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xelasrecords · 2 years

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In the Dead of Night, You Bring Me Back Alive

Han Jumin x Reader

What if you're not insecure about attending the high society parties that being in Jumin's life entails? What if instead of floundering at a public event and waiting for a rich man to rescue you, you could stand on your own?

Featuring an after-party scene where you and Jumin share quiet meandering conversations and find peace in them. Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it.

Words: 3.8k

Masterlist Read on AO3

Your words always wielded power. It was one of the reasons Jumin was intrigued by you. While he was a figure who commanded respect through his presence and status, you were someone with an air of quiet confidence. It was the kind of subtlety that people tended to overlook, but impossible to unsee once they saw it. Jumin might stand tall in front of everyone, his confidence formidable and magnetic, compelling the whole room to focus their attention on him, but one word from you would bring him to his knees.

Not that he minded.

He knew what kind of hold you had over him and would give in to you without a second thought. You were the person he loved. You were the person he admired. You were the person who knew the exact things to say to stimulate both the intellectual and sentimental parts of his brain that no other person could, except for Jihyun. If it weren't for social constructs, Jumin would gladly roll out a red carpet wherever you went and worship the ground you walked on.

Elizabeth the 3rd was treated like a princess. You, a human whom he cherished above all the fortune he possessed, should receive a treatment fit for a queen. Racking his brain for more things to give and do for you was his daily routine.

Tonight, both of you were inebriated from the numerous glasses of alcohol—champagne for you, wine for him—swiped from the corporate gala tonight, you considerably more so than him. With your red heels strewn out on the polished marble floor, the strap lacing trailing behind and stray confetti stuck on the sole of the right stiletto, you left them as they were while you slumped against the side of the white sofa. It had been a long night, and the back of your feet was throbbing. Elizabeth the 3rd was nowhere to be seen, but she was most likely asleep in her bed of posh design and hand-carved frame.

Jumin had crashed on the floor alongside you when your knees buckled from exhaustion. You had entered the penthouse together, his arm around your waist, steadying you as you snickered at things incomprehensible to anyone but you. You waved languidly at the bodyguard posted outside the door while Jumin gave him a brisk nod.

How the bodyguard didn't appear weary at this ungodly hour was beyond you. You grinned at him and threw a hearty good night! before you went in. If there was anything you knew from being with Jumin, it was that everyone could use a little bit of kindness. The irony of maintaining a stoic, emotionless mask was more taxing than living freely was not lost on you.

In your drunken haze, you registered that Jumin had put away his dress shoes and transferred your clutch onto the glass coffee table, a preventive measure to keep you from tripping over them. It wouldn't be the first time you made a fool out of yourself by having poor muscle coordination. The mistakes just had never been made public and you intended to keep it that way. For Jumin, he only wished to keep you from sustaining more injuries.

During the gala, Jumin had noticed the raw chafed skin on your ankles when you made rounds and exchanged amicable banter with the people you had learned only hours before, courtesy of the guest list Jaehee had put together. However impressed Jumin was with you, he couldn't stay still after catching glimpses of you wincing when you thought nobody was watching. Immediately, he requested Driver Kim to retrieve a medical kit.

But despite the pain you were enduring, you glimmered. Your gold sequin dress swirled around your figure as you conversed with other guests, making polite enquiries and occasionally tilting your head back in laughter when the topic entertained you. You had the talent of making your conversation partner felt important and welcomed, like everything they said was interesting and worth your time. You were an attentive listener and an even more suave speaker.

Jumin knew this easy-going character was a front you put up to support him. Although he had reminded you that you needn't play the part of a charmer to boost his image and win him more contracts, you couldn't be dissuaded. The last things you wanted were to stumble and fail spectacularly in front of a respected crowd and tarnish Jumin's reputation. If Jumin had done this his whole life, the least you could do was to understand his ways of survival.

Besides, there was a part of you that found this amusing. It was new and different, and you always welcomed a challenge. And who was to say this was not the real you? You were an amalgamation of everything you wanted to do and everything you had done, and this was one of them. As much of a charade as it was, it was also moulding your personality into something with more depth and complexity. Truthfully, you were tired of always being the same person you were before you met Jumin. You needed a change.

Even if you were not yet as well-versed as Jumin, you were determined to carry yourself with elegance and your head held high. The two of you were a sight to behold. He possessed an assertive demeanour that led him from one person to another with definitive strides, while you lured people in with the unique flair that belonged to you alone. Together, you were a force impossible to break. Everyone knew you had each other's back without making an ostentatious display about it. No one would dare to touch you.

Albeit you had spent the evening largely separated from Jumin, there were times when you would search for the one familiar face in the room that you loved, only to find him already looking at you. Stealing glances amidst the faceless crowd was a game you liked to play. Whenever he caught your eyes, his stern expression would soften, a soft, genuine smile that was exclusive to you would grace his lips, and his shoulders would lose their tension.

A few seconds would pass before he assumed the original stance with his conversation partner. But during that short time, the faces around you would blur and the mindless prattle would fade into the background. It felt as if you and Jumin had entered a peaceful bubble invisible to outsiders, and you could finally breathe. Even when you were not physically attached to his side, Jumin had brought you all that was safe and sound. That few seconds were all you needed to power through the evening. You knew it was also the case for Jumin.

Beneath the opulent crystal chandelier and melodious tune of live jazz, you weren't nervous about navigating the crowd alone. Although you were not the most outgoing person alive—it was exhausting to speak after dabbling in small talks with five people—you were glad that Jumin trusted you enough to handle your part alone. In the beginning, he used to fuss over every little thing, worrying that attending these parties would bring discomfort to you. He reassured you that if you ever needed help, you could signal him and he would come right by your side.

Of course, you knew he would stay true to his word, but you wanted to be capable. If you had to live in this corporate world that Jumin had introduced you to, you would have to adapt and hone your skills. You didn't want to hide behind his protection. Yes, it would be easier if you simply passed all the problems to Jumin and let him handle them, but you also loved yourself, and that meant fortifying yourself enough so that you could hold your own in the face of the public.

Jumin adored the fire in you.

Once he realised you were never going to relent, he offered personal tips and helped you practice as you eased into his world, all of which you gratefully received and implemented. It was unrealistic to sit back and hope for the best when it was only a matter of time before the media criticised you for being a gold digger disguised as an unfortunate damsel. Malicious rumours had begun to circulate the moment your dating news was made public, and it would continue to escalate unless you did something. You had to take control of the narrative before they could define you.

At the present moment, the ghost of the raucous chatter fell away as you felt Jumin's cold fingers wrapped around your ankle and carefully rested it on his crossed legs. "Don't move, darling," he chided. "Your feet are bleeding. Allow me to clean your wounds."

The penthouse was quiet and you were safe. You could let down your shield now.

The only light switched on was in the hallway by the front door. It poured into the living room, its yellow gleam illuminated Jumin's concerned face. The sight of him in his three-piece formal suit while gently dabbing rubbing alcohol on your injury was a pleasant thing to see. Even after a long night, he still looked put together, not a hair out of place.

You didn’t even complain about those heels during the ride home, yet he noticed. You felt love, so much love. "I feel like I am consumed by love. It's like love is coursing through my veins and exploding with fireworks inside." You let out a worn-out giggle. "If you cut me open and study my organs, I bet you could see how much I love you. I bet there would be a whole fiesta going on in my bloodstream and muscle tissues."

Jumin gave you an amused look before plastering a bandage on your ankle. "I do not have to witness you spilling your internal organs to feel your love." He put down your leg and lifted the other onto his lap. "The things you say, truly."

You relished in his tender touch, feeling its cold against your warm skin, running from your exposed calf up to your thigh where the slit of your dress fell off, a golden rumpled sea of glitter around you. "But imagine tiny cells wearing party hats running around inside me. How absurd!"

"Now, where did you get this idea from?"

"The tiny cells just announced it with trumpets and drums in my brain."

"God." Jumin shook his head, but not without good humour.

"Am I scaring you away? Do you fear my"—you let out a dramatic gasp—"unbidden thoughts?"

"I fear for the people who mean you harm. You, however, are still as mesmerising as ever," he said, his striking grey eyes studying your face. "You were captivating tonight. I had to fight off the physical urge to make you the sole focus of my attention. It is so easy to forget about everyone else when you are there." Jumin had finished bandaging your left foot and placed both your legs on top of his, running his fingers up and down across yours.

Shivers crawled up your spine. "So were you. You have the same effect on me."

"You were the highlight of the party. Have you any idea how many compliments I received on how seamlessly you fit into this society? People had been waiting for your downfall, but you put yourself above everyone instead." Jumin smiled at you. "And you didn't even have to try."

"What can I say? I'm a natural charmer."

"And very humble too."

You closed your eyes, a wan smile painted on your lips. The alcohol was catching up to you, and everything seemed to move in slow motion. "No, actually, it was the opposite. I tried very hard." You sighed. "I wasn't always this polished before I took your advice."

"I must be frank with you. I don't think you need all those extra lessons. You have always been excellent at being yourself." You weren't looking at him, but his voice alone spoke of total adoration.

You had never been on the receiving end of such affection. How fortunate you were to cross paths with him, to be loved by him. He had never given you any reason to doubt him and had always treated you well from the moment you met. You were not a believer in fate, but you believed in him.

You flailed your arms at him, motioning him to sit beside you. You yearned to feel the warmth from his body. "How about you? How well do you think you are at being Han Jumin?"

He put your legs down and obliged, shifting to your side, your shoulders nudging each other. There was a stretched silence as he pondered your question. You rested your chin on your tucked knees and gazed up at him.

"There are two Han Jumins in the world—or are there three? The first one is what I present to the public. The second is a mixture of the dutiful son and the loyal friend. The third one is the man I am with you."

The wine must have also brought out the pensive side of him. You had half-expected him to bludgeon your question with his usual brand of self-assurance, listing out his achievements and strengths. You preferred this vulnerable honesty, however rare it was, over the stoic image he put on in front of people.

"I like all versions of you," you said, offering him your own honesty.

"It's unfortunate that I have to create multiple personas to meet everyone's expectations." Jumin craned his neck down to look at you. "There are times I fear that I might lose myself if I play a certain part for too long, but this fear is a paradox in itself."

"A paradox?"

"Which persona is my true self? Have I split myself into too many pieces that they've become indiscernible? If I can't tell which piece is real, then who am I masquerading as this whole time?" He took a deep breath. "Who am I, if I couldn't be put back together?"

"This vulnerable Jumin seems pretty real and whole to me." You took his hand into yours, massaging his palm. "But don't you think it's normal to don multiple masks to survive? I'm not saying we have to be fake, but that's how humans navigate life."

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you're getting at."

"See, I am more reserved and polite in front of strangers. I'm careful not to offend people and filter which things to say. But with the RFA, I can be more relaxed and let go of myself. And with you, well, I have no qualms about saying anything that comes to my mind."

"I can attest to that." Jumin chuckled. "But if politeness is a charade, then can we really be genuine in treating people?" You cocked your head to one side. "You may recall that I am trying to be more considerate with my employees."

You scoffed. "I am positively drunk, Jumin. My memory is impaired." You knocked on your temple in quick succession with your knuckle and yelped. Your head instantly felt heavy and your vision spun.

At no time, Jumin was already checking and caressing your head. "Be careful, love. Are you all right?"

You waved it away. "It will pass." You let him continue to card his fingers through your hair. It was therapeutic; every touch from him was. Recalling his musing earlier, you shared your thought, "Even if the act of being polite is a faux gesture—which I don't think it is—doesn't the feelings of the receiving party matter more?"

"Do elaborate."

"When you're polite to someone, you extend your respect to them. You treat them like a decent human being. It feels good to be treated well, you know." Lowering his hand from your head, you slung his arm around your shoulders and leaned against him. "I know you are indifferent towards niceties because people tend to only be nice to you out of fear or greed, but please hear me out before you debate me on this."

"I am listening to you." Jumin rubbed your arm, giving you a reassuring squeeze. "My experience doesn't cancel out yours, and I'm interested in what you want to say."

You rested your head against his chest, vertigo already subsiding. "I remember when a salesperson tended to me with patience and smiles even when I asked a lot of questions. I felt sorry for that, but it made my experience better than if I had to face a rude person who looks down at me for my ignorance."

"And that improved your feelings."

"You know how when you're having a bad day, everything becomes a chore?" You tucked in a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "Standing underneath the shower is tiring. Making your bed is almost impossible. Talking with people at work makes you feel like you're drowning further in the mess that is you. Nothing can be smoothed out. Everything is creased."

"I have my maid to tidy up my bed, but I understand the sentiment," Jumin said in all seriousness.

"Well, I was having a bad day, but those three minutes of friendly exchange, even when they were out of obligation, had lifted my mood for three minutes. I had this thought, 'Ah, that wasn't too bad. Maybe I shouldn't shun this life just yet.' Then, my day became a little more bearable."

Jumin placed a kiss on your forehead and murmured, "I would like to meet this person and thank them."

"It was a long time ago, so I can't remember who it was. I remember how it made me feel though, so I reckon politeness has more worth than being a superficial act."

Jumin squeezed your hand three times. You had shown him an article about the gesture, informing him that it meant I love you. Since then, the two of you had made it into a habit to do so. "Your observations never cease to amaze me. I love this about you." He was also in the habit of proclaiming his love for you every now and then. "You bring your thoughtfulness wherever you go, that even if you wear thousands of masks, you wouldn't be in danger of losing yourself."

"I didn't know that's how you see me."

"It is. You are so grounded in you that it unnerves me to realise what it says about me."

"What does it say about you?" you asked softly.

"That I am not as connected to myself as I had thought." From the way you were practically lying on him, you could feel his chest rise and fall. "I know who I am. I know my likes and dislikes, my strengths and weaknesses. But knowing things aren't the same as owning them."

"Because they don't feel like they are part of you?"

"I don't know if they are true to my character. I slip on new faces quite easily," Jumin went on. "You know how I used to deal with contracts."

You remembered what Jaehee said aeons ago when you just joined the association. Jumin was a businessman who used his good looks to hook potential business partners into signing contracts with him, especially women who clambered onto him without the slightest shred of dignity, only to quit cold turkey on them once the contract was over.

It wasn't the most morally correct thing to do, but you also thought it was an apt response to people who merely wanted to take advantage of his wealth. "It's a necessity for you. If you have the leverage, why not use it?"

"You seem to contradict yourself," Jumin said. "This competitive edge had left many women heartbroken, as I recall."

"Maybe I just feel inclined to defend you and put your happiness first." You shrugged. "And once again, I am drunk."

"You are running out of chances to use the drunk card."

You hummed while tracing the buttons on his white dress shirt. "How many chances do I have left?"

"One."

At this, you straightened up and swivelled your body to face him. "What kind of rule is that?"

"My rule. I can do anything I want if it contributes to my happiness, as you very kindly declared." Jumin smirked.

Your brain was too muddled to come up with a counter-argument, so you merely huffed and sat back in silence. Jumin picked up the skirt of your dress that had bunched up between you two, rolling the sequins from one finger to another. The only sound wafting through this nearly dark penthouse was the crinkle of the gold coins embedded on your dress.

You wished every night was like this. Being together in peace, talking about things you would barely remember the next day. The dim yellow light cast long shadows beneath the outline of your figures, and you knew that this moment would stay forever bursting technicolour in your mind.

"You're judging yourself too harshly," you said after a while. "You just started discovering your emotions and learning how to dissect these layers that you had long buried. It's not fair to yourself if you expect an immediate result by using my progress as your benchmark. Not when I've been in touch with my inner self for longer than you have."

"Except I'm usually a fast learner."

"Usually." You bumped his leg with your toes. "It's about time you're not the best at something."

To your surprise, Jumin laughed at your statement. It was a crisp, freeing laugh that you had never heard before. You jumped at the sound, but it only made him laugh harder. His voice sent tremors down the hollow of your bones. Then suddenly, you also cackled, imagining all the bones in your body quivering because of him. What a ridiculous thought! But how funny!

Soon enough, none of you could stop the fits of laughter. You, doubling over with a hand on your stomach, the curtain of your hair streaking over your already blurred eyesight. Jumin, shoulders shaking from trying and failing to stop, one arm rounding your body, the other straightened out, hand clenching at his thigh.

Nothing made sense, but nothing had to.

Years later, after you and Jumin had moved out of the penthouse for a place that you owned together, this was what you would remember: in the dead of night, two souls were alive with giddy lightness, as bubbly as the champagne you had downed, as intimate as the mutual understanding you had shared. In your long span of life to come, this was the memory you liked to come back to. This one evening with him might be brief, but it made your life more bearable.

That was the only thing that mattered.

Buy me a glass of something that's definitely not coffee because I can't stand it but it is the website's name if my story touches you in some way? No worries if you don't. I'm still grateful you've read all the way through here.

#jumin han #mystic messenger #mysme #mm #mm jumin #mysme jumin #jumin x reader #mystic messenger jumin #jumin fic #mystic messenger fanfiction #mystic messenger imagines #jumin x you #jumin fluff #jumin comfort #xela writes #jumin han fic

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artficlly · 1 year

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lady of the ghosts [chapter 4]

After a great plague ravages your city, you are looking to marry to secure safety for your people. With a war finally ending, the nearby kingdoms are looking to celebrate. King James "Bucky" Barnes decides to continue his family's tradition of hosting a courting season. A medieval courting marvel AU.

Pairing: king!bucky x lady!reader

Warnings: violence, blood, religious worship, mention of war, mention of death, sexism, swearing, yelling, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8.1k

A/N: oh my gosh this chapter got so big for what!! i had an entire extra section planned for the end of this chapter but it will have to go into the next chapter because i'm already 2k over my goal length. i watched a knights tale and had to add in the jousting drama because that movie is great. if you check out the chapter masterlist linked below there is some concept art i made (should i make some of the temple? idk if people actually like the art or just want to read lmk) as well as a map! i'm gonna be updating the map with new locations as the story progresses. thank you for reading as well as all of the likes/reblogs. as always, not proof read - sorry for any typos!

chapter masterlist | main masterlist

You had never found violence disturbing. Combat and fighting were a large portion of Faliene’s tradition; grievances and arguments were often solved with a fist or blade. In order to survive the arctic conditions, one had to be strong. The men of Faliene crafted themselves like a blade in a forge, one made with salt and snow. They constructed themselves to be as massive and colossal as the Stormfall Mountains and as strong and ferocious as the waves of salt water that pounded the shore. As a child, you never found value in a sharp tongue; instead, you watched as the sailors pulled in the cargo, deciding that their rippling muscles were the epitome of power. It was only as you grew older that you realized that words could be just as violent as a fist.

The Lady next to you flinched as splinters of wood exploded across the lists field, the crowd roaring as a knight slumped from his horse onto the muddy ground below. You had watched jousting before, but never at an event this size. Previously, you had observed the Haiford knights training while strutting and winking in front of the ladies watching from the balconies. Jousting had never been much of a sport in Faliene, with your people preferring to go straight to steel.

For the third time that afternoon, Steve paraded down the lists victorious. He had never mentioned to you his proficiency with a lance, but it seemed there were many things he hadn’t mentioned. Catching glances at Peggy all afternoon, you watched the way she blushed every time he won or covered her eyes with nerves as he galloped beside the tilt. From the way he looked back at her, searching the crowd after every strike, it seemed her feelings weren’t one-sided. Even if you were silently happy for the pair, you couldn’t help but let worry gnaw at your stomach. It was hard to predict how their flirtations might be perceived, especially by King Harrison, who seemed to still be in active negotiations with James.

It had been a few days since the dreaded encounter with Rumlow. A few rainy days had left the guests stuck inside Cala’s Keep for endless social teas and tours around every inch of the Keep. Thankfully, the rain had cleared, leaving the weather agreeable enough for the ladies, lords, and royalty to parade their way down for the tournament. Though dark clouds still hung in the sky, threatening to spill at any moment. While watching the rain thunder down the last few days, you came to realize why they called it the wet season rather than winter. You were grateful to get some space away from Lord Rumlow and King Harrison, even if they hadn’t spoken to you in days. You had watched them circle you like southern vultures. Often, you would find them whispering away to each other in corners, conspiring about your eventual marriage, no doubt.

The lists had been split into two sides. Your side featured a long wooden stand that traveled the length of the lists, divided into several boxes in which different groupings sat. The royal families attending the Galanta Season each had their own box to themselves near the center. You were seated with the lords and ladies of Haiford in one of the boxes further away from the central action. King James had a box in the very center, filled with his advisors and the higher-ranking aristocrats of his court. Running parallel to the aristocrat stands were the commoners' stands – men, women, and children all packed into the small space. You watched as they practically crawled over one another in excitement to catch a glimpse of Steve as he marched past on his chestnut stallion.

Steve was wearing heavier armor than usual, the steel thick and covering every inch of his body. You were surprised he could move in all of it, but you had read that heavy armor was often flexible and made specifically for the wearer. You had also noted how he was wearing his family's sigil – a bull's head – rather than his usual knight's armor of the Barnes’ shield. His stallion’s caparison and barding had been similarly styled to Galanta colors, the caparison being emerald green in color with silver and red accents. Across the sides of the fabric, a rearing bull had been embroidered. The barding had been designed with similar steel and leather as Steve’s armor, sporting two bullhorns that curled near the stallion's ears.

Steve’s blond locks disappeared beneath the steel helmet, latching the leather strap as he settled his horse in place. Steve had won all of his heats so far, leaving the final match of the day between him and Sir Wilson. Steve’s squire, Peter, nervously dashed around making final adjustments to the Knight’s armor before the match started.

The rules of jousting were simple: the opponents would race down each side of the tilt and try to knock the other off their horse by smashing the tip of their lance into the other's chest. The two would then decide whether to draw or continue the contest with a brief sword fight to decide the winner if both were simultaneously knocked off the horse. If you had any knowledge of jousting, you would know that Steve was skilled at it because he was brave. There was no real technique or skill that he possessed that was better than any of the other knights – only that he didn’t seem to fear being injured. The helmet Steve sported was an armet helmet, meaning his entire face was covered except for a small slit cut out for the eyes. The armet helmet had its benefits; in comparison to other designs, it gave the wearer a reasonably clear view of the target. Its drawback was that many of the wearers would suddenly raise their heads to shield their eyes from the lance when the wood splintered; otherwise, they ran the risk of getting the splinters in their eyes and becoming blinded. However, when they reared their heads, they lost sight of their target in the crucial seconds before the strike, running the risk of completely missing them. Steve though… Steve never reared his head. As the wood exploded across his armor, he kept his eyes on the target the entire run, gambling with fate.

The crowd exploded into cheers as Steve’s lance shattered across Sir Wilson’s chest, causing him to jolt backwards in his saddle. After a few strides of his horse continuing to gallop, Sir Wilson lost his seat and fell to the mud. Your lips curve into a smile, your eyes finding Peggy as she audibly gasps with a beaming smile. Steve abandons the remainder of his lance with Peter, making a short victory lap around the lists. With his helmet successfully placed in his lap, he grins at the crowd with the wave of his armored hand. As he passes by your box, you lock eyes. His blond strands are slick with sweat against the back of his neck and forehead. He gives you a toothy beam along with a curt nod as he passes by, only halting his stallion in front of James’ stand.

“Congratulations, Sir Rogers!” James exclaims with a grin. You watch his profile as he stands at the railing of his stand, hands lazily slung over the wood as he looks down at Steve.

“I was hoping to challenge you to a round, Your Majesty.” Steve shouts up in return, a smirk forming over his face as he braces his forearms atop the helmet in his lap. It was unfamiliar to hear Steve refer to James as Your Majesty. It was always Bucky, Jamie, or just James. It seemed that in the public eye, they conformed to formalities.

“You tempt me.” James chuckles. The lists have gone quiet as everyone watches the interaction with interest.

James had a reputation for being a laid-back and informal king ever since he was crowned. When you arrived in Galanta, you discovered that it would not only be with his knights and advisors as you had initially assumed. James was said to be a social king who was open to discussing how to improve his rule with all citizens of the kingdom, regardless of their status. You had heard how he had single-handedly won back his people after his parents blunder with Hydrina. In addition to winning a war, acknowledging and assisting bordering villages with Hydrina when raids were imminent, he also increased many of his subjects' economies and general well-being. You believed that he was King Harrison's opposite in many ways.

“I will send my squire to retrieve your horse and armor.” Steve calls to James, who nods his head at the knight.

“Very well.” James responds. The crowd burst into excited cheers. You watch as they push forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of their king as he descends the wooden stairs to the lists.

Your row of stands is alive with muttering and chatter as James disappears to suit up. Kings weren’t normally the type to enter tournaments; they were too dangerous, even if every precaution was taken. You expected that James had jousted with Steve before; it seemed like the type of activity that the two would have undertaken in their youth. You had heard Steve mention all the sword-fighting training they had completed in the muddy courtyard of Cala’s Keep as boys. Considering that James had led a siege on the capital of Hydrina and come out victorious, you doubted that a length of hollow wood would unseat him easily.

The field erupted into cheers once more as the two men emerged back into the lists upon the backs of their horses. They looked like a pair of warriors, near godlike. In stark contrast to Steve, James rode a heavy, pale-coated stallion. The stallion was a cross-breed of some type, sleek enough for speed and agility but drafty enough to be a descendant of a plow horse. The pale stallion's muscles trembled; you couldn’t imagine the pure force the animal must hold. Its caparison and barding were similar to Steve’s stallion, emerald green with the embroidered gold shield and plated steel to protect the horse from the lance's shards. James was covered shoulder to toe in steel armor, the starred shield engraved into the chest. His helmet sat in his lap, leaving only his face bare. You watched his brunet tendrils shift and curl in the breeze, a ragged smirk crossing his lips as he caught your eye.

His azure eyes consume you; you swear they are as blue as the glacier waters that flowed in Faliene. Sucking in a sharp breath, you watch with interest as James pulls his stallion to a halt in front of your stand, the animal shifting on his feet impatiently. The lords and ladies around you break out into whispers between each other. You ignore them, muttering turning to white noise as you study James with an inquisitive tilt of your head. He smirks at you cockily, his posture relaxed as he braces the heel of his palm against the pommel of his saddle.

“Lady Y/N,” James calls up to you as the crowd grows still and silent around you. It appeared that even the common people understood that what was happening wasn��t proper. Even if it was unspoken, everyone knew that James was entangled with Peggy; everyone knew you weren’t a prize but rather a burden. You can’t help yourself, unhurriedly rising from your seat. From the way he smirks at you, you know he can’t help himself either. Your walk towards the wooden railing was purposeful and graceful, aware of the thousands of burning eyes watching your every movement. You pause in front of the railing, hands delicately placed upon the wood.

“Dare I ask for a token of your favor?” James asks, the metal of his armor clinking as he raises his lance. A sweet smile graces your face, your hand reaching to steady the tip of the lance against the railing.

“Of course, Your Majesty.” You answer, much to the delight of James. Your fingers find the back of your neck, unhooking the clasp of your trident necklace. You wrap the silver chain around the end of the lance three times, clasping it back together tightly. The silver trident pendant dangles from the end of the lance, with the chain securing it in place. “May you strike hard and true.”

“With your favor, I am sure I will.” James replies, carefully withdrawing the lance from the railing. As you sit down, ignoring the whispers and stares from the lords and ladies around you. James’ voice echoes in your mind, a small smile forming as you clasp your hands in your lap. For just that moment, you decided to ignore the obvious reason why you shouldn’t be happy. James had practically announced to the world his interest in you; the backlash you would receive would be immense. But you didn’t care. You would live in ignorant bliss for that moment.

As James finds his position at the end of the tilt, you pry your eyes away towards Steve. It seemed that while you were distracted, Steve had asked for his own favor. A handkerchief was tied to the end of his lance, made of white cotton with gold embroidery around the edges. Even from a distance, you knew who it belonged to; you wouldn’t even need to read the initials that read P.C. While James had dared to ask for your favor, directly opposing King Harrison, Steve had asked for Princess Peggy’s favor, which she had given.

As the two horses dance in place, you watch as the silver pedant swings from the end of the lance. You doubted you would ever see it again, but you didn’t care. When the lance would break across Steve’s chest, it would be lost to the mud. You wondered if you failed your purpose – became one with the ghosts of Faliene – if they would find that trident in the mud centuries later. A piece of history, a piece of Faliene, sealed away forever.

A flag was waved, and the horses were off. You watched, breath held, as they charged towards each other. Even beneath all the armor, you could tell the strength the horses held, the intensity, and the pure muscle behind each stride. As they grew closer within seconds, neither horse nor rider shied away. Like Steve, James did not lift his head to avoid the splinters. Instead, he charged directly into them.

Bits of painted wood exploded, littering the muddy earth. Upon impact, James was thrown backwards in his saddle, slumping briefly as he gripped the reins with one hand, the other abandoning the remainder of his lance. Both men had struck true, yet they still held on. You watched as they readjusted themselves into their saddles, easing their horses to a stop. You could hear Steve roar with excited laughter beneath his helmet as Peter rushed forward to hand him another lance. You could imagine the smirk that would be across James face as he gripped the new lance that was handed to him. There was a cool ease to the way he held himself, like this was just child's play to him.

The crowd exploded into cheers and hollers as the two men lined up once more. Their horses' hooves ate up the earth with ease as they stormed forward. The second strike was more violent than the first, with the impact of the lance upon each other's chest sending them both flying from the saddle. The crowd hums with excitement, watching as James gets to his feet with a wheezing laugh.

If Steve was winded, he didn’t show it for long. Staggering to his feet, he pulls the helmet from his head, chucking it to the ground beside him. His hair is messy, an excited smirk across his face as he pulls his sword. James copies his actions, swirling his sword as Steve climbs over the tilt. The two circle each other for a moment, crowds pushing forward to the railing to watch the fight unfold.

Like Steve’s Ravensclaw, James' blade is similarly made from an Asgardian forge. You can’t make out the fine details from so far away, but you can make out the swirling black patterns that decorate the metal. The two men are quick and agile on their feet, despite the heavy armor. You can hardly process their movements; each strike and dodge is a blur as they flit around each other.

As the metal clangs together, you stand from your seat. You join a few of the lords and ladies by the railing, watching as Steve slowly weakens. You can tell they are both tired, their movements becoming sloppier as they sink deeper into the mud. The blades meet once more; Steve’s face strains as they brace their swords in a battle of strength. The crowds are teeming with excitement, and a roar comes over the people as Steve slides in the mud and falls to his knees. He goes to block, but James is too fast, driving his blade forward so the tip rests under Steve’s chin. There is a pause between the two, with Steve silently acknowledging James’ win with a grin. The two laugh, with James helping the knight to his feet and clapping him on the shoulder. You watch with a smile, joining the clapping that consumes the arena.

—

The tournament had ended with all the knights and James doing a final victory lap around the lists. The celebrations were short-lived as the skies opened up and torrential rain engulfed the arena, drenching all of those inside. The crowds scattered, returning to the shelter of their homes or taverns to celebrate. The knights used the colorful banners of their house sigil to cover themselves from the rain, retreating to the stables and courtyard while the aristocrats returned to Cala’s Keep.

You stood by the railing for a few minutes, hoping to catch a last glimpse of James. When the rain grew heavier and your hair became slick against your scalp, you finally gave in. You could tell yourself it was because you wanted an update on Rumlow after your conversation in the gardens, but you knew it was untrue. You hadn’t spoken in a few days, and yet you were craving to speak to him once more. As unusual as it was, you enjoyed talking to the king. You liked how you could be at ease around him and how he would laugh at your judgmental comments and speak his mind. It reminded you of how lonely you had been in Haiford until Steve came along. You found yourself subconsciously seeking their company because you enjoyed their presence. It would make marrying all the more isolated, knowing that you would likely never see them again.

By the time you returned to Cala’s Keep, you were half-drowned by the rain. Your hair had come loose in places, and strands stuck to your face and neck. Your dress was soaked; the light fabric turned heavy and clung against your skin. The main entrance was full of activity, with maids and footmen rushing around with clothes to be dried and fresh towels. Some lords and ladies still lingered, their hair and clothes damp, as they chatted excitedly about the day's events. They didn’t pay you much attention; your shoes were clicking against the hardwood floor. Dodging a panicked-looking ladies maid, you make your way to the grand staircase.

“You!” A scathing voice shouts over the babble of the room, causing it to fall silent. A few bewildered looks are shared, with footmen pausing in their place as a seething Prince Micheal marches across the room. You are stunned into speechlessness, taking a step back as Prince Micheal closes the distance between the two of you. Behind him, an aggravated King Harrison follows along with an amused Lord Rumlow.

“You really don’t know your place, do you?” Micheal snarls, his face barely inches from your own as you back into the railing of the stairs.

“I’m sorry?” You splutter, your hand bracing against the smooth stone. King Harrison watches with narrowed eyes, his crow's feet prominent, as he motions for Micheal to step out of the way.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing, girl.” King Harrison hisses; his hands are shaking with rage, his knuckles white as he clenches his fists. “You’re not worthy of a knight, yet you think yourself worthy of a king?”

This was the backlash you had anticipated. You just hadn’t expected it to be so public and immediate. A few of the ladies flash you a sympathetic look, while others sneer in delight. Ladies maids rush past, trying to make themselves invisible as the situation unfolds. Setting your jaw with a sharp exhale, you stand your ground.

“Apologies, Your Majesty. Was I supposed to deny him in front of all of his subjects?”

Blinding white rage flashes over King Harrison’s features, his lip curling in a snarl. You barely have time to register his movements before he has struck you, the blow of his palm against your cheek leaving you to stumble further into the railing with a gasp.

“I am sick of your words and your presence, girl. You should have known better than to have been put in that situation. I have seen you slinking around him like a bitch in heat.” King Harrison snaps, his voice loud in comparison to the deadly silence that has swept over the room.

You are silent, a palm raised to your cheek to cradle the tender flesh as pain blossoms. Prince Michael chuckles, eyeing you with an amused glare. “Who knew that a slap was all it took to silence the bitch?”

“You will apologize to Lord Rumlow.” King Harrison speaks, his voice low and deadly. Your eyes flash upwards to meet him, a dark glare settling over your features. Your mind is empty, only pounding behind your ears as an icy rage settles in your bones. You don’t shake or go red in the face, instead running a tongue over your bottom lip with a challenging smirk.

“Why should I? I am not going to marry him.”

Fury flashes over King Harrison’s features once more, and you watch his shoulders shift as he raises his hand once more. You anticipate the strike and the pain that will bloom across your smooth skin.

“Father! That is enough!” Princess Peggy cries, dashing between you and King Harrison, who quickly drops his hand. “There has been a misunderstanding, I assure you. Please allow Lady Y/N to return to her rooms, and I will explain?”

Prince Micheal grunts in annoyance, arms crossed over his chest in annoyance. King Harrison swallows slowly, noticing the curious gazes that watch the interaction and nods. His expression has softened with confusion as he watches his daughter's concerned features. Peggy sends you a large smile, though there is a hint of panic laced into her expression. You graciously nod your head at her, your eyes sweeping over the three men who watch you with distaste.

“Your Majesties, Lord Rumlow.” You mutter, quickly ascending the stairs before any of them can change their minds.

—

The temple within the walls of Cala’s Keep was bigger than you expected. It stood on the other side of the castle gardens, its cobbled stone barely visible through layers of moss and ivy. The structure was huge and looming, with a high ceiling thatched with reed. There were numerous rooms in the temple, each honoring a different deity. Although the people of the Northern Continent were not strict about religious worship, many prayed in temples throughout the land.

Inside, the temperature was humid, with a foggy wetness clinging to the walls and the statues within. The entrance room was filled with plants, droplets dripping from their leaves onto the worn stone floor. You could make out strands of grass and groupings of moss within the cracks, left undisturbed to grow in the darkness.

Candles flickered in the dim room, barely igniting the curved stone doorways that lined the room. Your eyes flickered between each doorway, making note of the symbols carved above each. Wheat, symbolizing Dima, God of Harvest, and a sword for Bele the Headless, God of War and Chaos. Countless rooms and countless symbols paraded your vision; baskets with fresh food, precious stones, and wooden effigies were left as offerings in front of each. A familiar symbol greets you – a trident for Nemue, Goddess of the Sea. The basket outside her door is empty, with a few strands of grass poking through the woven twine. You linger there for a moment, feeling her call. The hem of your skirt is wet from the walk over, the grass of the gardens is still wet from the earlier rain. Your hair is loose, cascading down your back, and damp from the humidity. Despite being days away from the ocean, you can taste the salt. You can feel the crash of the waves beneath your skin, churning with a primordial power.

Your eyes snap away from the trident doorway you had meant to visit, instead turning to another familiar symbol – The Wolf Mother, Rieka. Goddess of Fertility and Motherhood. The symbol carved above the door frame is her snarling teeth. The basket contains one gift, a sheet of linen that has been carefully folded. You could recognize the red and gold embroidery anywhere, Peggy.

The room is brighter as you step in, and the floor is lined with hundreds of candles. A path is cleared for you to walk down; the stone floor curves where thousands of feet have previously walked the same path. At the center of the room stands a large bronze statue, towering nearly as high as the ceiling itself. The bronze shows the likeness of a woman, naked, with two children held to her breast. Her head is that of a wolf, teeth bared and snarling as she stares down the path. The candles cast light across the bronze, filling the room with an orange hue. Peggy stands before the statue, hands clasped in front of her. The light hits her skin with a glow, and the humidity makes loose strands of her hair curl.

“Does she call to you?” You ask quietly, pausing a few paces away. Peggy looks over her shoulder at you, a sad smile playing across her pink lips.

“No. She never has. Does she call you?” She asks, her own voice low. You are quiet in thought for a moment, the thumping in your heart more reminiscent of waves than flowing blood. You feel an itch under your skin and the piercing sting of salt water spraying across your face. A reminder.

“No.” You breathe, watching as Peggy outstretches her hand to stroke the shin of the statue. “The way of the wolf has never called me.”

“And you call yourself a Haifordian?” Peggy snorts.

“A Falienean, yes, never a Haifordian. I fear I was born from saltwater, and I am destined for a saltwater grave.” You reply, stepping forward so you are shoulder-to-shoulder with the Princess.

“You Falieneans are always so dramatic.” Peggy jokes before her smile slips into a frown. “I am sorry about my father earlier. He shouldn’t have struck you like that.” Withdrawing her hand from the bronze as she turns to face you. You subconsciously reach for your face, fingers trailing across the forming bruise along your cheekbone.

“It wasn’t your fault.” You reassured her.

“It feels like it is. Hiding these past few years…everything is my fault. I should have told my father earlier to avoid this mess and his expectations.” Peggy explains, and you give her a surprised look.

“Years? How long have you and Steve...?” You trail off your question as you see Peggy blush at the mention of Steve.

“Since the war. He was so strong and kind when everything seemed so…bleak. I knew my father expected me to marry, but I never anticipated him continuing his discussion of joining Haiford and Galanta.” You are silent as Peggy speaks, your mind churning. You had yet to process how Steve managed to keep this from you. He was a good knight and a kind soul, but at times he wasn’t the brightest. You were the bright one; how had you not seen this? Were you too caught up in your own life to notice the looks shared between them?

“Do you love him?” You ask, and Peggy sucks in a sharp breath.

“I think I do.”

“Marry him. I’m sure James will grant him land and maybe even a higher title for his contributions during the war. It will secure a connection between Galanta and Haiford like your father wanted; Steve is one of James’ most trusted advisors–” You start turning to face the princess, but she cuts you off.

“I can’t.” Peggy laments with a sigh. “I have a duty to my father, my brother, and my people. If my father wants me to marry a king, then I will have to marry a king. Micheal is too brash with decisions, he will find himself in need of help when he is king, and only a blood connection with Galanta royalty could provide it.”

“You are a Princess. You have every right to marry whomever you want. Galanta is in Haiford’s debt, Steve has James’ ear... The only allegiance you need is the one to your heart.” You express, hand reaching to stroke her shoulder comfortingly.

“It isn’t that simple. I don’t have a choice like you do.” She snaps, and you pause your movements.

“You think I have a choice?” You laugh bitterly. Peggy’s lips set into a fine line as she presses them together, her gaze refusing to meet yours.

“My father would kill Steve if I married him.” She murmurs.

“He wouldn’t. It would cause a war, you must know how close Steve and James are. The way they talk of each other, one would think they were blood brothers.” You comment, and Peggy glances sideways at you.

“You seem to know James well.” You catch her backhanded comment, biting your tongue with narrowed eyes. You know she doesn’t mean it maliciously, but you can’t help but feel defensive after King Harrison’s attack on you earlier.

“No. Not really, I just know all the things Steve has told me.” You start with words that are slow and purposeful. “And considering it seems I don’t know Steve at all, you two have managed to keep this a secret for so long. I fear I don’t know anything anymore.”

“Steve wanted to tell you, but we couldn’t for our own safety.” Peggy says, sighing through her nose. “But I think you know James better than you give yourself credit.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We have known each other, what? A week? How can you know such things–?” You protest, only to be cut off.

“You are a better match for him than I! You have similar interests and similar life experiences. He has lost his entire family and nearly his kingdom because of Hydrina. I don’t think anyone other than you could truly understand that.” Peggy explains, her voice raised to get her point across. You shake your head in disbelief, watching as grief crosses her face. You understood her pain. She wanted so desperately to love James, to understand his pain, and to please her father. But she had fallen for another man.

“Marrying someone like James is a dream – a happy one, but nevertheless a dream. I can’t afford to dream, I too have a duty like you.” You sigh, your expression softening. “He has a kingdom to run, he won’t bother himself with the politics of another kingdom's dying city.” You mutter, and Peggy gives you a hard look before continuing.

“There is a darkness inside of you because of all that has happened in Faliene. You are angry, I can tell. The way you looked at my father today when he struck you...” Peggy trails off. “James has had that same darkness ever since Rebecca and the war. Steve has seen it too, and it scares him. He is restless and unhappy. I think you and Faliene would be a welcome distraction. I think you could help each other.” She looks at you with a smile spreading across her face. You reluctantly oblige as she reaches out, taking her hands in yours.

“I fear we are overstepping boundaries by assuming things we do not know to be true.” You say, wanting to change the subject. You don’t feel like filling your head with fantasies.

“It seems we are both too stubborn to take what we truly want. I only want you to find happiness.” She speaks softly, her hands squeezing yours.

“And happiness is all I want for you also, but you are running out of time by allowing your father to believe you are truly invested in James. Marry Steve, then we will talk of my happiness.” You reply dismissively.

“Maybe I will hold you to that.” She replies with a giggle. Your heart aches, wishing you could also giggle happily about the prospects of marriage. Instead, it filled you with dread. There is a twitch in your chest – a knowing one. That feeling told you that the both of you may never marry the people you truly dreamed of.

—

Standing in front of the doorframe, you could feel a thrumming in your ears once more. It sounded like waves crashing against the rocks in the port. The stone doorframe was slick with droplets of water and moss hanging from the cracks. The sound, the smell... It reminded you of the crypt that lay beneath the ground on the island of Tilla, which sat off the shore of Faliene’s port.

Peggy was long gone, disappearing from The Wolf Mother’s room back into the gardens. She had invited you to join her and come to her rooms in Cala’s Keep for tea. You had declined, instead deciding to answer the call that haunted the temple halls. So you stood, hesitating, outside the room of Nemue. You could hear the crashing of waves, despite knowing they were not there. You could feel the rush of water as the tide pulled the salt water between your legs, yet there was no tide to be found in the humid temple.

After a shuddering breath, you lean down, placing your bracelet into the twine basket beside the door frame. The bracelet was one that would be made by girls down on the shores of Faliene and sold to travelers and traders as tokens of luck while crossing the Northern Ocean. Strands of black seaweed had been dried and braided, looping carefully through small seashells that had washed up onto the beach.

The room of Nemue was cast in a blue glow. A large blue stained-glass window stood at the back of the room, the last of the afternoon rays streaming through. The light bounced against the water that filled the entire room, reflecting strands of blue and white light across the ceiling and walls. You carefully step onto the stepping stones, which form a path to the statue, being careful to avoid dipping the hems of your skirts into the water below.

The statue of Neume towered above you, made from carved white marble. Her form was naked below the waist; the only covering she had were lines of pearl necklaces that covered her neck, chest, and breasts. Her hair flowed out to her waist, braids entwined between them, and her face was obscured by a net that covered her features like a veil. She stood proudly and powerfully, one cupped hand outstretched downward to meet your eye level. At her feet lay a marble basin of salt water with a wooden ladle inside.

Your movements are slow as you scoop salt water into the ladle, pouring it into the statue's cupped hand. The water overflows, dripping down the back of her hand and back into the basin. You watch, mesmerized for a moment, despite having done these exact motions multiple times during your life.

“Show me what to do, Mother Neume. I fight hard for Faliene and for your sons and daughters. Yet I am lost. Lend me your strength and your wisdom. I am your daughter, one of the saltwater. Help me find my way, help me know how to fix this.” You whisper to the statue, watching as the water's reflection dances across the statue's obscured face.

Your finger dips into the pool of water held within her cupped hand. Using the moisture, you draw the symbol of the trident on your forehead, letting your muscles trace the familiar pattern without much thought. In silence, you feel a bead of water form, sliding down your nose before you capture it on your tongue. The taste of salt spreads across your tongue, the similarity and nostalgia of the taste almost making a sob rise in your chest. How many years have you been away from the sea? How many years had it been since you swam and tasted the salt waters of the Northern Ocean?

The sound of rushing water grows louder, and your stare locks onto a droplet of water that hangs from the statue's fingertips. The crashing is near deafening as you stare, like a tidal wave has swept through the temple and is smashing against the stone walls. You could see the spray of salt water silencing the candles in The Mother Wolf’s room, the way the water would swirl around the statue of Bele the Headless. For a moment, you swear the saltwater in Neume’s cupped palm is blood, sticky, and crimson as it stains her white marble. A ragged gasp rises in your throat as panic sets in, and the taste of salt in your mouth turns coppery and metallic–

“Y/N.” A voice calls, a short gasp leaving your throat as you clutch your chest. Halfway down the stepping stones stands James, the blue reflection of the water shimmering across his body. Blades of grass stick to the leather of his shoe, and the hem of his pants is damp. Had he followed you through the gardens? How long had he been standing there? The room itself was darker than you remembered; the afternoon sun was no longer streaming through the stained glass window.

“You have a habit of startling me.” You reply, your hand finding the edge of the marble basin as you compose yourself.

James is silent, his face set into a frown. He strides forward, easily clearing the stepping stones. His eyes examine your face, breath catching in your throat as he stands in front of you with an intense stare. His hand reaches out, gently lifting your chin. You oblige wordlessly, allowing him to guide you to tilt your head so he can examine the forming bruise across your cheek.

“If I had known King Harrison would do such a thing, I would have never asked for your favor like that.” His thumb strokes over the bruise, the touch light and feather-like. You draw in a sharp breath, your eyelids fluttering closed for a moment.

“It isn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known.” You murmur to him, swallowing hard as you feel his hand withdraw.

“Yes, but I should have known. It was careless of me not to think of the consequences.” He replies quietly, and you open your eyes fully with a frown.

“It is over now, do not worry yourself.”

“I should have the hand he struck you with cut off.” James replies with a grumble, his tattooed hand raising to rub the stubble across his jaw.

“You are angry.” You observe, head tilted.

“And you aren’t?” He replies sharply, nostrils flaring in annoyance.

“Of course I am, I am just not in a position where I can so openly express it.” You reply, your voice soft, as you turn around to face the statue once more. The marble is clean and white; the salt water is no longer blood. You frown slightly, your fingers tracing over the lip of the marble basin.

“Then let me be angry on your behalf.” You inhale a sharp breath at his words, freezing your movements. You have to remind yourself of your words to Peggy, men like James were a dream, not reality. As much as you wanted to lose yourself in such a fantasy, you had to stay focused.

“No.”

“No?” James responds, his voice laced with confusion and maybe a bit of disappointment.

“You are in debt to Haiford, it is best to keep them as an ally. You never know when Hydrina may rise again.” You explain, slowly turning to face him with a sad smile. His dark lashes flutter as he looks you up and down, eyes as blue as the stained glass window behind you. He stews in contemplation over your words, as if knowing you are right.

“I should have wiped out Hydrina when I had the chance.” He sighs. “That way I wouldn’t have to play these games with Harrison.�� His tongue rolls over his bottom lip, and tattooed fingers are now running through his brunet hair. Some of the strands have curled due to the humidity, tangling around his skin.

“You still have a chance to get rid of Hydrina.” You reassure him, twisting the silver rings around your fingers. You hesitate over your next words for a moment, unsure, before deciding to take the plunge. “Peggy said you have a darkness inside of you because of all that Hydrina did. I don’t think she is wrong, but I don’t think you should be afraid of it. I think you should embrace it.”

“Are you afraid of that darkness? Like Steve and Peggy are?” Bucky asks, his voice low. His eyes dip to your fidgeting fingers, then to your face as you tilt your head in thought.

“No,” you state. “I think that kind of darkness, that kind of anger... I think it is powerful. If you truly wish Hydrina dead, then why not just do it?”

“Because my people are tired of war and tired of fighting. I want to be known for being a prosperous king, not a warmonger.” He explains with a sigh, and you shake your head at him.

“And how are you supposed to be prosperous with the threat of Hydrina raiding your bordering villages year after year? How will your people truly be at peace with the threat of death looming at their door? In order to be successful, you must take it.”

“You are saying that I should go to war?” He asks, his voice amused as a ghost of a smile graces his lips.

“No. I am saying that you shouldn’t feel guilty if you decide to give into this anger. You shouldn’t be guilty if a time comes when you must act. Hydrina has taken everything from you, why shouldn’t you return the favor? You are capable of greatness if you are willing to take risks.” You respond, daring to take a step closer to him. The stone around the statue is limited; your bodies are so close that you swear you can feel his breath fanning across your skin. His smile remains, his shoulders relaxing as he listens.

“Is it selfish that I am glad you are not marrying Rumlow? You would be wasted on him.”

“And who would you have me marry instead?” You reply breathlessly, keeping your gaze steady as one of James’ hands closes the distance between you, resting lightly on the curve of your waist.

“Someone you want to marry, not someone who has been chosen for you. Someone who will allow you to reach the greatness you are capable of.”

He is so close that a senseless part of you wishes to reach out and hold him. You couldn’t help but feel sour that Peggy was right in some ways. He understood you, your situation, and your dreams in a way that no one else had. You wanted to whisper to him right there in that temple that you would marry him. He could help you, and he could help Faliene. But you knew it would never work. There were other other circumstances: King Harrison, Peggy... you were two separate kingdoms apart and he far out-ranked you.

“I wish King Harrison understood my perspective as well as you do.” You choke out, your tongue feeling thick and bitter. If only society were not so strict and both your situations weren’t so complicated. If only you were a princess of a flourishing kingdom, or he was not in debt to Haiford because of the war.

“He has not lost everything. Everything he has is because it has been handed to him. He will never understand what we understand.” Bucky replies quietly, though you can see the disappointment in his eyes and the reluctance to move his hand or gaze.

“Why are you here, James?” You ask, eyes casting across the room. You had been so caught up in his presence and the vision you had received that you hadn’t thought to question why he was here. Or how he had found you.

“Your maid said you came here. I came to return this.” His hand leaves your waist as he reaches into a pocket, pulling your trident necklace from within. You are silent in surprise, watching the chain slide over his finger as he holds it out towards you.

“How did you find it? I thought it would be lost forever in the lists.” You breathe, hand outstretched, as he drops it in your palm. You watch as the chain pools against your skin, the metal still clean and shiny, like it hadn’t been lost to the mud mere hours ago.

“I spent an hour searching the mud in the rain. I think Steve’s squire thought I was insane.” He chuckles, and you beam up at him, a warmth spreading up your neck. “Here, turn around.”

You oblige, turning to face Neume’s statue. The room is darker now, with barely any light reflecting from the water. James’ carefully pushes some loose strands of hair away from the back of your neck, looping the silver chain around. The metal is cool against your sternum as he carefully clasps it in place.

“Now tell me, why are you hiding away in the temple?” James asks, breath warm against the back of your neck.

“I came here to pray to Neume and ask for guidance with the situation in Faliene.” You admit, fingers stroking over the cool metal of the trident pedant as you turn to face him.

“And what did she show you?” He asks, and he has to look down to view your face as the two of you are so close. You chew your lip momentarily, wondering if you should tell him the truth or not.

“Blood. The salt water turned into blood, and waves consumed the temple, swallowing the other statues whole.” You divulge, your gaze moving to look over his shoulder with a wince. You were unsure of his position on magic and deities; if it were like most Galantian’s he would think you were speaking nonsense.

“Sounds like a battle is ahead of you. Maybe greatness lies behind a series of battles for both of us? The more we talk, the more I find similarities in our destiny.” James hums in thought.

“Do not worry yourself trying to please me by decoding this madness. You probably think I am unsound, I know that most Galantians don’t believe in gods and magic.” You keep your gaze averted, shaking your head with a worried laugh.

“You would be surprised, I have witnessed some things that have changed my mind.”

Your eyes snap to him, blinking in surprise. “Like what?”

“Asgardian magic healed my arm during the war when all of the medics thought I was moments away from my last breath. It changed something in me, and I felt... a calling.” He confesses, and you eye him with intrigue.

“A calling to who?”

“Vitharn.”

You are silent. Vitharn, The Wraith, God of Vengeance and Death. One of the most feared gods, said to drive men to madness and bloodlust. His basket, you recall, was brimming full of gifts. It seemed that even in the fields of Galanta, the people feared Vitharn and his powers. One would pray to him and give him offerings in the hope that his cruel attention would sway elsewhere when battle came. The people who responded to Vitharn's call were brutal in battle, driven by rage and a desire to annihilate. They were called many names throughout the continent: bloodhounds, berserkers, reavers – you knew them as Korpr, Crows of Death. As you stare at him, stories and questions click into place. The siege on Hydrina’s capital – no normal man could have slaughtered all of those men as well as King Alexander without injury.

“The Wraith?” You whisper the question, watching as a dark look comes over his features.

“Are you afraid?” He asks, his voice husky. Your eyelashes drop in a slow blink.

“No.” You breathe; a smile forming. “I think vengeance called you for a reason.”

taglist|@kimomoraba @gostodosopa @sweetwritingfanficfriend @loonilupin

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everything-is-crab · 7 months

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Straight/bi women literally don't see lesbians as women due to their lack of attraction to men.

Sex is the division of reproductive labor that men choose to exploit. Gender is the social construct to support and facilitate the exploitation and homophobia is literally a product of that system. Don't wanna use the word "comphet" because the word is quite debated, but people are expected to choose a partner of the opposite sex. It's not like lesbians are just liberated. If you don't wanna admit lesbians are also exploited on the basis of their reproductive ability means that you don't think they're women.

Idk why some people like to argue that just because *some* lesbians in more liberal countries are able to live a life without pregnancy that means lesbians as a class are unempathetic to women of other sexualities in matters of reproductive exploitation. I live in India and I cannot imagine making that statement as a bisexual woman. The way lesbians here are forced into marriage and to give kids to their family. Corrective rape is a thing here. If you're going to use your race as an argument against lesbians then also have the guts to think from the pov of lesbians from your race (she is mixed white-Indian). This is the lived reality of most lesbians in the world. They're not less impacted by any form of misogyny. This is why radfems must introspect and criticize their own work first before blindly worshipping authors like Simone de Beauvoir, whose ideas you have internalized. Just like lesbophobes today, she was bitter against lesbians, thought they hindered feminist movement cause she thought they were some class of "liberated" women. The sentiment is still very alive today.

I highly doubt that she (if yk who I am talking about then yk) and other women who agreed with her have given birth themselves, or plan to anytime soon. In my opinion, a country that's less homophobic is also relatively less misogynistic. So lesbians there aren't more liberated anymore than het or bi women. Just like them, you have as much choice to remain childfree and never be pregnant. The social pressure, retaliation etc is something lesbians do share with us.

Straight women think and say the worst things about each other. Give each other advice on how to lose weight after pregnancy and to look attractive again to their husbands again. Give advice to stitch to be "tight" again. Disapprove certain style of dressing while on or after pregnancy.

However, all such behaviors these women inflict on each other is called internalized misogyny. In case of lesbians tho, they're accused of "behaving like men" when lesbians have no power, no social institution to force straight women into pregnancy or any of the things related to it. When lesbians are themselves forced in het marriages and childbirth. You cannot claim they're like "men". This is such an insult to the lesbian and bi women activists in my country who have made female only orgs within LGBT cause neither male members of LGBT nor het women understand the unique position of wlw community in society.

#lesbophobia #not gonna disclose url cause she's painting herself as victim now and calling anyone who criticizes a bully #no matter how polite or civil you're being

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mariacallous · 3 months

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Much of India came to a standstill on Jan. 22, when Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi consecrated a temple in the northern city of Ayodhya commemorating Rama, a warrior-king worshipped by Hindus as a god. Schools, colleges, and offices closed and central government offices gave a half-day off to all employees. Some expectant parents even cajoled obstetricians to schedule cesarean sections on the day so that their children are born at the auspicious moment coinciding with the temple’s opening.

Such a public display of religiosity by the Indian government and its leadership may seem peculiar, particularly to those who cherish secularism. But India moved away from the state’s traditional interpretation of secularism a decade ago, when Modi led the Hindu nationalist Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) to power. With the next national elections only a few months away, Modi has choreographed the Ram temple consecration to consolidate his Hindu vote (about 80 percent of the country’s population is Hindu). The political intent is clear: Cutouts of Modi grace lampposts on the airport road in Ayodhya, with similar images of Rama added almost as an afterthought. In an audio message on social media this month, Modi said, “God has made me an instrument to represent all the people of India.”

The ongoing construction of Ram Mandir is very controversial in India. From the early 16th century until 1992, a mosque known as Babri Masjid stood on the site—built during the time of the emperor Babur, the first Mughal to rule India. Many Hindus say that Babur destroyed a temple honoring Rama that previously stood on the land, which they believe is Rama’s birthplace. In the 1980s, Hindu activists began a movement to reclaim the site and build a temple there. In December 1992, they razed the mosque, an act that shocked the nation.

But in the past two decades, India has changed, and Hindus clamored for the land to be restored to them. In 2019, the Indian Supreme Court ruled that although the initial act of demolition was illegal, it would offer the site to a Hindu trust to build a temple and grant land elsewhere to a Muslim trust to rebuild a mosque. Although the construction of the Ram Mandir is not yet complete, Modi needs the imagery for his election campaign, and so the consecration will go ahead. Some opposition parties, including the Indian National Congress and the Communist Party of India, did not send their top leadership to the ceremony; however, some Congress leaders were divided over the boycott and at least two attended.

Rama, for many Hindus, is maryada purushottam—the ideal human being who sacrifices himself for others. His is the kind of life to which lesser mortals should aspire; his heroism is based not simply on battlecraft, but upon his ability to put others’ interests before his own. In the Sanskrit epic Ramayana, Rama is the prince of Ayodhya who is about to become king when one of his father’s wives demands that Rama go into exile, and the succession passes to her son instead. Rama leaves with his wife, Sita, and brother Lakshmana. The king of Lanka, Ravana, abducts Sita, and Rama mobilizes an army of monkeys to invade the island fortress, defeating Ravana and rescuing Sita. After 14 years, Rama finally rules Ayodhya, leading to a golden age.

The BJP sees the construction of the Ram Mandir temple as evidence of its single-minded determination, no matter how long it takes. Formed in 1980 by some members of the former Janata Party, the BJP initially struggled electorally. It briefly held power in the 1990s and led a coalition government between 1999 and 2004. In 2014, Modi projected himself as committed to development and boosted the BJP’s vote share to win a majority of seats in parliament with 31 percent of the national vote; five years later, the party increased its tally to 303 seats out of 542, winning 37 percent of the vote. The temple project follows other promises kept by Modi’s government: revoking the special autonomous status of Indian-administered Kashmir and introducing a citizenship act that created a pathway to Indian citizenship for asylum-seekers from neighboring countries but excluded Muslims. Modi has shown that he is the man who gets things done.

The BJP capitalized on three major changes that occurred in India in the 1980s to build its identity and increase its vote share. First, many Indians bristled at how India practiced secularism, perceiving the government as granting special favors to religious communities, such as subsidies for Muslims to perform the Hajj and curriculum exemptions for faith-based schools. Second, Indians were tired of living in an economy beset by sluggish growth and shoddy products due to socialist policies that restricted foreign investment and trade. (That changed in 1991, when the Congress government deregulated the economy.)

Finally, India was a leader in the Non-Aligned Movement, but the appeal of nonalignment was fading with the decline of Soviet influence and the eventual disintegration of the Soviet Union. The Congress party ruled India for most of its first 49 years post-independence, and it was instrumental in developing India’s secularism, socialism, and nonalignment. The BJP took advantage of public disenchantment and stepped into the void, promising “equality for all, appeasement to none,” to promote a market-based economy, and to reset its foreign policy, often aligning with Western interests. (Still, the BJP pursues strategic autonomy in many respects, such as its continuing trade ties with Russia despite Western sanctions.)

Most politicians have the next election on their mind; Modi and the BJP leadership have the next generation in mind. After all, more than 40 percent of Indians have no living memory of the Babri Masjid mosque. Even in the early years, the party began influencing India’s younger generations in the states where it came to power first, changing textbooks and rewriting history to downplay the roles of Mahatma Gandhi and Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru (and his family members who later came to power) and project alternative heroes who were more militant and outwardly Hindu. By promoting Rama as the warrior-king who ruled over an ideal state, the BJP aims to create a constituency of voters who see their identity primarily in religious terms and equate the Hindu faith with the nation of India.

To the BJP’s core voters—the hardwired Hindu nationalists—the party has promised to restore Hindu glories, embodied by the Ram Mandir temple. The events in Ayodhya have set a precedent: Some party activists want to transform more mosques (and, in some instances, churches), claiming they were also built where Hindu temples once stood. The triumphalism around the temple construction is so vicious that not only is it the opposition leaders boycotting the event who are facing criticism, but also four seers of the Hindu faith who have raised a range of objections—including the choice of Modi to perform the ceremony, which they say should be presided over by a priest.

The Hindu nationalist movement’s elevation of Rama over other Hindu deities is also strange. Hinduism is polytheistic, and its literature does not rest on one book. Many interpretations are liberal, and some contradict each other: Skepticism and atheism are also part of certain strands of Hinduism. In the late 1980s, I interviewed Morarji Desai, who had served as India’s prime minister representing the Janata Party. I asked him what he thought of the movement to build the Ram temple on the site of Babri Masjid, and he suggested that the BJP’s ultimate goal was to undermine Hinduism’s pluralism and turn it into a faith with one book (the Ramayana), one place of worship (Ayodhya), and one god (Rama). The slogan now reverberating through Ayodhya and much of India is Jai Shri Ram, or “Victory to Lord Rama.”

Rama is an exceptionally interesting and nuanced literary figure and well-loved outside of India, especially in Southeast Asia. But many Indians do not take kindly to works that present Rama in a different light, such as the late poet A.K. Ramanujan’s celebrated essay, “Three Hundred Ramayanas,” which shows how the epic’s characters appear in different forms and offer different interpretations in India and beyond. Nina Paley’s charming 2008 animated film that draws on the Ramayana, Sita Sings the Blues, was also controversial. The latest victim of this outrage is a Tamil film released on Netflix last month, Annapoorani, about the daughter of a Hindu priest who wants to be a chef; her Muslim friend encourages her to pursue her dream, correctly citing a verse from the Ramayana that shows that Rama ate meat. Some Hindus who practice vegetarianism for religious reasons were offended; Netflix withdrew the film, and the actor who played the protagonist issued a public apology on a “Jai Shri Ram” letterhead.

India is no longer a land of nuances. A significant part of its population wants an assertive government and a black-and-white narrative where subjugated Hindus are reclaiming their identity, and the foreigners who colonized the country in the past—the British and, before them, Muslims—are cast as villains. Such an approach risks turning a multidimensional country into a cardboard caricature of itself. The Ram temple consecration marked another milestone on that path—which Modi walks in the hope of getting elected once again.

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itchyeye · 1 year

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aaaaaa yes all good thoughts! see a lot of my thoughts re: the stranger had more to do with how it seemed too material and reliant on physical stuff. the spiral had a literal endless maze, but also had people's lives falling to delusion. the web had literal spiders, but also had the concept of control and all that. so even if you aren't scared of the more obvious manifestations, you still have the chance to be disturbed by the more abstract ideas.

but the stranger (as delightful as its monsters are, i love nikola and breekon and hope etc etc, they just don't feel as clever) relies so heavily on the idea that the listener MUST be scared of dolls or taxidermy or automatons, meanwhile i love all those things! and ive had plenty of nightmares involving the uncanny valley or identity, and concepts like the mandela catalogue scare the shit out of me. but tma never seemed to get to the core of why that stuff is freaky, just "hey wouldn't be fucked up if this happened?"

and like you said, they didn't seem to put much care into why a person would worship the stranger, which is strange (ha) to me because the options feel so obvious? i've met plenty of people who are so concerned with maintaining appearances (not in the Flesh way, in the social way) that they construct false identities and roles to play for themselves, and that seems fitting. idk! something !!

and they could've played with what identity Means more - in a story where so many characters are struggling with the line between humans and monsters, it would've been interesting to have manifestations of the stranger where you're left wondering if the spooky entity is actually a person or not (whether that be through not trusting the statement giver to be a reliable narrator, or through the question of What Is A Person? itself)

idk im sort of rambling jfc i didnt mean for this ask to be so long sorry but yes woo there r my thoughts i do not have many tma friends so i am deprived of enrichment

but tma never seemed to get to the core of why that stuff is freaky, just "hey wouldn't be fucked up if this happened?"

YES!! i think a great example of how this falls flat is the desolation, actually! because all of the follower's of the people's church of the divine host are made of wax

they are no longer human, their physical being is made of boiling, moldable wax

that seems like it should be a stranger thing, right? they're literally wax works, the unknowing took place in a waxwork museum and the dancers were all waxworks

but the difference is exactly what you've just said. the desolation's followers actually aren't scary because they're made of wax. them being made of wax is so far down the list of why they're scary i literally forget that it's true most of the time. whereas:

the waxworks at the museum are just scary... because they're waxworks. weird ones tho.

(as delightful as its monsters are, i love nikola and breekon and hope etc etc, they just don't feel as clever)

this is really really it!! the stranger's monsters just don't feel as clever

i really like your idea about someone worshiping the stranger because they're so image obsessed!! i would love to hear more about that. i think that would make a very interesting acolyte.

also i was thinking about this last night and i think part of what makes the stranger feel so vast (ha) and disorganized is that fear of the unknown is a fundamental building block of every single one of the fears

the whole point of all the entities is that they take things that are pretty innocuous (wasp nests, ant infestations, garden spiders, tall buildings, stairwells, hallways, security cameras) and turn them into something vile

the characteristic of "the unkown" or "the unfamiliar" is impossible to localize under one entity

also, understandably it took a while to establish all the mechanics of like what a ritual is, how it can be stopped, why people would want it to happen, etc

but it took the gang two full seasons and several major character deaths to stop the unknowing, while the black sun was solved off screen between episodes

and like yes of course like gertrude would be better at finding and stopping rituals because she has 50 years of experience! and yes it gets easier to find and stop rituals as you keep going. but the balance of the story pacing just feels weird, y'know?

this isn't the only time that i feel like tma does a massive amount of build up for a whole lot of nothing but it's up there

#[💌] asks and replies #florenceisfalling #[📑] transcripts #mag 101 #[smirke's 14] 👤

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chewbop · 1 year

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Pentiment & The Humanity of History

Obsidian has created an unusual prospect. Pentiment is part history lesson, part gripping novel, part art piece and part murder mystery role player all in one. It's a pitch for the nichest of niche audiences, but those who give it a shot will discover one of 2022's best games. Come for the murder mystery, stay for the town of Tassing.

Like the monks and nuns in the game itself, Pentiment is religiously devout. Its worship does not look to the sky though, it instead looks to constructions of the past. More than any other modern game in recent memory, Pentiment’s blood flows from the trappings of human history.

Drawing on the aesthetics, works, ideologies and sociology of 16th century Europe, Pentiment wields a daunting grip of historic knowledge. It looks the part, with its artstyle mirroring a gorgeous illuminated manuscript. It's pacing and dialogue are firmly rooted in the historical social structures of the time and its music is period accurate too.

All of these pieces set the stage for the game's greatest triumph, the aforementioned of Tassing. Pentiment is a game that takes place over a 25 year span in this town. As alluded to before, you control an Artist named Andreas as you ultimately try to solve multiple murders.

Over the next 15-25 hours, Andreas is a welcome outsider immersed in the heart of a town with a pulse and deep history. The cast of characters are unmatched in their depth as a collective. Their motivations, beliefs and relationships are astonishingly well-realized. This is a town you will become invested in with people you will care about. For this reason, making dialogue choices and plot altering decisions feels that much more involved.

Pentiment’s work with characters and the relationship to the space of Tassing is almost akin to the intricacy and warmth of Shenmue's Yokosuka or Animal Crossing New Horizon's island, but the game as a whole most closely resembles A Night in the Woods. It eclipses all of these touchstones with its narrative detail though. This is a game that moves deliberately, but finds meaning in almost every conversation. With your chosen backgrounds, the role playing elements that give you certain understandings and dialogue options, further enhance the social exploration of Tassing.

Pentiment draws on civilization of another era but its deconstruction of how history is made, how we participate in it, and what history gets told, is tremendously thoughtful and contemporary. Death, worship, agency, and notably, a woman's place are all pervasive elements that colour this world and understanding of its clockwork.

Pentiment's compounded history grows as you actively play it. You go deeper in this world as time goes on. It's a game that asks you to live with your ghosts in more ways than one, and that investment, that sense of place and impact is fantastic. As far as narrative games go, this is one of the best to ever do it. This game is a classic for those who want to crack its spine and it give a read.

#pentiment #obsidian #xbox game pass #pc games #single player #steam

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the-unpopular-opinion · 1 year

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If you have any sort of anxiety, especially social one and if you suffer rejection sensitive dysphoria please think if you want to post your writing on tumblr.

See - you may get lucky, and if you know the risks and decide to do so much power to you.

I only want to warn you. Because no one warned me, and it was too horrible, for something that should have been “fun”.

That was my experience in that fandom on tumblr. ._. That post in the screen how ever is not made by me. I wish I had found it before I posted. But I didn’t.

I’ve got a year long depression, and as I was told also a PTSD, because of all that. I have rejection sensitive dysphoria due to past events like this one long ago. I also have social anxiety because similar reasons.

I’m always mindful of what I do, but sometimes like this one there was no way to know.

And people -- could not care less.

And I wish I knew before I got into that. If I knew I would not.

Also note: I didn’t want to be popular or famous or ass-kissed and etc..

All I wanted was some feedback on my hard work, even constructive criticism. A couple of people to comment on my fic.

After all, with all those people, there should be 2 to 4 who would care right?

Wrong.

No one ever did.

Meanwhile, I was watching other authors raised to cult like status mentioned, treated like celebrities, being worshiped, all the time,every day, every minute.

No one is THAT good.And that’s toxic as fuck.

Try not to compare yourself and your writing when a person that writes like you or worse gets 800 notes and you get 10 likes.

Try it.

-10 stars would not recommend.

#fandoms #fanfics #fanfiction #fan fics #toxic #warning #if you have rejection sensitive dysphoria and anxiety of any kind think twice if you want to post your thing #fandom #clicques

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bitchfitch · 1 year

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I've been thinking on Drogo and Taika again bc I've been playing the new holocure update and more specifically I've been mulling over the differences between them and Henry and Adonis and what that says about Taika.

Bc like, They have the same base.

A man isolated by his own hand constructs a lover to fill the loneliness in his life. That constructed lover is brought to life and the story ensues.

But Henry and Taika don't Feel the same.

Henry wanted a muse who would never become imperfect, someone who would never age, or see him as doing wrong, or disobey or disagree with him. and only sought out bringing Adonis to life because a stone statue couldn't tell him it loved him or praise him or worship him.

Taika was just lonely. The world outside was too loud and the people too much. Still he needed human comforts like the presence of another so he made himself a doll, not a very good one, just an embarrassing facsimile for him to talk to. And as he hid away from outside more and more, he spent more and more time devoted to caring for and making his doll better until it was his love that gave the doll life.

Fundamentally what I've described Taika being is a shut in dude bro with a body pillow or figurine he treats like a wife out of social isolation and fear of rejection. but with a witch hat.

Like, Taika is not a heroic figure, and there's not an easy way to show him without describing that specific IRL parallel. But i think that's the point of him? Henry is a mockery of self absorbed artists who used their art as an excuse to be abusive, Taika is...

Taika is something. Is he an abstraction or parody of the idea of the quintessential neck beard? A romantization?

He's a shut in, a witch, and a man in love with a doll.

He, like many of the men he reflects, is autistic and struggling with a world that doesn't fit him and people who he doesn't know how to communicate with... Do I want to push him farther? Is he being radicalized by people more willing to meet him at his level and more able to point fingers at who it is that they believe causes his problems?

Does Drogo help or make that worse? He knows nothing besides Taika. Is that the story I want to tell with them? A sweet blooming romance between a shut in who's been scorned by the world at large and has become part of a toxic community that sees monsters in every shadow or scrap of difference.

What is the story there? incel who calls women females and is slowly falling deeper into the 4chan to 8chan pipeline is handed his waifu through no real effort of his own and then what?

Is Drogo a motivation to escape this hell he's made for himself? His happiness is used as an indicator that he is now an outsider to the in group causing him to become unmoored from the one tether he had. Is there something wrong with Drogo that Taika must leave his hole in order to fix? Does Drogo call him cringe and drag him out by the lapels?

is this the story I want to tell.

#like. I dont think i want to write a fundamentally bigoted character. that doesn't sound fun and fantasy bigotry is #basically always kinda cringe bc it tries to say a lot without actually saying anything #But maybe theres merit in humanizing a real group of people who are often ignored by larger movements and are so easily #wrapped up in the worst kind of e-cults because no one else will give them the time or patience to grow.#Maybe thats the story #Taika growing and becoming a better person #but is That The Story I Want To Tell

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midorishinji · 3 months

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Saturnalia

Original work ｜Part I of the "A girl by the sea"｜Also published in Portuguese and on AO3

Some people say December has a smell. It smells like a grandma's home, like sea breeze, like candy, like freshly cut grass, like rain that's about to pour. I’ve never understood this, and I’ve never felt it either: December to me is a dark month, full of penitence. I was never the type of child who was enchanted by Christmas, or who believed in Santa Claus: when I think of that time, I think about being in my dad's car passing under the tunnel of fairy lights that the city always puts up on a particular avenue here; I didn't know why back then, but I loved passing under the thousands of lights so much because my astigmatism made their brightness merge into a single magnanimous blurry entity. I thought this was how angels were supposed to look like.

Despite this, I can never feel happy when this month arrives. When I was still at school, December meant holidays, lonely and monotonous days at home, watching TV while it rained all the time, floating in a bubble of boredom and isolation. After I grew up, I discovered that I can't be left alone for too long with my own thoughts, or I start to feel like “Saturn devouring his son”, the famous painting by Francisco Goya: if I'm not functioning at maximum capacity, I start to cannibalize myself. In December 2017, I cried for two weeks, uninterruptedly, until I became sick with so much melancholy, like a heroine in a Victorian-era novel, delicately wasting away.

I resigned from the horrible job that used to pain me so much, and now I'm bitter about unemployment. It's been productive: I've been writing like I haven't written in many years, the words spilling out of my fingers, story after story; it's a shame that this production cannot sustain my body, only my soul. All of my college classmates have been feeling discouraged about their careers: we were promised a bright future if we had a degree, but each of us is worse off; informality, low salary, unemployment, freelancing, instability, professional portfolio, LinkedIn, I wanna run away from home and go live in a cave so I never have to deal with capitalism again.

I can't say that I'm perishing gracefully today: a more appropriate description would be a roadkill that drags itself across the asphalt, leaving trails of blood and ragged fur behind. And again we return to grotesque analogies and metaphors, like Saturn. December is the month of the Saturnalia festival in Ancient Rome, when masters served their slaves, and social norms were upside down; it was the festival that worshiped the god of time, wealth, renewal and liberation, the god who demands symbolic sacrifices in his name. In astrology, Saturn is a malefic planet that brings disaster, misfortune, loss, sacrifice, delays, and Saturn's return is feared as a time when everything falls apart.

I sympathize a little with the poor thing. I'm a Scorpio — misunderstood by nature — and I'm used to Pluto's phases, destruction as a tool of construction. I sympathize because I have a sensitive soul, and I buy the ugly fruits at the market because I know that no one but me would take them home, because I know what it's like to be a damaged product. I have Saturn in the eleventh house, the House of Blessings; it represents friendships, communities, and fulfilling dreams. Where Saturn is, it makes everything difficult: I have few friends, I can't understand social norms, and it seems that the more I swim, the further from the shore, from the much-desired reward, I get. Sometimes I have the impression that I see my dreams constantly slipping away through my fingers, and the more I fight, the more I struggle, the further away they become.

I think of December as the darker side of Saturnalia, wax figures, candles and masks that were offered in place of human blood. In the Northern Hemisphere, it is in this month that the winter solstice, the Long Night, occurs, when the sun seems to never want to shine again. And even though here in Brazil it's the opposite, the summer solstice when the light is so bright it's blinding, December for me is always a month of crossing the shadow, a journey through the Underworld. Saturn and Pluto are not so different after all: they both rule agriculture and bring fortune. Saturn is unhappiness, punishment, deprivation, but it is also wisdom, stability, persistence, tenacity, recognition; a god with two faces, and one of them is only seen after the ordeal. I know that the Long Night will eventually come to an end, because life is made up of cycles and more cycles, and it’s only a matter of time before I can get back on my feet, before I can feel that the reward is within my reach — even though the umbra seems infinite and impenetrable, I believe that it ends, because it’s in my nature to believe. And while the light hasn't returned, I’ll light a candle and take off my glasses, and let the astigmatism blur my vision so that this small flame can take up my entire field of vision until it becomes my sun.

#fanfiction #fanfic #writing #ao3 #original work #original writing #poetry #musings #saturnalia #a girl by the sea #december

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sugar-petals · 3 years

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can you give us more thoughts about domestic yoongles? the taemin's one (wich I love) just made me miss the cat boy so much ;o;

i have a phd in househusband yoongi so let me fire out some ideas for ya.

myg at home headcanon

🐱 word count. 1.9k | fluff, slice of life, slight nsfw mentions, x reader, bullet points

The doorbell sound is a recording of Yoongi imitating a doorbell. He’s such a meme. Ceci n'est pas une pipe.

Seemingly, he teaches himself a new recipe every week. To perfection. Yoongi is very particular about sticking to the recipe and wielding his kitchen tools in the right way. He collects knives, olive oil, and still hates cutting onions.

He separates sleep time, work time, and couple time as the holy trinity. For each, he switches his mood.

Blushes easily no matter for how long you’ve been together.

Establishes his own radio show where he DJs at one point.

Yoongi keeps an extreme track on the garbage schedule. He knows exactly what is due when. Separating the trash is a must. That includes sorting out fake friends trying to get between your relationship. Your social circle as a couple is extremely deliberate.

Yoongi deems himself a terrible host for guests. Unless Hoseok is there to drag him out, it's true he rather stays in the kitchen or at the barbecue preparing the menu courses rather than making small talk. He leaves the hospitality bits to you, however you want to go about it.

What he lacks in conversing with guests, he makes up in bed, God is absolutely fair.

He sings and hums pretty often and has his own vernacular of extraterrestrial uwu noises. It's an alphabet that you have to yet decipher but it's incredibly cute.

Self-made paintings everywhere around his house.

Yoongi hasn't gone clubbing since grammar school. The most he does is going to a restaurant at lunch with very close friends. And always in a work context. His private life is so secluded from everything else and paparazzi just don't spot him anywhere, Dispatch thinks he must live abroad.

Very well, he does consider his big ole house a separate country. It's a living organism with a studio, gym, trophy room, small-size basketball court, and vastly equipped kitchen. A home theater as well, he likes American movies (like Inception) and Korean action genres, and you can stream whatever you fancy in there whenever you like.

Yes, he has underwear with cute little bears on.

There's even a little pond in the backyard. Yoongi, Pisces he is, likes fishes after all. Sometimes he sits at the edge of the 'Little Ole Min Lake (LOML)' and stares into the water for literal hours with his chin parked on his palm.

His fridge is so high-tech and futuristic, even Yoongi is rendered clueless by its AI sometimes. The washing machine, too.

Yoongi watches RuPaul’s drag race. What did you expect? He finds it so humorous.

Owns lord knows how many comic collections.

Favorite holiday destination: New York.

Christmas is basically 50% you unveiling new music equipment to him in the garage and Yoongi almost fainting at the sexiness of it. The other 50% is spent holding hands and orgasm after orgasm until the new year since you loose track of time.

Goes on long rants why he’d marry you again every weekend.

Making you presents is his specialty. Always accompanied with a hand-written note. He writes a lot of things by hand for you in general. Texting, basically never. Always on paper.

No sex without a blanket and socks on. Yoongi gets cold very very easily and just doesn’t like showing skin. You buy him a heated blanket for his birthday, he even uses it in his studio chair.

Chronically addicted to making out.

Matching black outfits and glasses.

Laughs at even your worst jokes or phrases you didn’t expect you even uttered.

Yoongi owns the phoniest, most secretive-looking black car ever and nobody knows about it. Even he forgets he owns it, in fact he genuinely acts like it just doesn’t exist. Hilarious. And that guy has a level 1 Korean driver's license. Which allows him to drive trailers and busses and fucking trucks, and construction machines, let that sink in.

It's really a genius curse. Yoongi being put to the test will always deliver but he won't choose to execute his full skillset if he doesn't have to. Well, pragmatic. He's not as phony as he thinks he is, which is even more hilarious.

He uses that behemoth of a car so scarcely because he'd rather have things delivered to his doorstep and he's stingy with gas. Also, he doesn't like traffic and driving because of the traumatic shoulder accident and his tendency to space out. Translation: You drive that thing... that monster... it really is an impressive, fast, and scary machine.

If someone devious ever even remotely manages to invade his privacy and get past the doubly-installed security system, he has enough money to deal with it no matter what.

If it concerns your privacy, he's a red belt. And owns Jin's number if a taekwondo master is required. Jimin's if it needs someone with kendo skills.

If Yoongi needs someone to go on a complete rampage, Jungkook lives just down the block. He can sprint to Yoongi's bunker I mean mansion within 45 seconds. 30 if it's very urgent. 20 if the reward is an instant ramen splurge with Yoongi's black card.

He has a sexy, glamorous sword collection hanging on the living room wall anyways, so. Who the hell is dumb enough to mess with him and his expensive lawyer in the first place.

But just in case, who knows... Yoongi settles matters shruggingly, anonymously, and with cash and he's too exhausted for violence, but don't underestimate his deter-min-ation and network for emergencies. Also, he is Agust D after all.

He will bonk a naughty burglar or kidnapper across the head with a wooden cooking spoon or take him down by throwing a basketball if the situation requires it. Damn, his reflexes are so fast, a feral cat in motion. So, lean back and sip on your drink of choice. Things are cared for.

If Yoongi is the one being kidnapped or a highly skilled stalker invades the property at night when he's fast asleep (nothing can wake this man during certain hours, strong REM right here): Don't forget that honeyboy is a Dodgers fan. There are signed baseball bats everywhere in this damn house.

In that sense, your parents visiting you here for the first time thought you were an undercover thug couple. Not to worry mom and dad, you both just like sports very much okay.

Yoongi walks around in all black clothes and the rooms are all seemingly dark. Even if you live together, you don't know his skin care routine. It's clear to you he's some sort of vampire.

Since Yoongi always forgets to remove his makeup, you made it a habit to wipe it down when he's about to pass out. He won't lie, he enjoys that kind of affection.

Holly is your resident child. You're essentially a family.

He insists to tackle this by himself, Yoongi sees his therapist monthly. Not shifting responsibility is something he's stubborn about and he pours his emotions into writing. You will do conversation about deeper stuff, but he says it's mostly up to him and his own mind. He dislikes burdening you or opening up too much and it's something to respect rather than force him about. If he wants to share a thought, he will. It doesn’t mean he can’t trust you or sucks at communicating (we know that he’s direct). Yoongi simply can’t put that much pain in such few words nor should you alleviate it for him.

Calls from the manager faze Yoongi as much as Jimin is bothered by gravity. If he’s busy kissing your body slow mo, who the hell dares to disturb his worship.

This man had so many let-downs and interpersonal catastrophes in his life, he's super discerning with people. Because he rolls that way, during their first meeting Yoongi uses his psychology certificate on your friends. You see him squint at them, he listens very closely. After they pass the vibe check aka meow radar, he befriends them, too.

Yoongi doodles Grammy trophies everywhere to manifest them.

Yoongi shaves his legs.

All the sex toys he’s ever bought are black. Gotta vibe in style.

He spends ridiculous amounts of time in the studio but he's yours for the remainder of the night, breakfast, and he makes a lavish lunch and dinner.

Um, consider his head parked between your legs. The Hongkong line was not a joke.

Doesn’t mind you squishing his cheeks whenever and for how long you like.

Every other weekend he gets flowers, vouchers, and gifts — not because of fans, they don’t know where his house is, but because he donates so much.

Namjoon often drops by and cleanses the area with his crystals.

Yoongi is a photography major so you can ask him to take professional, ceiling-high black and white shots of you.

Feeding each other food lovingly. Man, this guy got lips.

He set up a library just for you, in the exact historical aesthetic you like the most. Send him the link to any book you want, it's basically in the online shopping cart already. As I said, he wants to make you presents like every week.

Sometimes he sits on the other end studying English videos and vocab while you read. And yes, he's already 95% fluent but pretends being merely intermediate. He knows technical terms even native speakers have never heard of.

He collects pajamas and earrings.

Swears on the phone.

Namjoon being the horniest member is a cover-up story. Yoongi masturbates almost unreasonable amounts of times, by himself and in your arms when going to bed. Not gonna lie, it’s a sight to see his hands at work. He’s almost equally obsessed with fingering you once you ask him.

Yoongi was the one asking you to move in and almost had a nervous meltdown before meeting up with you to tell you just that.

He’s the little spoon and of course a sleeping burrito to hold tight.

Finds you equally attractive in any state or styling. Yoongi practices what he preaches, he always reacts the same and says the same.

Jams out to outrageous beats Namjoon sends him by dancing in the studio. You walk in on him every time. Was embarrassed at first, now you dance along.

Has bought you a life-sized Yoongi pillow and customized you a giant Shooky to hug when he’s not at home over night.

Owned a wine cellar until he quit drinking. Turned it into a piano room instead.

Only you know Yoongi has a serpent and dagger tattoo.

Scrubs the bathroom religiously.

The house smells like restaurant food and his extravagant perfumes half of the time.

Sometimes he has to remind himself he’s married to you and not his coffee machine. He shall be forgiven. You can’t complain that he doesn’t love you enough, nor is he ever not adorable when drinking his latte.

Never wears short sleeves. It can be scorching and he’ll wear a jacket.

Tell him and the cap stays on during sex.

He grows his hair out and puts it in a low bun. The bangs remain.

Yoongi has installed the most fire-proof building in the entire city it seems. That he wanted to be a firefighter when he was young definitely shows. Figures the house has to be protected from heat: His blasting studio music and Yoongi himself are just way too sizzling.

Still melts into a puddle when you kiss his nose.

Couple sunrise watching.

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