and Matthew’s performance

Full work (including pics) is here: http://tieba.baidu.com/p/3546440861?pn=2

Here’s AB and me’s major work:

老实说，直到第3集我才觉得进入到Rust的Locked Room（被锁住的房间）。而在我看了你的许多电影作品之后，再次重看真探，才发现你的表演是如此细腻和深沉。

To be honest, I can' t get close to 95Rust's locked room until episode three. And after I had seem a lot of films and rewatch TD, I found how your performance was incredibly delicate and innovative is.

但我从12Rust一露面就迷恋上了他。比起你年轻时的容颜，我更爱你如今备受摧残的面容。

But I'm obsessed with 12Rust the first second he showed up. "I loved your face of a young man less than the one you have now, devastated."

你在2012时的眼神、肢体、表情和声音是如此自由和充满力量。第一次看时，在前两集总是迫不及待地要看到12Rust出现并继续他的游戏。你的声音和你平日完全不一样！也只有这样的声音才能驾驭这样的台词，如此（神圣divine）又尘俗，如醉如梦，又如此坚定不移，仿佛真理之声。

Every single tiny expression in your eyes, your body, your voice showed such unbelievable freedom and power. When I was first watching the first two episodes, I can't wait to see 12Rust show up and continue his monologue. Such a totally different voice from your own! And only such voice can command such lines, Which are Incredibly divine and extremely earthly, dreamlike but solid,like the sound of truth.

你对语言的驾驭能力怎么可以如此出神入化！！！经你的口说出来的台词不只是字句的组合。你赋予他们鲜活的生命。你这把声音有强烈的叙事能力和感染能力，令人仿佛身临其境。你是一个多棒的故事讲述者啊！你在字字句句中注入生命，以你的声音重塑了一个男人的世界。

Your command of words is unfuckingbelievable. Your voice delivers intensive and delicate emotions that moves audience. The way you describe an event is so vivid, enable audience create a picture of the event without watching it. What a a great storyteller you are!You give words and sentences lives, andestablish a specific world of a man by means of voice.

初版剧本（真希望Nic能公开最终版剧本）在12Rust谈及卧底生涯和妻女时是有闪回的。我不知道为什么Nic和Cary最后决定把所有闪回取消，也许是想着重两个时空，不再横生枝节。

In the draft script of the first episode (May Nic release the final version?) There are some flashback about Rust's family and his undercover life. I don't know why Nic and Cary decided to cut them all, maybe they want to focus on two spacetime.

但把这些闪回全部删掉是对的。观众从你的声音、眼神、肢体和表情中，就已经可以看到那些画面。他们在脑海中描绘出那些事，并深深理解那对Rust的影响。你的表演甚至比真的看到那些画面更令人觉得真实。要是闪回插来插去反而就打断你如此美妙的表演了。

It is right to delete all those flashback. Audience got enough information from your voice, eyes, body and face already. They can picture those events in their mind, and understand how the events influenced Rust by your solo. Your performance provided an even "realer" experience than showing the actual scenes. It would be a disgrace to let those flashback interrupt your enchanted performance.

Nic曾经说：“如果当初是比马修弱一些的演员来演科尔，我就不得不重写这个角色了。”但他却给你加了更多更奇怪的台词，可见他对你的信心，而你也没让他失望。

Nic once said "If we’d had a lesser actor than Matthew playing Cohle, I would have had to rewrite the role.". He write even more and stranger lines for you instead, he really count on you, and you did not let him down.

例如原剧本中“在另一些时刻，我认为我是在直视事物的本来面貌”变为了“绝大部分时刻我认为我已经摆脱了那感受，但在另一些时刻，我觉得自己仍沉溺于探索宇宙的神秘真相中”。后者更有cosmic humor的感觉，世界观也更恢弘，同时暗示了《真探》的两个大主题：“幻象与真实”和“主客位的错觉”。这句话要是出自弱一些的演员之口会非常荒唐可笑，但天啊你完美地驾驭到了，让第二集“Seeing Thing”在庄严神秘的气氛中终结。

For example, "And other times I thought I was seeing straight into the true heart of things." in the draft script becomes"most of the time I was convinced that I'd lost it. But there were other times,I thought I was mainlining the secret truth of the universe". The later one provides a sense of cosmic horror, a boarder worldview, and imply two of the themes of "TD": "illusion and reality" and "false illusion of subject-object ego”. It will be a ridiculous line when it come from a lesser actor's mouth, but omg you just delivered the line perfectly, made episode two"Seeing Thing" ended in a solemn atmosphere.

如果说之前我就对你塑造的12Rust五体投地的话，那看了前两集原剧本之后，我就更加五体陷地了。

Before I saw the first two episodes in the draft script,I had already admired you greatly for 12Rust,but now,I can't help admiring you with all my heart.

我知道12Rust要不是你演就不是我深爱的面貌了。

But for your performance,I know 12Rust would have been anybody but not the one I love deeply.

从原剧本中其实看不出编剧要12Rust的说话方式和姿态和95Rust相差那么大，但在屏幕上，12Rust时而严肃时而诙谐，如此风骚如此屌，全然不同。

From the original script,I can't find appreciable distinction between 12Rust and 95Rust.But on the screen,the manner and posture of 12Rust are totally changed,he alternates humor with severity,which is so charming and cool.

难怪Nic对你emotional和physical的转变叹为观止，他自己都未必想到那么具体。

No wonder Nic was surprised for your emotional and physical changes, even he might not have had such a specific picture in his imagination.

原剧本中可见，警探对他的第一印象是攻击性强，生人勿进，如孤狼般凶残的。

According to the craft script,the detectives' first impression of 12Rust was aggressive,dangerous and lupine.

到第二集原剧本才写到12Rust因为喝了酒才半放松，也就是说之前都是很绷紧的状态。

The script mentions that 12Rust became semi-relaxed with his beer until the episode two,which means he was tight before.

然而，在你的演绎下，他无疑是危险的，同时也是好整以暇，游刃有余的，一切尽在掌握之中。

However, in your performance,he was unmistakably dangerous, but he was also very laid back all the time. It seems everything is under his control.

他对警探的态度是好战的，具挑衅性的，但却像猫玩弄老鼠一般，而不因受压而抱有敌意的。他甚至有些轻松合作的样子，但是以一种无惧和无所谓的高姿态。（无所谓可能是装出来的）

Maybe he is belligerent, but not hostile,not out of pressure.He was like playing cat and mouse with the detectives.He was quite cooperative,but kept look down to the detectives out of fearless and careless. (Or "pretended" to be careless)

就像被审问的不是他，而是警探。

It looks like he was not being interrogated,they were.

难怪导演Cary说像12Rust这样的独白戏他是没有办法微控的。你完全掌控了这些戏，他只是让摄影机一直拍着。毫无疑问，你的表演使那个平淡的房间成为一个熠熠生辉的表演舞台。

That's why Cary said he can't micromanage a performance like that, you have your own ways of locating your character, bringing yourselves into character and letting yourselves out of it. All of those interrogation scenes were on your shoulders—he just let the camera go.No doubt, your performance turns a obvious room into a stunning showcase.

我留意到Nic有时谈起Rust会用“我认为”“我想”或“也许”，但你则对Rust的想法无比确定。有时创作者想保持神秘感，会留下一些空间让自己和观众想象。

I found Nic used"I believe", "I think" and "perhaps" sometimes when talk about Rust. In contrast, you always so certain you know Rust inside out. Creators may like to left something unknown about the character, leaves enough imagination room for himself and audience.

然而，一个表演者一定要想到创作者也没想到的地方，才能赋予角色以生命，使得创作者头脑中模糊的形象突然清晰：“他就是Rust！”他将不再觉得有他人选。我相信你就使Nic感到这般幸福。

However, a performer must think more than the creator wrote to make the character real, clarify the vague image in the creator's mind:"He IS Rust!". And realise that there is no anyone else can play this part. I am sure you made Nic feel such a great happiness.

很好奇你是有什麼时候加上「我认为自己是现实主义者」这句的，如果你在结局之前就把Rust洞察得那麼深，你简直是个天才。

I'm really curious about when did you want to add "I consider myself a realist", If you have this idea before Nic finish the final episode, you are a genius for real.

但我相信你和Nic在Crash和12Rust两个阶段是有分歧和冲突的。原剧本中“ 三年了，我无法让我公寓的墙壁停止窃窃私语，或者令地毯的纤维不再高声尖叫” 被删去了，不知道这是不是跟你认为Rust其实更享受Crash的生活形式有关？或者这是Nic根据你的voice而改写的？Rust确实不应该在两警探面前示弱。而取而代之的那段 “没有他妈的刑满之日，宝贝” ，你屌屌的神态真是太迷人了。Crash没有刑满之日，你对自己的惩罚也没有刑满之日，对此你选择自嘲而非自怜。

I believe there are some conflict between you and Nic though. For example, in the draft script, 12Rust said "Three years of that and I couldn’t get the walls in my apartment to stop whispering. Or the carpet fibers to quit their high-pitched shrieking..." It was deleted, I'm wondering if it was because you thought Rust enjoy Crash's life even more? Or it was Nic decided to retool it for your voice? Rust indeed should show no weakness in front of the detectives. This line replaced by "And there is no fucking expiration date, baby", which showed a charming swagger.Yeah, there is no fucking expiration date for Crash, and there is no fucking expiration date for Rust's punishment on himself as well.12Rust choosed self-deriding over self-pity.

我很庆幸他们把Crash时期的闪回全部删去，这令那时期更神秘。虽然Crash是我喜爱程度最低的状态，他依然叫我浮想联翩。

I'm glad that the flashbacks of Crash's life were deleted, it kept the history mysterious. Although Crash was the least favourite Rust's stage of mine, he still make my imagination run.

你的台词能力令人神魂颠倒，但其实你表演中的留白同样出众。说到女儿的死亡时，那阵沉默，空白的眼神，空白的脸，流露出最深最重的痛苦。你沉默的力量毫不比你语言的力量逊色。

Your command of words is fascinating, but the blank-leaving in your performance are amazing as hell too. When 12Rust was talking about the death of his daughter, that silence, that blanked eyes and face showed the deepest sorrow. Your power of wordless is as powerful as your command of words.

爱死你说北岸精神病院时那张嘲讽脸了。这种嘲讽态度也是原剧本没有的。或者这是Nic 加的？因为同样增加的还有95Rust跟Lucy说那段"I can do terrible thing to people with impunity"，我想这就是12Rust轻蔑北岸的原因。他不后悔杀了那几个流氓，但警察可以以精神病为由逃避法律制裁还是令Rust觉得很讽刺。

I love the scorn you showed when talking about "North Shore", there is no such an attitude in the draft script. Maybe it is Nic's intent, because there is one more related scene add: "I can do terrible thing to people with impunity" 95Rust said. Maybe that's why Rust contemned "North Shore", he did not regret that he had killed those outlaw, but a police officer run away from legal sanction is very irony to him.

另一个你和Nic可能的冲突是在於12Rust有没有打算自杀。

Another possible conflict between you and Nic is: Did 12Rust want to kill himself ?

Nic说： “科尔让马蒂很清楚地明白，他想死亡，并将这个案子作为死前必须先解决的事”后来似乎Marty是知道Rust想死所以瞒著Rust找警探合作？Rust在轰掉Errol，救了Marty后拔掉刀子也像是求死。

Nic said "Cohle makes clear to Marty that he wants to die and views this case as something he has to solve first." (at the end of episode seven?). Marty seems like he knew Rust wants to die, so he did not tell Rust he was cooperated with the detective? After Rust killed Errol and saved Marty, he pulled out the knife. It looks like he did want to kill himself, I mean, everybody knows such act will make you die faster!

但你在那本令我等粉丝垂涎的笔记中却写到 “...他绝不向失败低头。他不会发疯，也不会自杀。每一日，他都在与内心的魔鬼搏斗，他意识到这个过程会比他希望的长上很多” 似乎自杀这想法对12Rust来说没有95年时那麼吸引了。何况在他相信的永劫轮回理论里里，要是他自杀了，也只会在同样的人生中重生，不是依旧无法走出暴力和坠落的循环，依然失败了吗？

However, In you 450-page graph－which we fans wanted badly－you wrote " ...He will not accept defeat.He's not going become a madman,he's not going to kill himself. He wrestles the devil every day, and he realizes that this may last a lot longer than he ever hoped for." It seems suicide is not as attractive as it was in 1995 to Rust. What's more, in the theory(Eternal return) he believes, if he kill himself, he will reborn into the same life, so he will be failed to tie off the circle of violence and degradation, and it is defeat.

我知道"you own your man",但在对角色的理解跟编导发生矛盾时你是怎样处理的呢？Nic最令我费解的安排是让Rust离开案件整整八年，他逃走了，他「转移了视线」。这安排纯粹是为了让Rust过颓废的日子，且迅速衰老吗？很想知道你是怎麼理解的。

I know "You own your man", the most confused plot made by Nic is let Rust left his case for eight years, he ran, he"averted his eyes". Is Nic just want to make Rust having decadent lifeand aged quickly? How did you understand this plot?

综观你和Nic的访谈（当然我不能说我全部都看了），似乎你口中的Rust要比Nic的硬气。你的表演给Rust注入了一股强而有力的生命力。那是一种病态的，不健康的，生锈般的（rusting)生命力，却异常顽强，彷如地狱之火熊熊燃烧。

Having watch the interviews of you and Nic (Not all of them though), your Rust seems tougher than Nic's. You give Rust so much energy, and enormous vitality, a kind of sick, unhealthy, rusting vitality, but remarkably indomitable, like the raging fire from hell.

这种生命力使得Rust最后的苏醒也没那麼突兀了。无论是基於遗憾还是不甘於失败，还是只想看看自己有没有还清债，在「最后的十亿分之一秒」，他无法let go。他强烈的求死意志被更强烈的求生欲击败了。他离开他爱的家人和死亡，选择回到他痛恨的人类和生命之中。

Such vitality makes Rust's "reborn" more convincing. What' the reason? Regret? Not accept defeat? Want to make sure the debt is paied? However, "in the last nanosecond", he can't "let go". His strong death wish beated by his stronger instinct of being alive. He left family and death, which he loves, but come back to human race and ife, which he hates.

Nic在真探之前就有打算写一个虚无主义者，但他虽然喜欢看虚无主义的文章，自己却完全不是虚无主义者。而Rust也从来都不是一个真正的虚无主义者。虚无主义是「正确」的，但却是反人类感情的。而Rust天生就是个感情强烈的人。

Nic want to write a nihilist before TD, he enjoy article about nihilism, but he is not a nihilist, so did Rust. Nihilism is "true", but it is againest human's emotion. And Rust was born to be an emotionally intense man.

Rust的脑袋「知道」虚无主义者那一套是对的，但他黑白分明的是非观、严苛的道德观、异於常人的正义感和罪恶感都深深地烙印在他的身体上，完全跟混沌的虚无主义背道而驰。在他生命中每一次选择，每一次行动，他都更遵循身体本能而非脑袋。他从来都不是一个理智的男人。

Rust's brain "knows" Nihilism is true. But his black and white sense of wrong and right, strict moral code, extreme sense of justice and guilt is inside his body, they are his nature,such nature againest the void and ruleless nihilism.Throughout his life, he always let his body, not brain, to make decisions and take actions. He is never a rational man.

一直以来他都比Marty更坚定地站在正义的那一方，不是在嘴上，也不是在精神上支持，而是用行动永远站在正义的那一方。如Nic所言，是真正的英雄。

Rust always take the side of justice, firmer than Marty did. Not by means of words or thoughts, but action. As Nic said, he is a true hero.

《真探》的主题：混沌虚无和二元对立，都体现Rust矛盾的言行中。要表现出这种强烈的对立，同时又要令人信服地融合在一个人身上，相信这是真正存在的人是极难的。但你却超额完成了。

The contradiction of Rust's words and action embodied the themes of TD: "chaotic nihilism" and "binary opposition". To show such intensive opposition in one character, and make audience convinced that he is a real person, is really difficult. But you just marvelously made it.

我知道你不喜欢用那麼多形容词，其实我都快没词可用了。那麼多形容词都无法形容你表演之万一。这麼说吧，这是我看过最好的表演，第二名在一光年之外。

I know you don't like adjectives, in fact I'm almost run out of them. No matter how much adjectives I used, they cannot describe how great your performance is. Let's put it this way, it is THE best performance I've ever seen, the second place may be one light-year away.

除了真探之外，我认为你最好的表演是《达拉斯买家俱乐部》和《杀手乔》。

Aside from True Detective,I think "Dallas Buyers Club"＆"Killer Joe"are your best performances.

那是两种完全不同方向，但是差不多水平的表演。（但我相信拍摄时后者应该是更难的）相同的是你即使演这麽戏剧性的角色还是那麽自然。

They are two contradictory performances, but both of them maintained the highest quality.(playing Ron must be more difficult though)Your acting was very natural, despite the roles are very dramatic.

DBC是一个要令观众走入主角内心，感他所感，想他所想的表演，你把Ron每一刻的情绪都细腻丰沛地表现出来，令观众理解和感动，对这无赖逐渐由轻视变为敬佩。

The performance in DBC intended to let audiences come into Ron's heart,share his will and woe.You showed Ron's emotions delicately and powerfully in every moments, Thus the audiences are totally understood and moved,their contempt to a "redneck" shaded into admiration.

《杀手乔》的表演却完全不同，如你所说他不要跟任何人好好相处，其实也包括观众。

But the acting in Killer Joe is completely different from DBC,as you said,Joe didn't need to get on well with anybody,actually,including the audiences.

他的任务就是完全震慑观众，完全把观众挡在他的心门外。

His mission is frighten the audiences,keep them out of his door.

他必须深不可测，不轻易表露情感，即使表露也不是以正常人的方式。

He must be unfathomable,cautious to express feelings,and even if he did,it's in an abnormal way.

观众愈是无法理解他，无法预料他会做什麽，就愈是恐惧他。

The more unfathomable and unpredicable he is,the more terrified audience are.

我想对表演者来说，在《杀手乔》这种角色、这种电影，比起挖掘内心，更要考虑的是自己在观众眼中的效果。可能这也是你在sag的conversion with Matthew McConaughey中说乔没有repertoire的意思？比起流露感情，维持那股神秘感和气势似乎更重要。

I guess when an performer act such a role in such kind of movie, he may consider more about how to maximize his effect on audience than explore the character's heart. May be that's why you said Joe did not have repertoire?To keep mysterious and awesome seems more important than express emotions.

除了鸡翼那段邪典经典外，我还有两幕特别喜欢的。一个是Joe由温柔哄多蒂出来到命令她换衣这段……

Aside from that classic cult scene, the chicken scene, there are two scenes I like in particular. First is, from Joe gently encourage Dottie come out the room, to order her to exchange clothes.......

天啊我居然有几分钟真的以为他是个真心喜欢上多蒂的痴情温柔的好青年……

OMG there are several minutes I truely believe he was a gentle man who seldom in love with anyone did in love with Dottie........

这种反差，这种无法预测，差点把我吓哭。前一秒他还表现如此真诚，似乎女主是他最宝贝的人，下一秒却对她做出最可怕的事。更难得的是你转换得如此自然，浑然天成。

The contrast , the unpredictability you showed scared me out of my wits. Just a second before, he was so nice and sincere, and treated Dottie like she is the most valuable treasure he ever found, then he did the most terrible thing to her. Your shift from gentle to scary was incredibly natural.

另一幕是晚餐戏。显然你没有把Joe演成扁平化的变态，从这幕可以看出他对家庭满满的向往。他假装这是一次家庭晚餐，但那只是他以命令的方式构筑的假象，他就像一个不知道正常家庭为何物的小孩强迫别人扮演他的家人，他们当然不是他的家人。

Another scene is the dinner scene. It is obvious that you didn't play Joe as a flat freak, we can see Joe really yearn for family from this scene. He want to make it like a family dinner, but it was just an illusion build up by his orders. Of course they are not his family, he was like a child have no idea what a normal family look like, and force others to playing house with him.

所以当最后Joe最后知道他爱的女人为他生下真正的家人时，你认为那时Joe的救赎，他是狂喜的，而不是导演认为的恐惧。

Therefore, when Joe knew the woman he loves will give born to his real family, you think it will be a deliverance to Joe, so he looks ecstasy, but not scared, which suggested by the director.

最后，《杀手乔》的导演真是把你拍太华丽了⋯⋯

By the way, I must thank Mr. Friedkin, you look gorgeous in "Killer Joe"........

《达拉斯买家俱乐部》完全是由表演撑起来的电影，你在片中的表演真是好到令人心碎，你的电影角色里我也最喜欢Ron。Ron他的缺点多到数不完，但我爱坚强的人，而他简直坚不可摧。

Performance is everything in "Dallas Buyers Club", and your performance is heartbreaking, Ron is my favourite character in your films. Ron had hundreds of defects for sure, but I love strong man, and he is almost invincible.

他如此低俗又如此高贵，为生命拚尽全力奋斗至最后一分一秒，绽放出最耀眼最朴实无华的人性光辉。我无法说出哪幕演得最好，全程都如此难忘，尤其是那对表达出各种浓烈感情的眼睛。

He was so vulgar and noble at the same time. He was fighting for life with all his strength, illuminated the most primordial brilliance of humanity. I can't point out one best scene, it was so unforgettable from the beginning to the end, your eyes did a great job.

从Ron出现的那一刻，一个的低下阶层的市井流氓就跃然於银幕上。后来到在图书馆确定自己染上HIV，跟医生争辩，在车内绝望崩溃，重拾希望从墨西哥驶回德州，装牧师过关，重创於机场洗手间，在超市为Rayon讨回公道，Rayon死后去医院大闹，嫖妓时由意图放弃的恍惚到振作起来的痛苦，最后跟女医生的剖白……

A coarse redneck was appeared vividly on screen when the first time Ron showed up. Such great performance followed by serial amazing scenes: confirmed he was HIV-positive in library, negotiate with the doctor, desperated in the car, bounced back in mexico and drive to Texas, pretended to be a priest, suffered in theairport toilet, do Rayon justice in the supermarket, gone mad in hospital after Rayon died, gone painfully clear-headed from give-up absent-minded in front of a prostitute, confessed with the doctor at the end......

精彩之处不胜枚举，从头到尾人物的情绪是多麼丰沛又真实地表现出来，令观众都深受感动，难怪家属更是难以承受了。

Every scene is wonderful and real, the emotion of the character was bleeding. No wonder it was unbearable for Ron's family, even audience who know nothing about Ron would be deeply deeply touched.

虽然我说《杀手乔》和《达拉斯买家俱乐部》是南辕北辙的表演方式，但其实你在《真探》就完美揉合了这两种方式，兼具震慑力和感染力，既神秘莫测又感人至深。

Although I think "Killer Joe" and "DBC" are two contradictory performances, but you actually combine these two kinds of acting in TD, Rust was oppressing and expressing, unfathomable but emotional.

纯粹以演技来说，你是我最爱的演员。你每个表演都充满力量，活力四射，你沉静的力量更是愈来愈强大。热切期待你往后演的所有角色！Just keep acting！祝你和你家人幸福美满！

In terms of acting, you are my favourite actor. All your performance is so powerful and dynamic. You power of silence is getting greater and greater. I would love to see you act in every character.Just keep acting! Wish you and your family all the best!

P.S.特别想你演马修斯加德。或者在一部古装欧洲宫廷电影中演哑巴？（lol)说真的，我觉得你的长相很古典，相当适合演⋯⋯

P.S. Would love to see you play Matthew Scudder particularly. Or maybe play a dumb in a european historical movies?(lol) Seriouly, I do think you have a classical face to play such movies.

#matthew mcconaughey #hey mcconaughey

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insignem · 3 years

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Have an absurdly long review of The Starless Sea?? I usually don’t actually write reviews of books that I read, but my frustration and mixed feelings towards this one compelled me to. Spoilers ahead.

2.5 stars? It wasn't terrible, though it did make me almost throw it down several times in rage due to its execrable punctuation (learn how to use a semicolon, lady!! you're clearly addicted to writing sentences that require them!) It's like all the punctuation was downgraded one level - commas where semicolons were needed and nothing where commas were needed - and I'm baffled at how this book got past an editor. I think maybe a case of the author feeling like it's her "style" when in fact it's just poor writing - I’m all for playing with the ‘rules’ of grammar when writing stylistically, but this is NOT that (something about how you have to know the rules to break them). It’s clearly meant to be beautiful, dreamlike language, but it’s inconsistent and creates some of the flattest, clunkiest prose I’ve had the displeasure of reading in published fiction. It made it difficult to enjoy; I usually read quite fast, so without the punctuation marking pauses in the text for my brain I felt like I was just barreling over it and it was... unpleasant. The audiobook helped matters LOTS because the narrator actually put the pauses in where they needed to be, and ultimately listening to it versus reading the text actually made it tolerable for me to finish the book. It's not that she's a bad writer, exactly - she certainly does well with description/vivid settings/ creating an ~atmosphere, and while I wouldn't exactly say that her prose was beautiful/poetic as she clearly wants it to be, it was certainly pleasant when read by the audiobook narrator. I've seen criticism of her characters, which wasn't one of the low points for me - I liked them all and found them all interesting; I would have certainly liked to learn more about them, but it wasn't a huge issue for me. They were people, but they also were "metaphors" as she so kindly announced over and over again; archetypes meant to play certain roles. Zachary's passivity didn't bother me, exactly - American Gods was one of my favorite books for a while, and I saw shades of Shadow in him (though I would argue that Shadow's passivity and subsequent awakening in the final act plays more of a relevant plot role than Zachary's here). Could/should the love story have been more developed? 100%, but I also didn't feel like we're meant to believe they're madly in love with each other yet, just that they see that potential in the other and want to the opportunity to give it a go. I do wish she'd interwoven Kat's story a little more through the middle part of the book, as she's clearly far more pivotal at the end than the story sets her up to be. Mirabel seeks out Kat before the events of the book?? How did that not come up? She literally just tells her everything about the Harbor and the Starless Sea?? If Mirabel had sought out Zachary in the past but he only accidentally stumbled across Sweet Sorrows, why didn't she try to move that along a little more? I guess it wasn't necessarily an accident that the Keating Foundation donated Sweet Sorrows to the school the son of the fortuneteller would end up at - not too farfetched to think that they could have seen that coming I guess - but it seems weird to me that Mirabel needed both Kat and Zachary to accomplish her goal, but doesn't actually prod Kat into action, despite telling her everything else, and also doesn't seek out Zachary as an adult until he arrived at the party... and then basically tells him as little as possible! Possibly because she knew he needed to die, and she didn't think he would go through with it if he knew, which is too reminiscent of HP for my tastes - especially their talk in the bee-created ballroom at the end; SUPER reminiscent of the king's cross albus/harry convo. Obviously the book is full of allusions to literature, and of course stories have similarities (it's in their nature!!) - but this was too similar; it felt less allusive and more (maybe accidental) copy-cat. Plotwise: I don't necessarily mind that this isn't really a plot-driven book. Setting and atmosphere are definitely the primary point - like EM thought of a place and sort of vaguely designed a story around it to justify writing a novel about this place -and the world she creates is certainly compelling. I would have liked the logic of it to be fleshed out more - it reminded me of a dream where it makes total sense when you're in it but once you wake up, you realize that it didn't really make any sense at all. Maybe that was her intention, but it felt like lazy worldbuilding to me - there needs to be an internal logic, and I got the sense that she didn't actually put much effort into thinking it all through because she didn't want to or feel like she needed to. For example, Zachary was stabbed through the heart. Dorian had a beating heart in a box. Did he rip open Zachary's rib cage, remove his heart, and place the new heart inside?? and then he just magically healed? she clearly didn't want to think about the mechanics of that scene, so she just skipped over them. Same deal with the Harbor needing to end so it can be reborn - sure, that's plausible, but she doesn't bother explaining, even vaguely, why Zachary needs to go all the way down to where the sea has receded with the book that was lost in time and the bees and be the key and be dead and blah blah blah in order for that to happen. Like, she clearly thinks the pieces are there, but there's no reason for them! I did like all the frame stories that explained the history and stories of the place; some of them were quite compelling, and perhaps would have worked better as an actual collection of short stories. I think she's better at creating a coherent narrative for a short story than for a 500-page novel. But ultimately, this book fell flattest to me when it came down to its core concept: EM tried to write a novel-length love letter about stories and storytelling, and neither tells a coherent story herself nor makes any coherent statement on their importance, other than vague, pretty, quotable lines that don't really add up to anything. I think a book that's not particularly plot- or character-driven needs to be really clear on its theme, and this one is not. But it simultaneously gives you the strongest sense that it THINKS its telling this really coherent, compelling meta meditation on the importance of stories, which just struck me as unearned self-satisfaction from an author that thinks she's a better storyteller than she is. I feel like people want to argue that it's MEANT to be vague and for you to interpret how you wish, but there's literally the whole scene towards the end where Kat thinks about the story Mirabel is telling her and it's such an incredibly heavy-handed attempt at summing up the themes EM is trying to get at: "I remember the space more than the story that went with it" "endings are what give stories meaning... I think the whole story has meaning but I also think to have a whole story-shaped story it needs some sort of resolution... a goodbye. I think the best stories feel like they're still going, somewhere, out in story space. I remember wondering if this story was an analogy about people who stay in places or relationships or whatever situations longer than they should because they're afraid of letting go or moving or the unknown, or how people hold on to things because they miss what the thing was even if that isn't what the same thing is now... Or maybe that's just what I got out of it and someone else hearing the same story would see something different." "I don't remember the whole story... because the story didn't seem as important as the teller or the stars in that moment when it was being told. It seemed like something else. Not something you could hold on to." Well, there you have it! How cleverly did EM just lay out for you exactly what she is trying to accomplish with this whole book/her ~thesis! Lol. And despite her bit about the best stories feeling like they're still going on out in story space, I also think, with a novel like this, you really need to stick the landing, and this one didn't. I know she'll claim that she left it purposefully vague and up to interpretation, but again, it's the laziness of the worldbuilding - if you're going to weave this web of disparate threads, you need to really bring the together cohesively at the conclusion. I still had hope up until around page 470 that she was going to do that, but then I realized there simply weren't enough pages left and knew I would be disappointed. I know she wants us to imagine where the story goes next, but I was personally a little dissatisfied that we didn't at least get to see Kat and Zachary reuniting in the new Harbor, among other things. I also realize throughout this review that I've been referring heavily and disparagingly to the author, which I would argue that in a good book is hardly necessary, because the story and the characters speak for themselves. In this book, they did not, and the author and her own self-satisfaction were far too present throughout for my tastes. A couple more random things: Jesus these characters drink a lot! No judgement, but I swear alchohol was like the most prominent recurring thing in the book, more than bees or keys or swords or hearts or time or fate or anything else! I did really like the discussions of video games as storytelling and stories being told through different mediums, and how the player of a video game has a more active role in the story than the reader of a book does. I think the honey is more metaphorical than literal - like it's pollinated off of bits of stories and such - but thinking of of viscous, sticky, sweet-smelling honey everywhere made me gag a little - it was not the dreamy image for me that I think she wanted it to be. Though I did put honey in my tea this morning, so I guess it did make me want to eat some, lol. Also finishing the book randomly made me want to listen to the Panic! at the Disco album Vices & Virtues for the first time in YEARS - the vibes definitely match, so if you want a soundtrack for your reading, check it out. Sample lyrics: "I will come back to life/But only for you/Asleep in the hive/I guess all the buzzing got to me." ALSO lol at Dorian reading The Secret History and Zachary/Kat attending a college in Vermont. LOL. (personally amusing because I was a classics major at a college in VT - one with a Jterm - and my general meh-ness at Tartt's book, despite the fact that you'd like it was made for someone like me - too clearly written by a non-classics major imagining what studying classics would be like for my tastes, and also because I think EM fancies herself like DT after the success of The Night Circus when both of these authors NEED BETTER EDITORS who are actually willing to make them tighten up their books!) I listened to TNC on audiobook years ago and remember being dissatisfied with the ending after all the buildup as well, but little else. It certainly didn't linger with me, but I'd been hearing such good things about this one, and I wanted to give it a try. I'm not disappointed that I did, but I really, really wish that this book had lived up to its promise and had been told by a better storyteller.

#the starless sea #reading #books #storytelling

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jikook-love · 7 years

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Heartwrecker

CHAPTER 14 | atonement

Love had always been a literal game to Jeon Jungkook. His targets would be the playing pieces, and their emotions the mere obstacles he had to seduce, manipulate and alter through his acts. Win their hearts? Win the game. But when Taehyung asks Jungkook to deal with the relationship of his childhood best friend Park Jimin, Jungkook quickly discovers that "love" isn't at all as simple as he thought would be...

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Hazy lights, and loud music played vividly in background as the world spun around him in a dreamlike state. Unfamiliar hands grazed his covered skin, taking advantage of his drowsy state, touching what didn’t belong to them. How much alcohol had he consumed up until now? It’d be a miracle if he could even remember how he’d gotten here in the first place. It’d been like this for awhile now, night after night after night. Repetitive and mundane, yet the only way he could afford to keep his state of mind—by forgetting. He remained seated, lounging almost, on the torn up red leather couch, his body limp and his eyes faded.

One of the bolder ones suddenly got on top of him, straddling him with her uncovered legs. He remained compliant, not even bothering to shuffle in discomfort. He merely turned his head away, but allowed her to do whatever she wanted.

Why should it matter? Nothing mattered anymore.

She called the name that he had told her awhile ago and he finally obliged to look at her. She immediately took advantage of this, grabbing his face and slamming her lips onto him. He could vaguely hear the shrieks all around them, cries of jealousy followed by aggressive tugging to give them a chance as well. He ought to have felt disgusted. At the very least, he should’ve pushed her away.

But of course, he felt absolutely nothing.

Not even as she was trying to pry his lips open. There was no sensation, not even a tingle. Nothing. It was as if his body had gone numb a long time ago. He let her push him deeper into the couch, trace his cheeks and doing whatever she thought was pleasuring him. But it was all on the contrary.

At last, she pulled away, having satiated her greed. Before anyone else could clamber onto him, he tugged himself away from their grasps, hearing whines of anguish and grief as he straightened his jacket and stumbled his way over to the bar.

“Bartender! What should I drink next?!” he drawled to the best of his ability. When he was given no immediate answer, he pointed to the drink of the customer sat next to him and said, “Give me that one.” Despite the subtle concern, the bartender obliged, grabbing the liquors and proceeding to make the drink.

“Don’t you think you’re causing too much of a scene in a classy place like this?” entered a new voice.

He looked up to see a woman sitting right beside him, hand pressed again her chin as she watched him intently. She was wearing red lipstick that matched the shade of her drink. The slight smirk on her ruby lips indicated that she found him more amusing than irritating.

The man nodded at her. “Why does it matter to you anyway?”

“It does actually,” she responded casually. “I came here to have a quiet drink before meeting up with someone, yet here you are, drinking up the entire bar and flirting with every girl in the palce.”

He tilted his head, finally absorbing what she looked like. Suddenly, he leaned forward, smiling deviously as he barely trespassed into her personal space.

“You seem different from the other girls,” he spoke smoothly. “How about you ditch your date and come with me for a while? Let’s go have some fun. Just the two of us.”

“No thanks,” she replied at once. “I’d prefer not to be a scapegoat for all the self-pity you’re dealing with right now.”

He was taken aback. He hadn’t been refused for a while, not like this. Not since he’d fully adapted this alter-ego of his, venting his distress by displaying himself as an amorous man in search of fulfilling his desires.

“Self-pity?” he asked.

She smiled again, the redness of her lips haunting him momentarily. “Isn’t it obvious?” she asked. “You’re repenting right now, acting like such a sorry person. Going out every night, drinking even though you don't even like to drink, dousing the pain to ease the emptiness within you, and tonguing everyone you meet to declare to the world that you’ve truly given up on love. It’s quite obvious really, and you should give up, cause no one’s really watching you. You’re just ruining yourself.”

He stared at her, not entirely sure how to respond to her harsh accusations.

“What makes you say that?” he glared, wanting an explanation for her sharp words.

She tilted her head to look at him, smiling once again.

“Jeon Jungkook,” she said.

Despite his drunken state, he froze up at the sound of his true name. “How do you know my—”

“You’re heartbroken, aren’t you? Completely and utterly shattered.”

He stared at her with wide eyes, sobriety momentarily returning at once. He suddenly felt extreme resentment towards her, for fully conjuring the image of the one he’d tried so hard to forget. But he knew, he always secretly knew that that person had never left his mind at all, always laden in the depths of his subconscious, haunting him and constantly punishing him for his betrayal. It brought a chill to his body, and before he knew it, he was on his feet, staring at her in horror.

She wasn’t even looking at him at anymore, as she typed away on her phone and smiled elatedly to herself, satisfied by the reaction she’d evoked in him.

“Ah, well, he’s waiting for me outside,” she said nonchalantly. She tucked her phone away before looking him in the eye and saying, “I’d get this whole situation fixed if I were you, before you go completely crazy.”

He said nothing, as she swung her purse onto her shoulder and prepared to leave the bar.

“Oh! One more thing,” she said abruptly.

He wondered what more she could say when she suddenly pointed at the counter top behind him.

“You should put your ID away, by the way,” she said courteously. “Wouldn’t want to lose that, Jungkook.”

One last smile, and then she was finally gone, out the door to pursue a future that was most definitely more hopeful than his own.

Her words echoed in his mind.

“You’re heartbroken, aren’t you? Completely and utterly shattered.”

No. She’s wrong, he thought to himself with reassurance. That wasn’t love. That was…something else. Entirely.

At that very moment, the bartender placed down a glass of deep red liquid, reminiscent of the colour of the lady’s lips, the mouth that had spoken all those accusatory words.

“I’d get that fixed if I were you, before you go completely crazy.”

He stared at the glass for a few minutes, contemplating a complex mess of thoughts inside his head.

But then within the next second, he had already grabbed the glass, mixing the contents inside.

Eyes lidded and lips parted, he downed it all it in one gulp.

Jeon Jungkook left the bar in a miserable state: hair tousled, clothes dishevelled and no rhythm to his walk. He seemed hopeless, and so different from the person he’d been only a month ago. He walked alone, beneath the somber night, with only the dim street lights to shine his way. And for some reason, despite his numbed state, his chest felt unbearably painful, as if an invisible hand was squeezing his heart tightly from the inside.

Ever since that self-righteous lady spoke to him he couldn’t stop thinking about that person. Even when those girls were crooning in his ears he pushed them all away, despite their persistence. All he could think about was that smile, that smile that once had the power to light up his entire world, but was a smile he would never see again.

And it was all his fault. Right from the beginning, he should’ve never gotten involved. He should never have waited until the very end to realize that a sleazy, cheating con man like himself could never be with such a charming and kind-hearted person. He should’ve realized it from the moment he laid eyes on that person. He should’ve known his place—he was worthless, and he had nothing.

I could never make someone like him happy.

As if still trapped in his deepest nightmares, the sound of that person’s laughter resonated through his ear, the melody akin to a siren’s call—the only sound that could heal his abandoned heart. Jungkook daringly raised his head for the first time upon exiting the bar, wanting to properly take in his surroundings.

And that’s when he saw him.

Jungkook’s eyes widened as he saw a familiar silhouette in the distance. It couldn’t be. Instinctively, he stepped in the direction of the person standing in the distance. It was clearly a well-dressed man, with black hair and short but proportionate stature. His face was turned away from Jungkook, so he couldn’t be sure, but every thing else was so reminiscent that he even felt his heart skip a beat or two.

No way…

He was about to retreat in the opposite direction and walk away before the person could see him, but it was too late. The person turned around and looked Jungkook squarely in the eye, his face fully revealed underneath the street lamp perched above him.

Jungkook breathed a sigh of relief.

It isn’t him.

But for some reason, this stranger kept staring at Jungkook, with slanted eyes that reminded him way too much of the person who he'd once left. Before he even realized it, he was rooted to the spot by the person’s gaze, controlled by a stimulating combination of supressed desires and nostalgia. And even when he was approached by the man, he remained still, not moving an inch.

“You look like a deer in the headlights,” the stranger said. “You alright, boy? Not lost or anything?”

He really does look like... Jungkook couldn’t help but think to himself upon seeing the man up close.

Stiffly, Jungkook shook his head. “No, I—I’m fine. Just a little…out of it.”

The man brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes, not too differently from how that person used to do it. Jungkook felt drawn to him, even in the slightest. And when the man gazed him up and down with his sharp eyes, he seemed to notice this.

“You should go home, boy,” the man said, his voice deeper than how Jungkook remembered Jimin’s. “It could be dangerous. You know what this place is, don’t you?”

When he noticed that Jungkook looked confused, he continued by himself, nodding to a bar across the street.

“That right there is a hotspot for guys like me,” he spoke slowly. “We come out to find other men to hook up with to ease a lonely night. You should leave before they mistake you for their prey…”

And then he noticed Jungkook gazing in the direction of the bar, almost as if he was contemplating to go inside.

His eyes sparked eagerly as he stepped closer to Jungkook, who was immediately startled.

“…unless you’re one of us, you cute little bunny,” he murmured. He was close enough that Jungkook could smell the cigarettes on his breath. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t get quite so lucky in there tonight, so how about you come with me tonight and restore my luck, hmm? I’ve been looking for a cutie like you for quite some time now.”

Jungkook hesitated, staring at him with wide eyes. “Well, I—uh—”

“I’m your type, aren’t I?” he edged on. “I could feel you staring from all the way over there. Come on, bunny, I’ll make you feel so good. You definitely won’t regret it.”

He positioned himself so that Jungkook was forced to look him in the eye again. Jungkook felt his breath hitch in his throat when his brain connected the resemblance once again.

Those eyes…

What difference did it make at this point? He didn’t know if it was the post-haze of the alcohol or his actual brain thinking at this point but perhaps this stranger was the exact thing that Jungkook had been looking for this whole time.

The only person that could restore at least a tiny bit of his empty heart, with no commitment whatsoever.

Hesitantly, Jungkook nodded. The man smiled kindly, opening his arms and allowing Jungkook to slowly walk himself into them. His embrace was warm, much warmer than Jungkook expected him to be.

“There we go,” the man sighed happily, running his fingers through Jungkook’s hair (which, surprisingly, didn’t feel too bad). “I’ll definitely make you satisfied, little one.”

“Jungkook? Is that you?”

Jungkook reopened his eyes, pushing himself away to see a familiar young man staring at him disbelief.

“Yoongi hyung?!” Jungkook gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“I could say the same thing about you, you disappearing bastard,” Yoongi snarled. “And who the hell’s this guy?”

“I—I don’t know,” Jungkook stuttered. “I—I just met him so—”

Yoongi glared furiously at the stranger standing between them. “Get the fuck out of here, you perverted creeper,” he shouted angrily.

The man was extremely startled. “What the hell, man? I was just—”

Yoongi was pointing accusing fingers at this point. “I know your shitty type, you come out at night to lure out unknowing young boys, don’t you? You sick pervert.”

“I didn’t do anything! Just ask your friend, I was just—”

“I said, get the fuck out of here. Before I spit on you.”

Horrified, the stranger stared, petrified, at Yoongi for a second before immediately bolting away into the darkness, never to be seen again.

“That was a little harsh, don’t you think?” Jungkook mumbled, as stably as he could.

“What? You think trash like that deserves anything better?” Yoongi was still grumbling.

“To be fair, I did come onto him a little…” Jungkook said, scratching the back of his neck.

Yoongi nearly snapped his neck turning around to look at Jungkook. “Are you serious? Why?” He paused for a moment, recollecting himself, recalling there were more urgent situations at hand.

“Anyways, I’m so glad I bumped into you here—where have you been for the past month, anyway?” Yoongi asked firmly, grabbing onto Jungkook's shoulders. “Taehyung’s been worried sick about you. Says you haven’t been going to class and every time he tries to visit your apartment, you’re not there. Despite the fact that it’s you guys, I feel like this is more than just an elaborate game of hide and seek. So what’s up, kid? Tell me what’s wrong.”

The young boy twirled about on his feet, not wanting to answer. As glad as he was that Yoongi just saved him from what could’ve been a horrible predicament, he was quickly beginning to sense the burden which came with consoling in others—it was hard to tell who really cared, and who were merely feigning concern in order to expose weaknesses.

“I’ve just been out and about. Enjoying youth,” Jungkook shrugged. “Having fun.”

Yoongi scoffed, glaring at Jungkook in frustration. “You crazy bastard, you call this fun?” he scowled. “Look at yourself!” Yoongi’s fingers gestured towards Jungkook’s subpar and messy appearance. “You were never like this before…”

Yoongi’s voice trailed off, as he caught sight of something on Jungkook’s clothes. Stepping closer, he grabbed onto the collar of Jungkook’s black jacket and pulled it back to reveal a bright pink stain on the white collar of the dress shirt beneath.

“What’s this about?” Yoongi murmured. “Don’t tell me some girl’s got you on a leash?”

“It’s not like that!” Jungkook snapped, tugging his jacket back and pulling himself away from Yoongi.

“Really then? Whose lipstick is that?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? How many girls could you have…” Yoongi’s voice trailed off as he began to consider what Jungkook could’ve been up to these past nights.

“Jungkook…” Yoongi spoke slowly, approaching him with careful steps. “What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong. I know you’re not usually this kind of person.”

The words flipped a switch within Jungkook, as he suddenly surged with the courage to fight back.

“How do you know I’m not this kind of person?” Jungkook asked, his tone reaching a precarious edge. “Since when did any of you guys care anyway? You all knew what I did for a living, yet not one of you dared to tell me it was wrong.”

“What are you talking about?” Yoongi asked, flabbergasted. “You said you only broke up couples who deserved to be that way! Don't make it sound like you were some sort of...prostitute or something.”

Jungkook clenched and unclenched his fists, speechless for a moment. It was true. He had managed to convince everyone—including himself—that what he was doing was for the greater good somehow. That breaking up all those couples would make the world a better place in some way.

He snorted to himself—he should’ve known better than to play hero at his age.

“Hyung…can we stop talking about this, now?” Jungkook grimaced. “I have a headache. Please.”

But Yoongi wasn’t about to back down so easily. “No. Not until you clearly explain to me why you haven’t been going to school for nearly a month and no one knows where the hell you’ve been. I swear to god I had to trade away all my luck for the rest of the year in order to find you here tonight. So tell me everything, before you run off again.”

“What if I don’t wanna talk right now?” Jungkook mumbled, stumbling over his shoes again as he tried to walk away. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Since when did you become such a disrespectful asshole?” Yoongi grumbled. “You’ve had too much to drink, you idiot. Now stop acting like a problem child and tell me now, or I’ll punch it out of you.”

“Good night, hyung,” Jungkook mumbled as he turned away. “I’ll see you later…”

“Jeon Jungkook, I’m asking you one last time.”

“…or never,” Jungkook mumbled under his breath. His steps quickened, to allow himself to disappear into the darkness for good. They were foolish. All of them. They were all talk—not one of them had ever done a thing to pull him away from this hell.

“JUNGKOOK!”

The bellow caused Jungkook’s entire body to shiver, and he no longer felt at ease like before. His entire body tensed up, preparing for the punch that Yoongi had promised.

But instead, he felt a pair of warm arms wrap around, fastening tightly and not letting go.

“Let me go!” Jungkook yelped. He found that he had no strength to resist despite that Yoongi was supposed to be much smaller and lighter than him. It was two men, struggling in the middle of the streets at an hour way past midnight, with no one else to witness the ridiculous scene.

“Nope,” Yoongi replied. Hanging on with one hand, he fumbled into his pocket and pulled out his phone, calling someone that was quite obviously near the top of his speed dial.

“Hey, where are you right now?” Yoongi asked. “Can you come help me for a second? I got a package I need to deliver. Thanks. Bye.”

Jungkook tried to break out of Yoongi’s hold, but his older friend was a lot stronger than he'd thought. Plus, his intoxicated state was doing nothing to help his focus.

“Calm down,” Yoongi said softly, patting Jungkook on the back, doing his best to sooth him. “Now let’s get you some real help.”

That feeling when your body no longer belongs to you, when the same air that once was solace seemed to toss and turn your body, squeezing at your organs and tearing your breath away.

He was falling.

It was a terrifying sensation. But Jungkook couldn’t even struggle—his limbs no longer belonged to himself. It was a freedom that he never asked for, a freedom that was most certainly hell-destined.

But suddenly, it was over as abruptly as when he’d started. The impact was much lighter than he’d expected it to be. He groaned as he struggled to his feet, blinking rapidly as he took in his surroundings.

A black fountain. Stone benches. Walls of forest green looming over high above. An overarching sky as dark as ink itself.

It was a place that was much too familiar for comfort.

“Jungkook,” a voice called him name, echoing along the walls of flora.

He looked up and there he was. The apparition that he feared the most. This Jimin had a much crueller look in his eyes, yet somehow he was so many times more beautiful. He was wearing all black, almost as if to mourn for their past, with his eyes dark, alluring and tempting. Jungkook desperately wanted to hold this Jimin but also feared for his well-being in his presence, wanting to scream and run away all at the same time. It was a terrifying feeling.

“You’re all alone again, aren’t you? Poor, poor Jungkook,” Jimin's voice was supposed to be a whisper, but t he venomous words seeped through his ears, creeping through his blood like poison. It rendered his body paralyzed and his eyes frozen.

“It’s what you deserve isn’t it?” the Dark Jimin sneered. “That’s what you get for messing with people for so long, trying to convince yourself it was all a good deed. It’s a shame you fell in love with me, otherwise you might've gotten away with it again. But of course, you couldn’t resist. Many people couldn’t. You were never the only one.”

He paused for a moment, before his lips curved into the most devilish, evil smirk.

“It’s not like you were special or anything, after all,” Jimin asserted, on the equivalence of shoving a knife straight through Jungkook’s heart. "You're so stupid, Jungkookie~"

Click. Click.

That sound…

Click. Click. Click. Click.

A pair of heels.

And then she appeared, almost out of nowhere. She was wearing a tiny black dress as she wrapped her pale, thin arms around Jimin, nuzzling her face into his shoulders lovingly. Even she appeared stunning in this world, enchantingly matched as she stood next to Jimin.

“Ah, honey, so this is where you were?” she drawled out, her tone drivelling, mocking, as Jungkook could only watch them powerlessly. Park Jimin reciprocated her touches, smoothly running a hand over her waist and pulling her closer as he brushed his nose in her dark hair.

“What on Earth was I thinking?” Jimin spoke harshly, not caring that Jungkook could hear his every word. “Picking him over someone like you.”

Her laughter echoed through the place, resonating like an eagle’s cry.

“More like what was he thinking when he thought you would pick him over me,” she crooned loud and clear. "God what an idiot he must be. You've got absolutely no future with him. And who knows? When would be the next time he'd do his 'job' again behind your back?"

Before Jungkook could retort or relinquish in the pain, his surroundings suddenly changed again. In this distorted world where anything went, his surroundings of darkness suddenly evaporated into white, flashing by like a rapid snapshot.

Within the next second, there were white flower petals cascading down upon him, akin to a scene from a fairy tale. Everything was white and glowing, and raucous laughter and cheers around him indicate that this truly was a joyous event. Even his own tormented heart was lifted for a moment, seeing the countless smiles and happy faces all together in in an uplifting crowd…

And then he saw it.

Undeniably, it was a couple on the altar. They were enchantingly beautiful, their smiles pure and rejuvenating to the crowd beneath, almost as if they were the kind, treasured royals of a worthy nation. She wore a simple, yet billowing white dress, and her genuinely elated expression made her seem the most gorgeous Jungkook had ever seen her, while he…

He was…

A knot formed tightly in his chest. He suddenly felt weak in the knees, wondering if he could even move. The world was still basked in flowers and joy yet he only felt a crushing sadness welling up within. Again, he could only watch, as the happy groom pulled his lovely new wife in for a kiss on the cheek.

Tears formed in his eyes. He was on his knees before he knew it. People were starting to stare at him, point at him now, wondering what a depressing person was doing at such a happy occasion. It hurt, it hurt so bad. It tore at him and gnawed at his chest, begging for an unrequited love that he could not control. It was as if everyone could see him at this point—everyone but the bride and groom, so absorbed in their own world of love and happiness that they couldn't care less for anything else.

In desperation, he tried calling out the name of the person he wanted most, but all that came out was emptiness. They couldn’t hear him, no matter how much he screamed, no matter how much he begged for a second chance.

It didn’t matter anymore. It was much too late to change anything now. Despite that, he kept silently crying out, until the point where his throat felt hoarse and his lungs threatened to burst.

And then, everything was fading, fading once again. All to black.

The couple was disappearing into nothingness. He could finally hear his own cries, sounding so mangled and distressed, yet they still heard nothing.

He called the name one last time in desperation. The only name that could bring him comfort.

The person froze, as if finally hearing him for the first time. Jungkook’s heart welled up in hope as he glanced in his direction, lips parted almost as if in recognition—

“Goodbye, Jungkook.”

And then he turned his back. And was gone. Faded away into nothingness.

The deafening silence was more than enough, and without even the strength left to cry out, Jungkook felt the stream of empty, worthless tears sliding down his cheeks…

"It's for the best," he whispered to himself like a mantra. "It's for the best it's for the best it's for the best it's for the best it's for the best it's for the best it's..."

Jungkook jolted awake in a cold sweat. He was breathing heavily, as if he had just gone through several ordeals and back. He pressed a hand against his forehead, trying to separate his delusions and reality.

He wasn’t entirely sure what happened after Yoongi had grabbed him.

He might’ve blacked out, or was merely too out of it remember. He vaguely recalled trying to break free from a firm grasp, but it had all been to no avail. Now that he’d finally regained his senses, he found himself leaning against a pile of comfortable pillows with a blanket covering him. His jacket and tie had been removed and hung up on a chair in a room that he did not recognize.

“Sobered up yet?” a voice called out.

Jungkook looked up and saw the person he least expected to see. Taehyung’s friend, Jung Hoseok, was leaning on the doorway, arms crossed as he watched over him. Hoseok was fully decked out in his pajamas and his hair was an absolute puffy mess, a direct sign that he’d been rudely awoken at ungodly hours.

“Hoseok hyung?!” Jungkook gaped in shock. “Why are you here?”

“This is my room,” Hoseok replied calmly. “You’re the one who shouldn’t be here right now, especially at this hour.”

Jungkook held a hand to his head, a sudden throbbing pain coursing through his brain. “How did I get here again?” he groaned. “Where’s Yoongi hyung?”

“He went out for a bit after we got back,” Hoseok replied calmly, making his way towards Jungkook. “He doesn’t really cope well with people crying in front of him so he decided to make a run for it in the meantime.” A mug of something warm was placed gently on the bedside table next to Jungkook.

“You know, none of us are very happy with you right now,” Hoseok continued, donning the tone of a stern mother.

Jungkook breathed out a sigh. “I know…” he muttered honestly. “And I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“Are you really though?” Hoseok grumbled unsympathetically. “Not to sound harsh but wasn’t that just your way of calling for help?”

Jungkook was completely taken aback. “What? I—”

“Next time,” Hoseok insinuated. “Just ask for help. No matter how ashamed you feel. Anything is still better than wasting yourself away like that.”

Jungkook had nothing to say in response. Hoseok’s sentiments were highly reminiscent of the words of the lady in the red dress at the bar, and they were certainly damning to the ego.

But right now, he sensed that it was what he needed most right now, and his moments of drifting in the clouds were finally about to come to an end. It would be for the best.

“You know you can always talk to us.”

Jungkook’s ears perked at the sound of the new, yet familiar voice. His breath caught his throat when he looked up and saw who it was standing in the doorway.

Jungkook couldn’t believe his eyes.

Namjoon. Seokjin. Taehyung. Yoongi. They were all there. Waiting expectantly, and gazing at him with mixed looks of disappointment and concern.

“You guys…” he managed to croak out in his surprise.

Namjoon was the first one to move.

“He’s right, you know,” Namjoon spoke through a yawn. “We really aren’t that happy with you.”

“What on Earth have you been thinking, Jeon Jungkook?” If Jungkook had thought Hoseok sounded like an angry mother, Seokjin was magnitudes worse.

“You know what this means, brat?” Yoongi was grumbling. “You can’t run away anymore.”

All eyes were on him. If he were anyone else, he would’ve thrown a tantrum, called for the injustice of the situation and stormed out of the room. But the fact that they were all there, staring down at him at such a late hour at night spoke more than enough on its own. He rapidly reflected in his head, desperately trying to go through what he had become in the past few weeks, and why it had all led up to that.

“Time to start talking, Jungkook,” Taehyung huffed. “If you don’t, I will.”

Naturally, he hesitated. They were intimidating unlike Jungkook had ever seen them in the past.

But right now, this was what he needed. He knew he wouldn’t change if they went easy on him. His head was still throbbing, and he needed anything to distract himself from the pain his body was enduring internally.

He took another quick glance around the room, before giving them a quick nod.

“Fine,” he spoke. “I’ll tell you guys everything.”

Currently working on the next chapter (slowly). Sorry for forgetting to update on tumblr oops ;-;

#jikook #oops i forgot to post this like a month ago #heh #heartwrecker #fanfic #secretfanfics #i'll never get over how shiet this summary is omg but whatever #LOL #gif not mine gif never mine

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