#I was not subtle!! it was not a delicately indicated theme!

[curiosity-killed]

Every so often someone new reads whipstitch and is furious about lxc being a terrible self righteous hypocrite who’s only thinking about himself and I’m always like…ur SO close to getting it and yet. Also not at all

[veronicaphoenix]

zutto — chapter two | wc: 3k | series masterpost | prev. chapter

chapter summary: lia and noah's first morning together in her apartment after returning to los angeles.

tags and trigger warnings: best friends to lovers, conflicted feelings, subtle mentions of overdose, ptsd, angst/comfort, noah's having nightmares of lia dying, insomnia, lia's still suffering from slight disorientation, but she's totally in love with noah and so is he with her, even though they're grappling with the aftermath of what happened and taking things slow. there's also obvious sexual tension that will just keep on escalating until it can't be contained anymore.

general trigger warnings: This work addresses and depicts issues related to addiction, abuse, & violence, contains explicit sexual content, and explores themes of childhood trauma. Reader discretion is advised. +18

As Lia slowly emerged from the depths of slumber, the soft embrace of morning sunlight kissed her eyelids, coaxing her back to consciousness. Her fingers idly traced the familiar contours of her bed, noting the untouched expanse beside her. Noah’s absence sent tendrils of unease snaking through her, and suddenly, her heart felt heavy with fear. 

            She slipped from the warmth of her covers, her bare feet touching the cold tiles of the floor. The faint aroma of breakfast wafted through the air as she exited her bedroom. She walked sleepily but panicked to the kitchen. 

            There, in the gentle glow of dawn filtering through the windows, she found Noah, clad in his sweatpants and a black t-shirt, his hair a bit ruffled but looking wide awake. 

            A wave of relief spread through her. Lia fluttered her eyelashes a couple of times, adjusting to the domesticity Noah exuded as he prepared breakfast in her kitchen. 

            “Noah.”

            She caught his attention, and he gifted her a beautiful pained smile. 

            “Hey. I didn’t think you’d wake up so early,” he said, his voice also indicating that he’d been awake for some time now. There was an empty cup of coffee resting by the stove.

            Lia inspected him. The dark circles under his eyes and the stubble on his chin made him look older than he was, and another pang of guilt hit her.

            She ignored his comment, unable to remember when she had finally fallen asleep the night before. The last thing she recalled after holding each other as they cried was being curled up next to Noah on the couch, playing with the strings of his hoodie as a Tim Burton movie flickered on the TV. She couldn’t tell if she’d slept for four hours or eight, but her body still felt the fatigue and weakness of the previous days. She attributed her exhaustion to something else, though: to the fact that Noah hadn’t spent the night beside her.  

            “Where did you sleep?” she asked. Her voice trembled with a mixture of fear and longing as she uttered the question.

            Noah’s gaze, warm and tender yet tinged with a hint of sorrow, met hers. He watched her carefully, paying particular attention to the color in her cheeks, her still sleepy eyes, and her messy hair.

            His response was a silent gesture, a wordless admission. He tilted his head towards the tiny living room, silently indicating the sofa.  

            A surge of emotion threatened to engulf her as she stood there, her eyes falling on the crumpled blanket where Noah had spent the night, using it to shield himself from the cold. Amidst the delicate dance of morning shadows, she yearned to bridge the distance that separated them, to shatter the barriers that confined their hearts. But she was still afraid, and she didn’t know when that fear would let her fall right into his arms; the place where she belonged.

            “You don’t have to sleep there,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. 

            “I just wanted you to get a peaceful sleep,” he replied, briefly glancing up from the strawberries he was cutting. 

            Lia hesitated, overwhelmed again by Noah’s attention and constant care. She wasn’t sure if she would ever get used to it, but she knew she didn’t want to live without it. Those had always been the only constants in her life.  

            It had always been Noah.

            Noah.

            Noah.

            Noah.

            She nervously touched the calf of her opposite leg with the heel of her left foot, her eyes wandering over the kitchen counter as she deliberated. She watched as Noah scrambled to prepare two bowls of oatmeal with frozen berries he’d found in the freezer. 

            Summoning some courage, she managed to voice her feelings. “I don’t want you to sleep on the sofa.”

            Her words didn’t surprise Noah, but the determination in her voice did. It was the first time in a long while that he’d hear her speak with such clarity and intensity. Her statement was more than just words; it carried the weight of an imminent solution, and they both understood what that solution entailed because they both wanted the same one.  

            Noah had refrained from sleeping in her bed for many reasons, but mainly because his own insecurity had told him not to cross that line unless Lia asked him to. Now, with her recent statement, it was clear she was asking. 

            Still, Noah needed her to be explicit. He couldn’t handle any more silences, any more behaviour he didn’t understand, or secrets between them. He needed Lia to be transparent about everything as he was willing to be; he needed the good and the bad. He needed her honesty and he needed her to verbalize what she wanted—if she wanted him. 

            His heart raced as Lia approached him with slow, small steps. Her brown eyes never leaving his until one of her hands rested on the edge of the countertop. Her eyes and fingers slowly drifted to the wooden board where he was slicing the strawberries. The ice had melted; the frozen berries had released their juice; his fingertips were stained a sweet pink as he cut the strawberries in two. 

            Noah followed Lia’z gaze, trying to decipher her thoughts.

            Lia’s fingers trailed over the wooden board until they touched Noah’s. Before he could warn her about getting dirty, her fingertips demanded control over his, and then she was running the length of his long digits from the inside, smearing the strawberry juice and spreading the color over both her fingers and his hand. Noah should have felt, at the very lest, confused by her actions, but he found himself in a trance, focused solely on the sensation of her strawberry-stained fingers gliding over his skin. The scent of the fruit mingled with her subtle vanilla scent, blocking out everything else. 

            “I want you to sleep with me,” she whispered, a confession that sent butterflies fluttering in his stomach. 

            When his eyes met Lia’s again, he saw the conflict in her gaze. It was as if by expressing what she wanted, she felt somewhat guilty. 

            Noah didn’t want her to feel culpable about anything. He just wanted her to prioritize herself and be honest, both with him and with herself. 

            He was tempted to tell her there was nothing he wanted more than to sleep with her. He had barely slept the night before. After making sure Lia was asleep and untroubled by physical discomfort or nightmares, he had flopped down on the couch with a blanket he found in a closet. He tried to fall asleep but ended up spending hours listening to music and podcasts with his AirPods on and watching pointless videos on his phone. When he finally drifted off, it was only for a couple of hours, interrupted by a nightmare of Lia dying in his arms, then Lia in the hospital, and then a doctor telling him that there was nothing to be done; that Lia was gone. 

            When he woke up from the nightmare, it was five in the morning. He was drenched in sweat, his t-shirt clinging to his chest and back, his hair sticking to his temples. Almost scared to death, he had gotten up and gone to Lia’s room to make sure she was still there, still sleeping in the same position he had last seen her in, her breathing steady, soft.  Then, he had locked himself in the bathroom, spent ten minutes in silence facing his reflection, containing his anxiety before taking a shower, changing clothes, and giving up on sleep for the night.

            Lia’s confession, her desire, spread through him like a wildfire.

            Lia lifted her hand from his, breaking the spell. 

            Noah felt petrified, a part of him unable to believe Lia’s words, increduluous at the gentleness and pain in her beautiful eyes and delicate face. Then, Lia’s strawberry-stained fingers touched his cheek, cool but pleasant, and her thumb came to rest on his lower lip, where her gaze fell.

            A twitch between Noah’s legs added to the flutter of butterflies in his stomach and the tears he knew would escape his eyes if Lia continued to touch him so tenderly. 

            Oh, such a mess they both were. 

            Noah wanted to do so much, to do so many things for her, with her. He wanted to help her recover, to be patient with her and offer her his space. Another part of him wanted to cry and be held by her, to surrender in her arms, with the sound of her heartbeat against his ear. He wanted her hands caressing his face, maybe her voice singing a song to him, one that showed him there was hope, that they would both make it through. Another part just wanted to pick her up, place her on the counter and kiss her, feed her the same strawberries that now stained his lip and cheek, to watch as Lia nibbled on the small fruit and the juice that dribbled down her chin. He wanted to clean her with his kisses and then take her to bed, make love to her until she forgot everything that had happened and could only think of the bright future ahead of them. 

            And yet…

            Lia’s eyes had a spark on them.

            “Noah, I…”

            Noah nearly parted his lips, ready to touch Lia’s thumb with the tip of his tongue. Just then, the shrill tone of his iPhone snapped them out of their trance. Lia’s hand fell swiftly from his face, and she took a step back, her expression changing as she apologized.           

            Noah clicked his tongue, swiping the back of his hand across his cheek to wipe away the strawberry residue before quickly cleaning his fingers with a rag. He reached for his iPhone with one hand while wrapping his other arm around Lia’s waist, holding her close to his side. 

            “It’s Jolly,” he announced looking down at the screen. 

            Without preamble, he answered the call, trying to focus on the manly voice on the other end while ignoring the way Lia innocently and absentmindedly licked the thumb that had been on his lips just moments before. She reached for the same rag Noah had used, and after a moment, she leaned against him, trying to listen to what Jolly was saying with a small furrow between her brows. 

            Noah offered the phone to her, muttering, “He’s with Emery. She wants to talk to you.”

            Of course. Lia’s phone had been off for the past three days. The battery had died, and she hadn’t bothered to charge it again. Emery, one of her best friends, must have been worried sick. Lia assumed Jolly had informed her of everything, and that he was with her now after the weeks spent away on tour. 

            With a nod, Lia took the phone from Noah’s hand, and reluctantly, he let her go. With a soft greeting and praying she wouldn’t break down again while talking to Emery, Lia made her way around the kitchen counter that separated the kitchen and the living room, heading to the balcony. Noah was left with the ghost of Lia’s thumb on his lips. 

            Lia’s time on the phone with Emery went as expected. Within minutes Lia was in tears. She hadn’t needed to explain what had happened, for Jolly had already filled Emery in. The fear and worry Emery expressed made Lia feel like a bad person. This time, though, Lia took control of the conversation and assured her friend that none of it was her fault. If anything, Lia blamed herself for not letting others help her sooner and drowing herself in her own misery.

            By the time the call ended with a promise of seeing each other soon, Lia was sitting on the corner of the couch, one foot barefoot on the floor and the other leg tucked under her. She sighed heavily, preparing to lock Noah’s phone when she noticed his wallpaper: one of her designs from years ago, a private one that never made it onto the Bad Omens merch or onto her website. It was a beautiful white dragon escaping from a mountain on fire, reaching for the sky with its wings spread open, creating a magnificient shape. Lia had told Noah that she felt the dragon represented her. Although the design had been kept in her MacBook, Noah had somehow obtained it and set it as his wallpaper, perhaps to use it as a reminder that his Lia was stronger than she believed. 

            Lia felt too emotionally exhausted to cry any more. She simply locked Noah’s iPhone and set it down next to her. Looking up at the empty balcony, she noticed the clothesline in the corner, with their tour clothes hanging to dry.  

            “Did you do the laundry?” Lia asked then, turning her head toward Noah at the other end of the room.  

            “Yeah,” he answered, closing the fridge. “I was up early,” he continued,  carrying the two bowls of porridge to the coffee table in front of the couch. “Besides, I don’t have any clothes here except the ones I took on tour so, I had to get them washed,” he explained, setting the bowls. Lia moved to grab two mats from the shelf underneath and placed them on the table. “As comfortable as it feels to dress homeless, we’ll need to go out at some point to get groceries, and I’d rather do it looking a bit decent.” 

            That finally made her smile a little. 

            He settled next to her, pulling the table closer to them. He grabbed the bowl with one hand and the spoon with another. 

            “I should shave, too, but I’ll do that tomorrow,” he mentioned casually. 

            At the mention of it, Lia’s eyes fell to his stubble and the facial hair growing above his upper lip. During their teenage years, when Noah’s mustache had started showing, Lia had teased him occasionally. However, once she realized it made him uncomfortable, she stopped. Weeks later, she had stood at the bathroom door at his grandparents’ house, watching as Noah’s grandpa taught him how to shave. It was a random memory, but seeing him now so comfortable with himself warmed her heart. Growing up meant adapting and accepting changes in one’s body, and Lia was glad Noah had moved past insecurities of his youth, which just added to his appeal as a man. 

            Noah glanced at her as he took the first spoonful of breakfast. He was still replying the intimate moment they had shared in the kitchen before Jolly’s call interrupted, but seeing Lia play with her spoon in her bowl brought him back to the present.  

            “It’s not too bad,” he mentioned, referring to the frozen berries. “There was nothing fresh, and I thought about making a shake, but I know you prefer porridge, so…”

            “Anything is fine. There’s nothing in the fridge, anyway,” she acknowledged. “I should have thought about it yesterday. Maybe we could have gone to get something from the mini-mart down the street.”

            “We can go later if you’re feeling okay,” he leaned back, digging into his food and settling into the slow morning with her.   

            Lia nodded. She felt uncertain about resuming her usual routine, but she was aware that if she didn’t do the effort, she wouldn’t get any better. So, the sooner she started getting back on track, the better. And if she tripped, Noah would be there to catch her.  

            “Maybe we should also get some new plants and spend some time replanting the ones that died. Will keep our minds occupied.”

            It was a good idea, and Lia appreciated every suggestion he made as she ate little spoonfuls of porridge, slowly filling her food-starved body. 

            “Do you feel like going out, though?” he asked, eyeing her with evident concern. 

            The gesture she made as she set her bowl down on the sofa and tucked her hair behind her ear was sweet and comforting. A part of Noah felt a pang of jealousy that she did it herself when he could have done it for her.

            “I’m not sure,” she admitted, “but I want to try. I want to get back to normal as soon as possible…” 

            She shouldn’t rush things, but she didn’t want to delay, either. The upcoming tour in Japan was in the back of her mind, though she didn’t mention it. She knew Noah’s stance on it; he didn’t think it was wise for her to travel so far so soon. She had even overheard him considering canceling the tour to stay with her and help her fully recover. 

            She wouldn’t allow that, wouldn’t let it happen.  

            “Maybe working a little might…”

            “No, no work for a while, Lia,” he interjected firlmy, shaking his head. 

            She didn’t argue, just let her shoulders drop.  

            “Let’s finish breakfast and then we’ll decide together, okay? We’ll make a plan for the next few days,” he proposed, “including calling your therapist and scheduling a doctor’s appointment for next week.” 

            “Noah, I don’t think a doctor’s appointment so soon is req—”

            “Are you going to argue with me on that? Seriously?” 

            “No, but—”

            “Therapist,” he repeated, leaving no room for discussion. “And then a doctor’s appointment.”

            She huffed. 

            “Okay.”

            Her defeated expression made his features soften. He reached out and touched her chin with his fingers, drawing her tired eyes to meet his.  

            “I only want to make sure everything is okay. We need to get you off the meds, and I want to do things right with you, Lia. I’m not losing you again.”

            The sincerity in his words would never fail to move her. She managed a smile; tiny but a smile after all. When it mirrored in his expression, he leaned forward. Lia thought he was going to kiss her lips, but it ended up being a tender peck on her forehead before he resumed eating his breakfast.  

            Before Lia continued on hers, she told him: “you won’t.”

— prev. chapter | chapter three

[helloescapist]

The Sorcerers in a Relationship | Choso

Word Count: 10,075

Setting: Choso x gn!reader

Content Warnings: dark undertones, suggestive themes, mentions of various abuses, touched on trauma topics, but I strayed here and there, spoiler for the series, as well as Choso's lineage, there is a moment in which we briefly cover if the reader wishes to bare children

Summary: headcanons of Choso as a relationship partner, and what the relationship would entail, from attraction, courtship, commitment, and more.

A/N: I swear I did my best to keep this SFW, but It is so hard when there are images of Choso's jaw and neck line, and just... Choso. 🥴I will go on record by saying, I understand if you feel that the elder Death Womb Painting is too soft to become a yandere, and that is a narrative that works for you, and I support that (I look forward to reading your works!), but I will not be entertaining bashing in my inbox. 🙃

[image is not mine, it belongs to Gege Akutami the creator of Jujutsu Kaisen]

To be loved by the death womb painting is to know dependability. To be loved by Choso is to know the brisk chill of fall day amiable into the depth of the sunset, hues of orange crisps delicate against the sunset and amber garnets. It’s the assurance of the crips crunch of leaves beneath the heels of your shoes. Greeted by the tinge of frigidity caught into the tips of your fingers. Tingled and ached seared past the tips of your cozy sweater, quivered as though vivid leaves flickered into the stiff autumn breeze. The early indications of winter greeted to the tip of your nose, delighted to dip your chin into the plush of your scarf. Cozy and snug secured by the knot at your collar bone. Nuzzled into the knit fibers, tranquil to the delicate hushed tones of autumn ushering summer from its throne.

Eliciting a smile from the corner of your lips. Cultivated memories of pumpkin pastries fresh from the oven. Warm and gooey nothing compared to the thrill of your senses as his palms clasp over your own. Enfolded from your fingers fondled delicately as though he were clasping hand blown glass. Brittle and breakable caught between his powerful palms. Your back warmed secured to the grasp of his arms that enfold around your shoulders, the phantom touch of his defined jaw dragging against the crescent of your neck. Desperately seeking warmth from his neck. Exposed to the rasp of his husky breath rousing hidden desires. Gnawing yearning that blossoms at your breast and settles in the pit of your stomach drawing the heat to your cheeks. Hitches in your breath rattled to your ribcage that expedites warmth from the tips of your ears to the cusp of your existence. Eases your bones, and the exhaustion from your heart. Weariness lifted from your features; your thoughts hung only on the warmth of the man who cultivates your heart. Choso’s love is like that of a hot shower in the cold of winter clinging to the scent of sweet basil. As light and sweet whip cream subtle to the note of his sweat. Warmed earth, the hidden entice of his gaze as it means your own. Fingers that tenderly whisper inveigle into your skin. Muted spices that ignite in the steam of the shower dared to tase your senses. Dangled in a way that leaves a comforting linger of fragrance upon your skin as welcoming as diving into soft bedding. Snuggled into one another’s embrace assured of the safety of your home. To be loved by the enigma placed between curse and sorcerer is to bask in simple pleasures. Dates nights with board games savored between sips of hot chocolate. Delicate grazes that sooth the end of your hair faint to the touch that lull you to sleep. Toyed as his eyes trace your features, committed to memory. Giddy to detect the pale touch of a fine line traced at the corner of your mouth. Vestige of the joys of your relationship leaving its mark upon your essence. Drowsy mornings, the meet of your toes beneath blankets as the light of the day begins to seep through sheer curtain kissed upon the highs of his cheeks. To be loved by Choso is to know his heart is with you. Captivated at the bat of your eyelashes and cultivated at the elicit of your sighs. To know that his heart will remain with you regardless of where you may wander, or the time apart. Tended to by envelopes pressed with kisses reminding you to take care upon your voyage. To be loved by the Death Womb Painting is to know that he eagerly awaits your return.

To be loved by Choso is to understand that you will have to be veracious. You will have to approach the relationship with authenticity and ensure that all facades have been slipped from your soul. Pure and clean with no traces of shadow upon your soul.

Let’s be clear, he does not in fact expect you to be innocent. Depths of depravity is not a guaranteed deal breaker. It’s your ability to be forthcoming that he adores. The ability to approach him with authenticity is necessary. More so, you will find that he will need a little bit of patience alongside it.

It’s a bond born of sincerity. It’s one that is cultivated in kindness, and steadfast loyalty. Undying commitment, one that will not fold with the passage of time, nor the sway of the tides. Its devotion is wrapped in gentle touches, and soft gazes. The touch of his hand through your hair and the silence of the night.

It’s unwavering. One that cannot be swayed, bathed in integrity. Assured by the warmth of his larger hands enfolding over your own, marveling at the size difference between yours as he plays with your fingers. Toyed in the plush of his lips as the smile spreads across his lips, and his eyes peek at you through thick eyelashes.

To be loved by the Death Womb Painting is to know the safety of a gentle companion. A phantom that lingers over your shoulder, curiously peeking at what has caught your interest. A faint presence that is aways within reach tender as cashmere. Soft words whispered into the snug of your neck. It is simple pleasures dressed in adornment.

Free of pretenses and forced stuffy extravagance. To prefer simple delights such as a teaspoon of honey dipped into your afternoon tea as you dare to bundle into a blanket under the security of the veranda. Sipping upon the fragrance sweetness as crisp foliage is carried through the breeze. Happiness that lands upon a bed of leaves, content to delight in the crisp of earth beneath you.

His love is not one bathed in cologne, nor can you expect lavish gifting. Rather, Choso’s love is that of handpicked flowers, the soil snagged beneath his nails. Boyish joys that form at the high of his cheeks as he offers them to you, clueless that his generous selection is composed of weeds.

It is to be honest when something is on your mind. To understand that he has very little experience with the world, and to adjust your response as such. Though, he would rather endure a truth wrapped in barbed response than welcome a lie wrapped in beauty. To respond with sincerity and to respond to his tender touches with returned warmth.

Know that an embrace for him especially at the beginning is bold, dangerously so for his entire world, and that the very brave endeavor is one that rattles him to his core. His soul will sing upon you returning his grasp, and reveal the quiver of certainty hidden beneath his stoic façade. Delicate and winding as the smile that responds as you peer up with him out of curiosity.

The reality is, regardless of where you are in life, you with almost all assurance, are the experienced partner, but do not mistake this as a lack of interest in learning on the false Kamo’s part. No, rather, you should press just a little further and delight as he comes undone.

Choso is attracted to individuals who are reliable, and it’s without surprising that the sincerity in which you approach life and relationships is a significant turning point that will lure him to your side. He did not become the oldest of the death womb paintings without being the product of cruel games at play and has no desires to relive the atrocities of his upbringing. We don’t blame him for unresolved Daddy issues.

Because of this, you will find that the cursed dipped sorcerer yearns for someone lighthearted and sincere. The world of jujutsu is not a simple one. It is a world poised in bleak obscenities. Curses birthed upon nightmares enridged upon insanities, and he was ripped from his mother’s womb abandoned amongst the wastelands of existence. His mere being is a mockery of life one that other forces desire to lock away from sight.

It is not a surprise that the older brother desires a lover that tips into daydreams. Soft and sweet to take him away from reality. A bright energy that breathes life into his existence separate from his willingness to die for his siblings. A joyful smile that allows his shoulders to loosen, and arms that embrace him upon greeting.

Though, don’t be confused, while one would suspect that Choso seeks a partner that is dependent, that leans up on his touch and is not far from reach. As faithful as a pet that desperately awaits the door-- he may find such a rare occurrence adorable, he loves to see the sparkle in his lover’s eyes upon the slip of words between their teeth. Unable to deny the pleasure of sharing passions.

Truthfully, he would find a partner that is not without their own pursuits and lack of free thought… a mere imagery of his parents. A chained relationship, loyalty bonded only due to the forced state of the relationship, tethered, and bound for fear of reprehension. A shadow of his mother locked away from sight subjected to endure onslaught of morbid curiosity, and the distant sound of her tears tucked away by a false smile.

I dare say he would cherish your sass and backtalk. It reassures him that he is nothing like his “fathers”.

No, the blood wielder is attracted to independent partners, one that can stand alone and wander as they will. One that will remain steady despite his absence when his pursuit of Itadori has forced him from his home.

He needs someone who will approach him with tolerance. Accept his unfamiliarity with social expectations, how he shies away from touch, or becomes confused at common phrases. Choso has not had the opportunity to be properly introduced to the world and its adventures, even as simple jumping in mud ridden puddles. The death womb painting has a deep desire for encouragement. He desires security, and comfort. Perhaps a deep seeded craving that neither he nor his brothers ever received in life.

A partner who can provide emotional intimacy, tender words, and carefully soothe the lines of worry from his brow would be everything to this man.

There are two scenarios in which I can imagine Kamo meeting you.

The first would be something simple, perhaps a human existing outside the jujutusu universe, not from a lack of abilities but as born of your disinterest in dealing with the double-edged sword of the community. Opting to stay out of the crossfires.

Dipped in the slowed hues of the day paled by the languid shades of blue. Stale shades of blue mimicked pale water that conceals turbulent undertow. The deceiving calm of the sky crackled soft clouds that somehow seemed dreary and hung upon the silent still of the dim of the day. The small knit playground near abandoned, shadows by the trafficked by the busied of stores, venders, and schools. Slipped from existence, forgotten amongst the passersby. The silent of a day, an opportunity to slip away from the mundane just to discover the motionless silhouette of a man nestled into the set of a swing. The knit of his brow he managed to sit upon the seat. The catch of sunlight between the sway of trees, and yet wrapped in an adornment of what you could only conclude to be priest robes or unfamiliar cosplay, he remained still. Befuddled dark eyes that stayed stagnant, glued to the blades of grass that flickered beneath the playground equipment. As though a frozen phantom, unacquainted with the intentions of the equipment leaving you to place your belongings quietly at the bench. Your hands that caught at the chains of the swing before daring to whisper into his ear, “hold on,” the quip of his head. His brow creased at the press of your hand at his back. Attempting to hold your composure rather than marvel at the firmness of his body as the swing caught to your force. His ponytails caught the shift of the movement, swayed beneath the chortle of your giggle as his body jerked briefly from shock.

The other way would be a sorcerer of the jujutsu world that has strayed interests. Neither falling into full bend of the expectations of the elders or the three families like a result of falling out of aligned goals such as Okkotsu. Unable to properly mask your dismay for the judgmental bags that wallow fear and cast away children for fear of the unusual. Barely kept in the loop as punishment, save for Satoru’s sense of humor and blurred intentions. The occasional babysitter for Megumi.

The burden of his weight pressed into your back. The ache of carrying the added weight for so long as you attempt to maneuver throughout the ruins of Shibuya. The last minute impart of information—you could kill Satoru. You really could, and least of all, you had not expected to be toting a bloody man’s form through the rubble. Dear god was that Todo terror right, have you grown flabby? Ah, none of this had been apart of the agreement; you had accepted the role of ensuring Okkotsu had access to Sukuna’s vessel, a young man. Not that the esteemed blight of the Satoru had bothered to share. While parts of the plan had followed as anticipated, Okkotsu was accompanied by failproof guards warded by the higherups, although you hadn’t expected that one of the prized Zenin born children would have been deployed, but had truly caught you off guard was the cursed dipped sorcerer you bore on your back. Intercepted the threat with no hesitation capable of going head-to-head with the famed asshole. The depths of his depravity was an unexpected surprise, and you could chastise yourself for not having guessed he was a ticking timebomb. No, you had not expected for your entrusted role would be claimed by well…. Whoever—whatever this was, or that you would be carting him to safety. Yet, witnessing Okkotsu’s capable abilities first hand--- leaving this person exposed to the night air felt wrong, a sacrificial distraction for the higher ups to pursue.

It will take some time for Choso to realize that he likes you as he often a natural affiliation for taking those within his vicinity under his wings. Especially those that feel almost close knit to him, because of this, it will take him time to separate the part of him that is willing to help a friend, from the version of him who is willing to go to extreme and uncomfortable measures to be within your vicinity.

Again, this is fairly uncharted territory for the man.

While it will be quite a bit of time for him to sort out why he is drawn to your side, and understand that there is no underlining hidden familial lines that have been buried. No one can blame him for being worried after discovering Yuji was his little brother! Yet, the moment that it dawns on him that it is not some instinctual big brother senses, you discover that he is far more adamant about pursuing you than he was before, and with intentions.

He’s confident.

“confident”.

The death womb painting is not entirely sure how to go about pursuing you, or if he has even wandered into your gaze or a time or to. Rather, he is assured of his decision. He has no doubts that he is interested in you, and even less concerns that his heart is not anchored to your own.

Really, he’s just uncomfortable with the concept of courting. Again, bear in mind that the closest thing he has witnessed to a relationship is the mess of his birthright. He’s unsure of what is considered an appropriate approach to engaging you, and the concept of attempting such things from the movies that he has witnessed in his little brother’s reclusive cave his sensei had set up is… embarrassing at minimum.

Grand gestures, stopping airplanes, and shouting your desires in a public place not only feels humiliating, but insincere. Choso cannot connect how his willingness to shout your name from Tokyo Tower coincides with years of devotion on his part. Is there some way that you can detect that a partner will remain loyal throughout the years because they are willing to engage in such grand gestures.

No, flirting for the blood wielder will be one that is indirect. Subtle to the point of madness. A desire to get to know you would be an indication, though it’s understandable why it would be difficult to differentiate his interest in you from others.  The way he leans forward and listens to every recount detail, he wants to know the depths of your being, your interests, your childhood, and all that you can offer.

He puts forward a great effort to talking and refuses to settle for anything dry or mundane like recent television shows or how your day was prior. More so, you’ll find that he has a concerningly willingness to engage. Downright unabashed at approaching conversations with the intention of seizing your attention for hours on end. He wants to know everything.

The false Kamo is the type to reach out with out a second thought. There will be no games in waiting three days or refusing to make the first move in this aspect. He is more than excited to reach out to you as you cross his mind.

In a silly way, your best indicator that that the curse user is interested in you is his overtly polite stance in how he engages you. Yes, he has a tendency to be considerate of those he is fond of such as the way he hangs on Yuji’s every words, or the way he listens to Tsukumo speak, but there is a near formal way that he regards you…

Truthfully, he’s depending on his enthusiasm to enter your orbit and remain in your pull as the way that you will realize that he is interested in you.

Choso approaches courting with extreme caution, and at his own pace. He cannot be pushed to expedite his intentions. He’s not the sort to just take your hand because the mood fancies him, or to kidnap you from your work to visit a carnival. Rather, he’s much more secure with sentimental gestures at are committed to building a stable foundation. It’s not that he won’t engage in romance, but that his approach is far more practical.

It’s in the way he values your time. The high significance of actions ahead of words. There are those who will depict their desires to spirit you away to Rome or Paris, but then there are those who would much rather await the day the opportunity affords it—Choso is the later.

He proves his affectiosn with subtlety, and boundaries. If you have brought up a favorite treat, he will pick it up on his way to meeting you for work. He can remember that you always sip a specific brand of coffee/tea/juice, and as he secures a beverage for himself and Itadori, you will find that he has also slipped your preference into the bag as well without a second thought.

It will be the small things that he has noticed about you in his observations that are a testament to his affection for you. His idea of romance is practical; small touches offering you his sweater when it is cold or allowing you to evade his space for warmth. Far too embarrassed that he wishes you would linger just a little longer.

It’s small moments.

Small moments that build meaning, that equate purpose and ensure a foundation in which you will always be linked to one another, but if you are wanting any progress to occur why else are you here, the odds are… you will have to make the first move. Unless by some choice you are fortunate enough to make him jealous more on this later to enforce a confession from the man, you’re just going to have to take this step first. It’s better this way because the alternative route will result in a rather bitter start.

Choso would never forgive himself for starting off a relationship that way.

So, you will find it easier to just be up front. Don’t play games, do not dance around the topic, or have him wondering if there is a chance you will like him, or do not. If you are the sort to depend on body language, gentle touches, or small tokens of affection, he enjoys the attention, an opportunity to seize your eyes upon him for a bit, but he will NOT have the slightest clue that this is you expressing your interest.

He needs you to outright say it.

And not by dragging him an expensive, lavish restaurant that serves impossible small portions. No, it will need to be something small and without the pressure of him needing to immediately respond. Such as a break between snubbing out curses, or from assisting him to navigate the grocery store he wants to take care of his little brother so badly, but he does not understand the concept of a modern store. One that your smile is natural, warm to the moment. Just at peace to be in his presence, how your eyes wander to his own as he sips from his vending machine tribute. As you pretend you are not looking at that defined neckline. Before simply stating, “I like this. I like you.” Leave no misinterpretation to chance.

Dating can be a bit uneasy to differentiate between your established relationship and your courting phase. Again, this is nothing that he is accustomed to, and as the party that has the most experience, it will be your duty to ensure the shift is one that you are comfortable with. Because truthfully, Choso is low maintenance.

The curse born has content to simple sip tea along your side, wander through gardens from time to time, or share in one of those horrible movies his little brother recommends. However, it’s understandable that on your end, this may not be enough. I mean, you want to hold his hand eventually. So it cannot hurt to be prepared!

The first few dates, Choso will lean upon your willingness to take the first steps to understand what qualifies as dating, or significant developments in your relationships. Though he would be prone to utilizing what feels natural for him. Inquiring if you would like to go for a walk through the neighborhood. Accept your excitement about a limited edition pudding, picking it up on its way to your house bag in hand.

The elder brother enjoys dates with an intent. A clear itinerary is one that is bound to spark his interests. Some part of him enjoys being able to look through the expectations for the day and mentally prepare for the demands of the day. Emotionally prepare for moments that will be loud, and work up the courage for the moment in which he will take your hand in front of everyone.

If you feel the need for extensive dating, one s that have an itinerary such as approaching a fair with a laid out plan of which booths to hit will be interesting for him. Especially with how unfamiliar the concept is for himself, but the best dates for Choso are simple in nature.

Ones that require no prior knowledge and are simply born of your desire to be with him.

Dates that are sweet nights together watching a meteor shower from your veranda. The roll of dice in cozy clothes as you dare to lean across the table, risk obscuring game pieces to plant a kiss upon his nose.

In a relationship with Choso, it’s important to note that your partner has no desires to burden you with expectations or demands. He has no desires to burden you with his struggles, and often times struggle to balance the sacrificial martyr position he often places himself in. Far too willing to give of himself to others, you may at times feel like Choso is playing tug-a-war with his desires to be a lover and a brother.

If you can find it in yourself to remain a patient partner, and allow you to chase after his familial duties, you will find a bit more peace in your relationship, but there will be times in your relationship that you will have to put your foot down on his behalf. He struggles with saying no to those under his deemed care. Not that I can imagine Itadori taking advantage of his older brother, but individuals like Satoru would definitely capitalize on the opportunity.

In a relationship, you should expect that Choso’s patience for emotional drama and continual misunderstandings is lacking in comparison to other potential partners. It’s not because he is not a patient man. He is calm, and extremely composed in most of his day-to-day affairs. However, he finds the concept extremely overwhelming. Draws out bits of anxieties out of him from his lack of upbringing, and further poisons insecurities he has buried deep down. All Choso wants in his life is stability, an on concept amongst the word he was created.

He desires something that is natural, that flows with one another.

Choso yearns for a relationship that is peaceful as elders rock quietly on their unassuming rocking chairs. Commitment that will devote to lifelong devotion. The unmovable force in his life that does not yield to the higherups, or the press of morals.

Though his expectations of the relationship are nothing that he is not willing to give of himself. The sorcerer is well committed to preserving your comfort in the relationship and is certainly not the type to stray. He’s as devoted as the sun is to set at the end of the day. Truthfully, he is extremely firm in maintaining a healthy relationship with equal grounds for both partners so much so that at times he can appear very demanding.

In love, Choso is a deeply committed partner. He is concerningly loyal to the point that the existence of another person in this world that could exist in a romantic perspective. Just as he pursues his little brothers, he is one tracked mind. Literally, in Choso’s world, there is no one in this world who can take his place. None that can compete with your beauty. He will be completely oblivious to any advances from outside forces, far too eagerly awaiting your arrival.

Choso poises honest and mutual respect into his relationships in ways that often border into near confrontational attempts as he wants the reassurance that he is not in fact forcing you into anything. It can almost be maddening how considerate he is at times. The blood wielder is highly devoted to developing emotional intimacy and solidifying his bond with you. At times, it can be difficult because in some ways it appears as though he may not be ready for these steps.

He’s almost childlike in how unfamiliar he is with such things.

But, he’s not deterred. Choso is the sort to seek out advice—I can imagine him fidgeting with a scowl fixed to his brow as he twists to and fro with his poor little brother Yuji becoming increasingly uneasy with the elder’s obvious fixated glower in his direction. Mangled to approach the topic,  inevitably coerced by Yuji’s  inquiry as  to what it was he wanted to talk to him about. Yuji is equally inexperienced, and the discombobulated way he flips Choso’s world upside down when he expresses that he should just “go with it”.

Because of the likely areas that Choso will extract relationship advice from, he will intentionally seek environments that could inspire vulnerability between the two of you, and ensure that you are progressing your relationship in a secure way, but while this at times can seem odd—and they are, it will conclude fairly quickly.

He can only endures so much of the obscure approach to bonding a relationship before you will realize that he is forcing himself through these motions and set him right at the clasp of your hand over his own. Expressing that really, all you desire is to pick up a pizza on the way home.

Struggles to maintain composure when he witnesses you in his robes, cozy and lazily stepped to the side.

Choso’s devotion is not without consideration. He is a devoted man, one who will make far more sacrifices than you can fathom. There are no gestures that will be wasted on him. A packed lunch will set his cheek and heart on fire, and leave him a little sputtered when someone inquires about the pink bundle he has hidden within his sleeves.

Touches of extra fabric scent in the way you added his laundry to your own will leave him to snuggle his nose into his collar, the scent of you still touched upon the fabric. His stomach almost in knots at how intimate the implication is. Some part of him wishes someone would point out that you smell the same.

While Choso desires a mutual ground for relationships, he often leans towards more traditional values. Now don’t worry this does not mean that you are condemned to a life of a stay-at-home parent—though if this is a future desire of yours he will iron out the details. Because the implication scares the shit out of him. But, he’s not confined to the concept of you having to succumb to these traditional standards.

Rather, he’s fairly attached to more traditional relationship values. Two partners, committed to one another, but he is respectful of your beliefs. It may take some time, but Choso is committed to working things out even if it means trying to navigate nontraditional relationship standards.

Though, I can’t say that it will go well as time goes on.

His familial background with a nontraditional relationship was horrendously toxic. Spoiler the whole his human mother he cared for + Kenjaku+ the OG Noritoshi Kamo that utilized his mother and all of her children for his entertainment. So, it’s fairly understandable that Choso is weary of any relationship standards that stand outside of the norm.

He does however, remain adamant to respecting your desires so long as you are mindful of his own.

Choso will remember everything, absolutely everything. He’ll remember what you ordered from the little shop o the square the one time you went there. Choso can recount even the smallest of details between the connection of how your eyes floated to the gentle blossoms in the florist window, or the way your eyes light up at the prospect of a new weapon being unearthed.

At times, his dedication to remembering every detail can often appear obsessive in his pursuit. Down to the exact point that he is aware of exactly where you will be on Thursday at 3:14p.m. The level that he is in tuned with your day-to-day is almost frightening, and if it does bother you, you will need to reassure him. Push back at how he probes.

Choso could easily dip into the yandere territory, and it would take time for us to notice because his sincere concern and affection for his partner is just so damn genuine.

Though it’s important to know that in this relationship, you have the spotlight. The man will worship every fiber of your being, kiss upon your brow, to blossom mark upon your collar, through your bones. You dreams are his own, your passions are his.

In Choso’s world, your world will take precedence. In all sense of the word, you are just short of the reason why the sun rises in the morning. I’m only short of exaggerating there is that minor competition with Itadori.

The Death Womb Painting takes his commitments with sincerity. Just as you have witnessed with his brothers, Choso takes his word as devotion, his commitment is his voice, and his sacrifice is his love.

It’s important to note that if for some reason you thought that a casual relationship was in the cards, you will be highly disappointed. Attraction, relationships, love are occurrences that Choso takes lightly.  In his life, stability, security, and reassurance are everything that takes precedence in his desires. A casual relationship leaves room for wandering, to explore alternative choices, and welcome new opportunities.

And while I can imagine him engaging in a one night stand, I cannot see him remaining a float in such a relationship. In many ways, the commitment in itself is half the attraction, the lure of promise forever on the tip of his tongue. He craves that touch of eternity, and a casual relationship threatens everything for a short fleeting fling.

No, for Choso a relationship that has no end line for commitment is not one that he would openly pursue. For him, the sincere connection, the loyalty displayed between the two of you is all he yearns for.

It’s important to understand that in approaching Choso, the intent for eternity is heavily implied, and one that he will not easily part with.

That being said, I imagine that a family with the curse bound spirit would be a topic that bears significant turbulence. On one hand, we’re not entirely sure if he’s capable of bearing children in the even that you are capable of conceiving. The barriers in which his own conception is a unique concoction, and one that will take into consideration if you wish to start a family this way.

In many ways, you’ll find that the dynamic that Choso holds towards his little brother is almost what we can expect from him as a father. A tad overbearing, consistently hunging on every word, and eager to follow the child’s lead. Consistently worried, and always on edge, worried over every potential threat that his child could endure. But in this word… is that an unfair worry? If he could allow himself to release a bit of the inherited leash, Choso could make a wonderful and attentive parent. We have seen the love and devotion for his siblings—he would be willing to do so much more for his children whether adopted, fostered, or carried.

I can’t imagine him turning down an adopted or foster child, but I can see him having a few more concerns because they are not bound by his blood senses as a biological child would be.

However, truthfully, Choso holds so much resentment, and burdens bound to his soul that threatened to drive him under at every turn. It’s a tether that connects him to a damning sentence that holds him a choke hold, and the moment he sees your eyes wander to smaller children. It will seize his thoughts, panic his senses, and horrifies his cores threatening to send him into depravity. It is everything he fears rolled into a receiving blanket.

Really, I feel like for his personality, he would do best with one child, but for how heavy his bonds are with his brothers, I just cannot imagine him staying at one child…

For how devoted of a individual Choso is, the odds of him cheating are specifically low with no real interest. He truly craves stability over novelty, and is not the type to be lured away from a a set of pretty eyes and tender words. Especially with how inclined he is to naturally having distrust from those around him. In a healthy relationship with respected boundaries, and free of tension, he is not the type to share a bed with another.

Now, let’s be clear, he is a surprisingly vengeful man should his boundaries be pressed, and unresected to passerby. More later. Under the right pressed and toxic concoction, Choso would use sex as a way to enact revenge if he saw it necessary. Though he would prefer alternative routes, it’s not entirely cut off.

In many ways, communication with Choso is often gentle, and amicable. He is a natural, warm communicator that is used to tending to the needs of others. It’s not surprising that he can listen to disgruntled complaints, even those directed at him. Really, I imagine that the majority of people feel comfortable initiating conversations with him against his will. He has a peaceful aura that will be comfortable and leans itself into random people, sharing far more than he is comfortable to accept.

Save. Him.

It is his own fault though—he has a natural way with words that are flowed and comforting that, anyone can fall into his honeyed orbit and drown in its sincerity. It’s that part of him that is considerate of others, and succumbs to the conversation. He’s empathetic, far too willing to allow himself to be dragged into conversations with a stranger, and even validate their grievances and attempt to offer assistance in resolution.

But I would still recommend that you keep your expression constructive, and gentle. He carries such a burdened  sense of self, that truthfully I can see that approaching the chosen topic of tension from a negative, and aggressive state will only lead to fighting. A fueled pumped of angst on both ends that is not likely to end well. At the same time, I imagine that unless you remain peaceful and considerate of his feelings…

You will need to monitor his actions rather than his words as the older brother, the one to carve the path on behalf of his siblings, Choso is accustomed to burying his emotions. Snag them behind a stoic expression, and allow the onslaught to continue well pass normal breaking points. That truthfully, I cannot see him approaching an issue between the two of you of his own conviction.

Rather, I imagine that he would seek to maintain the peace misunderstanding that silence does not symbolize an olive branch. Choso is in able to mask his concerns with busying himself. Attempted to distract himself from tasks that are waying on him, and the nagging feeling of tension budding into his relationship. Something he does not know how to navigate, and has never faced before.

Because of this, it’s best to approach your discussions with precision, and sincerity. While the approach at times can be a little… hurtful, the sorcerer is far more accepting of blatant honesty than sugar coated truths. It’s apart of what attracted him to you, and is a selling point in your relationship. Really and truly what assured him to take the steps to take the dive.

Overall, he’s near dynamic in his responses. Assuming nothing touches far too close to home in which case, he is quick to fall off the deep end and allow his actions to possess his consciousness. As we have witnessed firsthand, Choso cannot sympathize with individuals with sibling conflicts—not out of bitterness. I think to some extent he can be considerate and empathize with the common familial battles such as the limitation of hot water, that one sibling always demands more attention, or the grubby fingers that always take the last dinner roll, but nothing so deep seated as intentional strives to hurt one another aside from petty sweater borrowing.

No issues that intentionally subject siblings to unnecessary injury, physical, emotional, absolutely none of it--- he will not be able to hold his composure. And he may end up adopting the afflicted sibling.

I can see him butting his nose into any of your family problems more than you may like. All of it is sincere, and not intended to come off as judgmental as it often does, but for Choso, it’s easy to blur boundaries when it comes to family. His lines are not clearly defined within his own family, and its certainly easy for him to expend more than he should.

So it’s to be expected that his borderlines are fuzzy when it comes to your own family ties. You will likely have to save him from overtly demanding laws as he is likely to sacrifice far too much of himself to help. On the same end, you’ll have to rescue your family from him if he detects underlining themes of abuse.

His pressing into family affairs whether his or your own can become intense and a little rigid. His standards at times can be downright unforgiving, and this applies to how you handle your family as well.

Fighting with the Death Womb Painting can be a very emotional tinted affair, and you will have to be forth coming about how your behavior has contributed to the source of strife. Anything short of admitting your fault in the verbal dispute will leave him with the impression that you are genuinely unaware of how you have played a part in the dispute, or that you are trying to manipulate the perspective. Neither of which will end well. Not because he is likely to outright reengage.

He’s more likely to back off the entire affair.

Choso has such a difficult time processing emotions in general let alone when they run extremely high. As a natural born protector, he has a deep seeded fear of hurting loved ones, and will go to extreme lengths to avoid conflicts. He’s a natural peacekeeper as the older sibling, and quick to simply sort things out, or burry them with lock and key.

Not only does this run the risk of extreme health issues and eventual combustion that will be downright vile and vengeful, but it also places an extreme strain on the relationship that will open itself to a multitude of miscommunication. The reality is that in attempting to keep the peace, and bite his cheek, the curse wielder is likely to appear extremely cold and detached. To the point of bordering into insensitive that can leave you with the feeling of emotional abandonment.

During these times in which he believes he is preserving the relationship and defending it, he is completely unaware of how you have grown silent during dinner, that his shoulder recoils from your touch.

Dead bedroom ahead.

It’s because of this that owning your part in the conflict is the preferred route to voyage down. Withe he will still attempt to safeguard the relationship and stuff down that little bit of conflict, with a gentle approach, he’s likely to come undone. The concept that you would handle him so delicately is foreign to him. He’s putty.

I’m not joking. While the Death Womb Paintings care and would die for one another, as the oldest brother, Choso has always bore all of the responsibility. Has entrusted himself with the task to carve a path to the future whether it was a course that was a painful duty or not. He always took the responsibility, and a part of him wishes that he had the inner strength to do so in a relationship, especially in the beginning. He very will try to fake it, but it’s not going to be… successful.

Choso grapples with self-doubt. Just as he claims responsibility, he also bears the burden of all failed attempts and conflicts. Even the smallest of infringement will leave him with the impression that he has failed his brothers, and all others within his vicinity.

Though he will never admit it, it’s evident in the way he carries himself. How he lingers on every word, expresses the knot in his throat as he mulls over every detail. The sorcerer craves validation. Reassurance that he has done the right thing, that he has always done the best with what he was provided. More so, he is especially delicate when it comes to criticism.

An unexpected people pleaser, I mean I don’t blame you for being surprised at how his mouth draws a natural line, but for those he cares about, he cares so deeply for the opinion of those within his circle. So much so that any slipped comment can bruise his ego, and create a small wedge between the two of you.

Though if you were to adjust your input into something constructive with ways that he can improve, or ways that you would prefer how he approaches something in your relationship, you would be amazed that any anxieties will be nullified. He’s leaned into every word you utter, an advice you have to offer.

Especially if this is bedroom talk, he is taking mental notes if not actual physical notes for him to recite. He really does want to learn, he wants to do his best, to be his best for you, and if you are willing to offer the road map without any pretenses, he is ready to set sail.

Truthfully, for Choso a bit of patience in arguments or disputes can approach everything with more ease than you would expect. Especially as time goes on and he feels secure in your relationship, he will be much more forth coming. Choso is a deeply passionate man who can allow his inner desires to drive him, and to know that he has ever come off as uncaring is devastating. He will do everything within his power to ensure that this never happens again.

Another reason I feel he could be a candidate for a yandere.

Jealousy is a delicate topic for Choso. On one hand, in the early stages of a relationship, it is as natural as breathing. It is as simple as the fold of his fingers through your own as he clutches them tightly, anchoring you to his body as his teeth meet at unforgiving at the slender curve of your neck, and the bruising of ownership that follows.

Coupled with his natural self-doubt and the circumstances of his birth and the treatment of his siblings, it goes without saying, Choso is not a trusting man. He is cautious, and takes every movement with sincere disposition, ready to withdraw at the slightest detection of something lurking beneath the surface. Trust is not easily earned for the Death Womb Painting, but his scorn if he feels he has been wrong certainly is. Ask Itadori.

In the beginning, he has the tendency to become jealous over small little things. Such as the joyful flit of your laughter that meets his ears as your giggle at another person’s joke. He can feel his nose wrinkle, the arche of his brow, and the clench of his teeth. Though it does not occur to him that he is angry until he has nearly ripped you from your seat. Oh, gods does he feel remorseful for it later, but for now... his priority is separating you from this threat.

How a name keeps dripping from your tongue as you discuss your day-to-day, a repeat customer, a friendly co-worker, all of it has him clutching his fists and biting his teeth, but the moment you dare to praise him. To admit that you found this person’s work ethic commendable or dare to express that you find this individual reliable, he can be quite vengeful in his handling of you that night.

Remember how I expressed how he can be especially vengeful? You dare to flirt with another, you will find that he will do everything within his will to remind you who you belong to, and if it has strayed further.

He’s toying with how he will enact his revenge.

However, I don’t feel like this would last forever. Truthfully, in the beginning he is weary, nervous, and frightened. It was so easy for others to become manipulated and danced into schemes that they never intended. He just doesn’t trust this perpetrator, even if you do so yourself.

If you haven’t guessed, it’s not materialistic offers that elicit his jealousy. A person offering lavish bouquets or gaudy jewelry is not likely to attract his interest. Rather he’ll meet them with a stale, dead pan stare as he tries to fathom why they thought this would ever work on you.

You can expect that as time goes on, Choso is more subjective, a little more tamed than he was in the beginning stages of the relationship. He feel secure in your reassurance, in your sincerity, and the tender reminders you sprinkle to the kiss upon his cheek only furthers his safety. Reaffirms the security in his life, and eases all of his fears from his shoulders, and so, he can for the most part, laugh at any who dare to attempt flirting, knowing fully well that he will savor the elicit rejection your return to such offers. His smile is tucked into the palm of his hand.

No, it’s the simpler approaches. The man who leans in close to whisper into your ear, the way his hand grazes your own, how his eyes meet your own, these are the type of things to have him boiling in range, a lethal aura radiating off him.

It comes without saying that Choso is fiercely protective of those he deems worthy.

It’s not intentional to be resource guarding. Even though it has flitted over to that area. It is in many ways, the genuine side of his nature. He is guided by his concern, by his love, and is rooted in all of the best intentions. He adores you, he worships you. The curse dipped sorcerer yearns for security, to know that all is well in your world, and that you can live without fear—and he will make sure of it.

So much so that, Choso’s protective nature can seize all of his thoughts, and can kidnap all of his senses to a place far out of touch, allowing his desires to shelter to run rampant in its wake.

He will go to extreme lengths to protect those around him and will sacrifice everything to ensure your and those he cares for’s safety. At all costs. He will not hesitate to safeguard what he deems precious.

And because of this, any infringement can be especially ruthless.

In love and a committed relationship, physical touch will be explored with great consideration. He did not dare to approach Yuji with the more explicit stuff, but took the advice for the beginning stages, before being pushed more explicit material by Tuskumo. Oh she delighted in giving him everything in her inventory as well as suggesting specific paragraphs. Yet, you will find that for all of his research, he is almost sloppy in his initial approach.

He’s touched starved, desperately yearning to wrap his fingers around your own, thread his fingers through your hair. To press promises, lifelong promises to your lips as they meet his own. Etch his soul int the press of your skin and succumb to the depth of your cry as everything he has read is out the window. Guided by lust and devotion.

Though at times it can be easily to believe that Choso is only committed to physical touch as a love language because of the sexual nature, and way he gets far too carried away, it could not be further from the reality. He is guided by his deep need for connection. The implied depth of intimacy that comes with this step.

The poison blood wielder is not the sort to simply entertain someone’s bedroom because the need has arisen within him. He’d rather just take care of that himself. The yearning is not something he is unfamiliar with and can easily fend off if need be. Though he wouldn’t dream of spending time alone when you have all his yearning. No, it is the weight of your hand in his own. The significance of causal embraces, the ability to trace the lines at the high of your cheeks.

There is nothing that contents him more than to simply snuggle against you in the dead quiet of the night. The sense of pride and assurance he feels as you tug on his hand in the public streets, or cozy up against him during a winter stroll.

Words of affection do not come naturally to Choso in many ways. The most familiarity he has with the concepts is that of an older brother consoling a younger sibling, and for obvious reasons, this will not fit the bill in a relationship.

Choso is a man of action and believes strongly that the way he handles everything--- the meaningful approaches he takes to pour himself into the other relationship is proof of his devotion, and the concept of having to verbally express this can cause him pause.

There’s a stall as he attempts to navigate the concept of unabashed praise. The first round of attempts will result in muddled sputtering that in no way bears any resemblance to speech. His ears bathed in red, and the way he averts his eyes. As time goes on, he will successfully articulate broken speech patterns to thread together some form of praise, compliments that are sincere, but mangled. Small cracks in his voice, the shy touch of his knuckle against his cheeks as though masking his reaction to his own feeble voice.

It’s extremely difficult for him to articulate his feelings, to offer sweet nothings without pause, and though it may not seem it, he truly is trying. It just may not be as fluid as you desire in a partner. Maybe one day he’ll get there. But he may not.

To be fair, any word of praise you offer him will be delicious, but oh will the response be even more so. If you have a kink for blushing, lay into him.

Gift giving will be… comical.

I’m so sorry, but…

You can imagine that the only experience that he has with gift giving is buying small gifts for his siblings, little pinwheels, stuffed animals, and toy cars that he had witnessed small children playing with on the street. He has no idea what constitutes as a good gift for a lover. He certainly knows what others Tsukumo would recommend in the adult content. But that doesn’t feel right, by any means, and so he is left to lament staring at packages.

Package within each hand, the knot of his brow as he struggles to understand the implied meaning behind each gift. The significance of either, befuddled as he struggles to understand why Tokumo would suggest such options, or what it is they do. Yet, despite the sensual images plastered on each package, he cannot fight the gnawing feeling that this… isn’t right. He can feel the knot that has begun to settle in the base of his throat, choked in frustration as he struggles to determine what would be a good option. Until the pat of a hand meets his back happily, unaware that he had drawn the attention of a sorcerer, Takuma. The grin from ear to ear as he pats his shoulder nonchalantly, never quite grasping the necessity of space in greeting before his eyes fall to the items in his hand. The forced smile of the younger has simply assured Choso, that this isn’t it. And as Takuma muddles through the awkward expression that is fitting on his brow, an inquiry of what he’s up to settles the matter fairly quickly and erases the extreme discomfort from the interaction. Allowing Takuma to simply settle into a reassurance figure that simply nods when Choso expresses his intentions, and pauses with a soft smile. “I think you should pick what feels right.” Easing the explicit images from the man’s hand, and encourages Choso to think on the gift rather than follow another’s suggestion. Following the older being to wander vender to vender, and welcomes the smile that forms on his face when Choso shows what he has found. “I think [LN] would love that.”

It’s always going to be good boy Ino, but were’ here for Choso.

It’s a bubble wand.

His gifts will be small tokens, composed of everything he can recount you sharing with him, small things with a bit of assurance in the beginning that you would never turn down, such things as candy, bubble wands, paint kits, little things that almost seem childish to an extent, but are placed in the sincereness.

In receiving a gift, Choso will keep everything you offer him, even if he doesn’t understand why you would gift him, whatever this is, but he is pleased none the less to accept it. A small smile as he accepts the gift, and holds it with delicate fingers. He’ll treasure it, even if he never uses it properly.

With Choso’s natural care taking tendencies, it’s no surprise that Acts of Servie is not an area that he struggles in. He is in many ways far too devoted to it that he often comes off more micromanagement than affectionate. Yet, the duty he takes to take care of your every wish and need is not one that should be overlooked. He is affectionate, and thoughtful. Quick to pick up extra creamer for your coffee, or your preferred milk [dairy, goat, almond, or even oatmilk], he simply knows you need it for your afternoon tea. I also imagine that he will do his best to try to learn how to navigate this electric kettle, but it will definitely be a few go rounds until he has it right. Maybe a few fires, again he is not accustomed to this modern world. Give him time.

Quality time is Choso’s preferred love language, and one that comes naturally. Any free time he has, he is content to drift into your orbit. Just to remain at your side. Whether you wish to go on an outing, to explore some zoo in the area or theme park, even a movie date, but for Choso, he’s honestly content to just linger nearby as you finish work, or are engulfed in a recent game release. Low key is amazed at your ability to control that little box with blue and red on it. Becomes excited when you offer to teach him, and the press of your front to his back as you guide his fingers.

There really is no struggle to have him spend time with him—he is so eager and forthcoming to gift you every moment he has to offer. Regardless of how you desire to use it. He’s just happy to be near you.

The reality is, to be loved by Choso is to know commitment. It’s to know unwavering devotion that will not fade as eternity claim you. It ‘s sacrifice, it is long hours placed in one another’s care. It is the stern of his voice, a light reprimand as he tenderly cares for a laceration at the side of your cheek. It is adoration verified by the dedication of his presence. The relentless hours he pours himself into the vow of your relationship. It’s gentle touches, the way his fingers curl around a strand of hair as his gaze lingers to your lips. It’s the late hours as his eyes wander your figure, the gentle way he tucks the blanket to your sleeve, and whispers sweet nothings at the marks of his admiration that lingers upon your exposed skin. It’s simple pleasures, small moments of intimacy, and of innocence. To be embraced for childish delights such as playing on a swing, or the meticulous way he weaves arbutus, azalea, orange blossoms, and daffodils into your hair all bearing significance. Strands carefully tucked behind your ear. To know the security that there is no other in this existence for him, to know that an existence without you at his side is meaningful, to know his affection will never stray. Nor will it be claimed by another. Its loyalty laced in every fiber of his being, evident in how his eyes stay upon you. Trace your figure, memorize your laughter, and lean into your touch. It’s love that knows truth, and valor poured into his blood and bones, and bent to security. Into love, into you. To know that you are the son, and he is the delicate sunflower that seeks your gaze.

He will remain by your side.

Regardless of what dangers he faces.

His life is yours to claim.

[elvirable]

Heart to Heart | Chapter 5

[ Simon Riley x f!Reader ] | ao3 link

rating: explicit | word count:4.4k |status: work in progress themes/tags: mental health, protective Simon, smut, kind of slow build, violence, y'all are stuck in an abandoned safety unit and well… ———————————————————————-

There is a saying, one as old as time: the truth will set you free.

Such a simple phrase turned convoluted since the days it left your mouth — his therapist.

In other words: You’re the mandated therapist for Task Force 141. Simon doesn’t know why he keeps seeing you even though he doesn’t say much. Things take a twist when an evacuation is required, all outside communication is lost. Lost to the world, you begin to really know the real Simon Riley.

{ Chapters 1 & 2 } { Chapter 3 } { Chapter 4 }

- A/N: Wanted to get this out because I haven't posted in a while, so while I'm here -- ding! ding! ding! That's the smut bell.. coming next chapter!

A subtle warmth lulled you awake. Pale sunbeams fragmented through the warped windows, further painting the decrepit chapel into a long-forgotten refuge.

Your eyes struggled to flutter open and focus on the cracked ceiling. All you could hear and feel was the throbbing aches migrating throughout every muscle, each limb still leaden with exhaustion. You were slow to collect your thoughts, gradually working up the energy to shake your mental fog before a stinging pain singed your forearm.

“Fuck —“ you hissed, jolting upwards and lurching forward. Before you could instinctively reach for your laceration, a calloused hand abruptly tapped your hand away.

“Glad to see you’re alive.” 

Simon’s voice was enough encouragement and surprise to stifle the pain pulsating through every nerve, and your gaze instantly darted towards him.

He was crouched beside you, a small disinfectant bottle laid beside his boot alongside bloodied and clean bandages. Sweat and the pungent musk of gunpowder permeated the air before the acrid aroma of hydrogen peroxide cut through your senses. 

“Hold still,” came Simon’s order, a firm and husky whisper. He angled your arm back in order to view your wound.

You didn’t expect his grasp on your wrist to hold a gentleness, holding your arm as if it was porcelain. Following his attentive gaze, the sunlight failed to grace your forearm. Dark bruises peppered your skin and further framed your agitated laceration. The taste of blood pooled on your tongue as you bit your lip, trying to hide a hiss as he carefully patted a sanitized cloth against your wound.

“Run into a bear or somethin’?”

“No,” you grunted, incapable of adjusting to the sting of alcohol against your injury. You could feel his gaze flicker briefly back to you before returning. 

“You look fucked up.”

“Thanks,” your voice was flat and dry despite the small smile on your lips, earning a small crinkle around Simon’s eyes. It surely wasn’t the nicest thing you’ve ever been told, but relief washed over your tense nerves. You were thankful he had found you, and his presence brought an agency of safety. 

As he continued to tend to your arm, your eyes took their time to pour over Simon. He appeared uninjured, although the blood caked onto his combat boots indicated some type of altercation. You also suddenly observed how lean he was without the bulky holsters and vests; how noticeable the slight faded ink was on his tattoos peeking from his wrist and the curve of his biceps. He was muscular, but his movements were not cumbersome; he was deliberate and precise.

He was still donning the balaclava, but his light lashes were wispy and longer than you had previously noticed. His eyes held an intense focus on your arm, but much softer than you’ve seen them before. Normally they were hardened, trained forward like an unstoppable force. God help anyone who gets caught in their path.

It was the first time the mystery of the face concealed beneath the mask piqued your interest. You wondered if there were any delicate qualities to it, like his lashes and his hold of your wrist, and less like his typical looming and hard demeanor. 

“I fell down the hill,” you broke the silence with a quiet explanation, settling to watch as he went on to apply antibiotic cream to your wound.

“Explains the trail of bandages I found outside.” 

“Yeah, my bag ripped on the bushes. I lost my earpiece, too.”

“Doesn’t matter anyway, the radios stopped workin’,” Simon shared, now finished wrapping and bandaging your arm.

His words stirred a quiet panic in your stomach. You didn’t really like the sound of that  — how long were you to wait here? Were they going to send out a rescue team? You didn’t even want to entertain the worse case scenarios bubbling into your thoughts. Panic would only serve as useless in this situation.

“C’mere.” Simon rose, his hand reaching for yours to lift you from the dust-ladened floor. 

He pulled you up with ease, and it took a second to regain your balance. Every muscle still held remnants of a soreness  — you had never ran that fast in your entire life and your body was still reeling from the exertion. 

“Where’s all my gear?” You swiveled to survey the room, realizing your ripped bag and all its contents had disappeared. All but your battered coat, which Simon plopped into your hands. 

“Moved it to the bell tower, better for watching the tree line.”

All you could do was hum in recognition. Once you slid your coat on, you followed Simon through the door and rounded the corner of the building. The stark brightness nearly blinded you, and you had to rapidly blink to properly adjust your eyes. Snowfall had faltered since last night, but flurries still held a steady and lazy pace. 

You were soon led to a small door on the back of the building, where a stone staircase led up into the tower.

The landing at the top was missing the bell, fortunately, and had two small arched windows made of brick. While small, you couldn’t help but notice how Simon had laid out and unpacked the gear. It hadn’t been sprawled out, instead assembled into a neat little camp. The sleeping bags were laid side-by-side, a tarp tied above and around to protect them from the harsh cold. A portable cooking stove laid in the center with a small saucepan and a freeze-dried food packet. It had also looked like he had lugged two warped wooden stools up, each positioned at a window. 

He motioned for you to sit in the makeshift sleeping bag cubby before turning to quickly scan the view outside the windows. You gladly obliged, engulfing yourself into one of the thin fleece blankets. You propped yourself up against the brick wall in an attempt to stay awake , but heaviness tugged at your eyelids and brought you back into sleep.

Simon kept watch through the afternoon hours you had fallen asleep, nothing but snow-covered pine to occupy the time. Eventually, he decided the area was clear as it was silent and long-forgotten. 

He cupped his palm to shelter the lighter from the wind and, after a few clicks, watched as the flame turned the cigarette end into embers. With a deep inhale, the slight burn in his throat was a welcoming sensation against the harsh cold. Lulling his gaze over towards you, his eyes watched as your chest rose and fell underneath the fleece blankets. There was a delicate calmness in your sleeping face, looking at peace despite the scrapes and marks contrasting against your skin.

An amused breath exhaled from his nose as he thought of that morning and your reaction. He hadn’t been lying when he said you looked fucked up; exhaustion was written all over your body, hair tossled, and scrapes and bruises all over you. You were usually clean and put-together, so warm that it felt like he was witnessing you out of your element stuck in an abandoned church.

He recalled the vision he was greeted with when he had found you in the early hours of the morning. Sunlight was late to rise, as it always lagged during the winter. He had slid through the door, only to see your limp body sprawled on the floor. You had been extremely pale and your skin was cold, dark blood seeping through your makeshift bandages. 

Simon was no stranger when it came to stumbling upon (and causing) these types of scenes, but this time his stomach had twisted and lurched. It was an immediate and quiet panic that coursed through him, his heart pounding louder as he approached to check your pulse.

He remembered how it dawned on him how small you were in that moment. Of course, physically to an extent  — but it was the lack of your light that had surfaced the realization. He was used to witnessing your radiant vigor, the warmth that followed you wherever you went, that was quite noticeable when it was absent. Your eyes had been sunken with weariness, skin dry and nearly raw from the cold.

But now you were here, curled on the sleeping bags merely two feet away from him. 

Thank God, he thought while he inhaled another cigarette drag. 

He knew he was growing fond of you, but could not grapple with how quickly and how much. Splitting from the task force, escaping in the middle of the night, losing communication  — all these things have happened before on missions. So why did he feel an apprehension now?

Of course he knew why  — it was you. He felt responsible for your safety, for your recovery. Seeing you pale and bleeding still left a bitter taste in his mouth, despite the fact he’s seen way worse on regular missions. He had actually been devastated. 

He didn’t like the thought of losing you, even if you were fast asleep in front of him. Perhaps you were symbolic to him— ushering in all his thoughts, how they crashed and swept his thoughts like a flood. He had spent a lifetime simply not feeling, choking every emotion back down into caverns of his mind. That was his survival  — a blanket of numbness.

Yet you came along with all your questions and your doe eyes and your kindness. And here he was, now suddenly trying to keep his head above the rising waters of all these thoughts and emotions. Simon was aware they were important to address as it was the only way to close the flood gates; he knew these were all valid emotions, but he was gripped with a degree of defeat.

He was overwhelmed, unsure how to navigate such a foreign territory. He didn’t know how to feel and it was a terribly lonely weight to even dwell on this.

And, again, you. Others could only see his outer shell, yet you had peered inside and noticed the riptides and whirlpools swirling deep beneath his thoughts. You had a soothing presence that washed over him, one that saw him and accepted him as he was; eyes that have seen the child he was and all he had gone through without a word being uttered. He never knew how comforting it was to finally be seen.

Simon inhaled deeply to relieve the pressure building in his chest, flicking the cigarette butt and ashing it onto the worn brick. There was a forlorn nature in his stare now, all the thoughts pooling in his mind. 

He wanted to try, at the very least with you, to learn how to feel.

[ampersands-and-ellipses]

So on my re-watch of Our Flag Means Death I’ve been tracking the progression of Stede and Ed’s “Love Theme.” It’s a musical motif that appears throughout the whole show, though it is most prominent/recognizable in the kiss scene. I couldn’t find an isolated clip of it (with just the music and no talking), but it is that sweet, gentle, delicate, and recognizable melody that, to me, takes the kiss scene to a whole new level. It’s beautiful. I love it so much because it’s such a subtle and intimate way to tease out Stede and Ed’s growing bond.

Here are the spots I found it in:

Things to note about this motif:

1. The key change the last time I heard it (in episode 9), when Ed and Stede are planning to run away together. Indicates a change in their relationship and the possibility of a new life together, free from all their troubles. Truly heartbreaking.

2. The theme is entirely missing (from what I could tell) in episodes 7 and 8. This is interesting, because there are many romantic moments between Stede and Ed in these episodes. Not sure why it’s not there. Maybe the mood is different than the moments in episodes 4-6?

3. I was convinced that the music playing in episode 10’s “his name is Ed” scene would be the love theme, but it’s not. It’s beautiful music, but not the theme. Another interesting choice. This new music could signal a progression in their relationship from confused pining into something deeper and more heartfelt, although still complicated and not fully resolved.

[awesomerextyphoon]

I love your writing. May I have Loki x Reader? The reader is a sweet, delicate dreamer. Loki has come to conquer the world. He saw her and wants her to become his Queen of Midgard. He kidnapped her. She pleads with him to let her go while she is tied to the bed. He caresses her hair and says she will love him (he doesn't want to use the scepter on her).

***Can I have White Reader x Loki, please? Loki just escaped from the Helicarrier. He saw the reader who is a sweet and innocent creature. Loki doesn't want her dead when he will start battle. Loki kidnaps her and locks her up to keep her safe. When he wins, Loki tells her that she will become his queen.***

Hi! I decided to combine the prompts and make the reader plus-sized. I hope you enjoy! 

His Match

Pairing: Dark!Loki x Plus-Sized Female Reader 

Summary: You’ve tried to live by your grandmother’s rule  of being kind to others, even when the world gives you the middle finger. What if a Norse God decided reward you by becoming his Queen?

Word Count: 1,745

Rating: 18+/Mature

Warning: Kidnapping, Implied Dub/Non-Con, Angst, and some Violence

A/N: Thanks goes to the amazing @angrythingstarlight for beta reading this!

Loki was walking around New York City, scouting Stark Tower making sure the final preparations of his plan was perfect when something, or rather someone, caught his eye.

She walked out of what looked like a women’s clothing store with a forlorn smile. She was plumper than the average female Midgardian last time he frequented the realm. His eyes did not miss the enticing curves that lied beneath her clothes despite her efforts to ensconce herself into the background.

She was a vision.

Her eyes met his for the briefest of moments and it felt like time stopped. His heart quickened in his chest and a rush of blood surged to his groin.

He had to follow her. His Elskan.

“Barton, tell the others I’ll be out for a few more hours. Proceed as planned.”

–––––

He found you entering a rather destitute apartment complex. Its lights and foundation were a bit unsound and gave off a seedy ambience.

Loki grimaced at her living conditions. When he ruled Midgard, she would have only the best.

Casting a simple concealment spell, Loki entered her fairly small apartment. She began mixing ingredients together for what looked to be ‘chocolate chip cookies’. He smiled as he inhaled the sweet aroma knowingly; Asgard had only recently started consuming the sweet. She soon laid out a batch of thick, scrumptious cookies with a satisfied expression.

They reminded him of better times when he and Thor would sneak into the kitchens and swipe confections from under the baker’s nose. Loki chuckled at the memory; those were the days.

Not ten minutes after she placed the last cookie onto the cooling rack did her phone ring. It was her mother. Loki felt dread coming off his Elskan in waves.

Loki could only make out bits and pieces of the conversation, if you could call it that. Her mother constantly nagged her about her weight, life choices, and her ‘pathetic’ attempts to get over her ex-boyfriend. His heart broke as he saw tears begin to fall and the croaking of her voice as she bid the odious creature goodnight.

Several minutes after she cried herself to sleep, Loki entered his Elskan’s bedroom. He spied her diary on the nightstand and decided to read a few pages.

He was fuming within two minutes.

How dare that caustic pig sow treat his Elskan, her own daughter, in a such ghastly manner! Her ‘perfect’ sister always slighting and reminding her on how ‘she’ll never be good enough for anything’ and her father’s callous indifference to her cries for help and solace only added to his rage. Combined with the way her ex-boyfriend, the repugnant gnat, treated her (he cheated on her with someone who ‘wasn’t built like a blimp’ and ‘the only thing you thing you had going for you were your tits’) and he wanted to speed up the invasion just to watch the horror become engrained onto their faces.

And yet, she endeavored to treat everyone with kindness harkening back to your grandmother. She strived to be the one light in one’s otherwise miserable existence.

Well, she can be his light as his Elskan and Queen.

Loki took a deep, cleansing breath. He needed to stick to the plan. When he conquers Midgard, she will be their queen. She will grace the undeserving masses with her elegance and beauty and he will worship her every chance he got.

He just had to make her see it that way.

Gently, the light forest green glow of Loki's magic flowed from his hand to the crown of her head like a halo. He leaned in and kissed her cheek with a smile as he left.

He hated to leave her, but he had a realm to conquer. Though he hoped she’d enjoy the introductory gift.

––––––

You were in your grandmother’s living room; spacious yet comfy with all of her quirkiness and splendor included. It was odd since you haven’t been in her house since your parents sold after her death seven years ago. You tearfully smiled remembering all the good times you had with her, the only member of your family you gave you any true warmth or love.

Her piano was in the corner, barely aged a day with all the music sheets, pens, a light scratches you came to know and love. You took your seat and started to play the piano version of one of your favorite movie themes.

You were so engrossed in playing, you failed to notice someone materializing into your dreamscape.

“What a lovely tune! What is it called?” A smooth, honey-tinged voice broke your concentration.

You turned your head and saw what had to be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. He was tall (6’ 10” / 2.08m) easily towering over any man you’ve ever met. He had smooth alabaster skin, light rose undertones with a little blue-red just under his eyes. His cheekbones were immaculate, somehow looked sharp and soft at the same time. He had thin lips with a fair plumpness to the bottom one. His slicked-back, shoulder-length Ponzu/Shadow Purple hair kissed his lean, battle-hardened physique (if the way he’s filling out his outfit was anyway to go by). All of this deliciousness was clothed in a casual Palm Green suit with a Glossy Black tie and shoes.

It took you a full minute to stop ogling him, “Wha-What did you say?”

“I apologize for disturbing you, my lady. I asked what you were playing.” His voice had hints of mirth which was odd considering his appearance. Most people in his league would give you a thinly veiled sneer of disgust, but he seemed genuinely interested.

“Um, well, it’s called Merry-Go-Round of Life from the movie Howl’s Moving Castle. It’s a favorite of mine. I used to play it all the time until…” You trailed off, not wanting to revisit how your grandmother died.

“You do not have to tell me if it brings you such displeasure.”

“Thank you, um…”

“Loki. Please, call me Loki.”

“Loki,” he inwardly moaned at the way you said his name, “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. Please, continue playing.”

And you did for what felt like hours, all while your sexy dream companion asked about your hopes, dreams, anything he could think of really. You in turn asked him about his life and interests; you even laughed at a story of his brother having to dress like a bride to get his hammer back.

You soon became enamored with Loki. It was refreshing to be noticed with actual interest, not ridicule or pity. He seemed to taken with you as well, if his gentle caresses and not-so-subtle lustful glances he gave you were any indication.

You were glad this was just a dream. You didn’t want your heart to break like last time.

Loki was about to lean in for a kiss when everything faded to black.

–––––

You jolted up from the mattress and screamed once you realized you weren’t in your room.

No, this room was…spectacular for lack of better word. It had high ceilings, large windows, ornate chandeliers, and magnificent balcony. Luxurious dark greens, gold, and black covered the room in splendor. Extravagant pieces of furniture dripped with precious stones metal worthy of queens or royal mistresses of old.

“What is this place?”

You tried to leave but was forced back onto the bed by a force field. You tried to take calm breaths just like your therapist taught you in order to make an escape plan.

No sooner did you calm down than the door open to reveal-

“Loki!”

Only Loki was wearing radically different clothing; looked like he walked right out of a fantasy epic. And yet, his smile was enchanting.

“What am I doing here? I need to go back home.”

He tutted in response, “That would not be wise, Elskan Mín. This world is mine now and this is safest place to be.” He was right. His brother’s team of desperate souls were no match for his cunning and Chitauri Forces. Midgard’s pathetic leaders gave up in less than an hour once their beloved ‘heroes’ were defeated, broken, and laid bare before them.

“You can’t be serious, Loki. I need to leave.”

“And go where? Like I said, this realm is mine now. That rat poison of a dwelling is no more and I have dealt with your ‘family’ as needed.” Loki smirked at the memories. It gave him extreme joy squeezing the life out of that worthless pig of mother, breaking every bone in your father’s body one by one, and leaving your ‘perfect’ sister alive with partially rotten skin. Not even the scavengers or maggots would find or want the remains of the scurvy insect of an ex-boyfriend, though he was still alive..just barely.

Well, at least until he decided on how to destroy the blight of creature.

Though he did make sure to leave two of your real friend were treated well. You needed to have someone to talk to while he was away.

You gazed into his Spearmint colored eyes in one last attempt, “Please Loki! If you love me, you’ll let me go!”

For a split second, you could’ve sworn you saw hurt in his eyes and he glided across the room. You back hit the headboard in you sad efforts to get away from him.

“Elskan Mín, I promise to always love, cherish, and worship every part of your glorious body. You will become Midgard’s queen and my goddess. No. One. Will. Ever. Demean. Or. Slight. You. Again.” he punctuated each word of the last sentence with soft, open-mouthed kisses to your face, neck, shoulders, and collarbone.

You tried to fight him, but it felt so good. His touches sent shots of lightning to your core; plus his lips and fingers were cook to the touch provided excellent contrast to the spike in heat.

You started crying realizing how pathetic this was, to have the first person to profess such feelings be a kidnapper. You were actually contemplating whether or not he was telling the truth.

Loki sensed your sorrow and kissed your tears away. “I know this might be ‘difficult’ at first, but you will love me in time.” He hoped he did not have to use the scepter.

You thought about your dream and all of the effort he was putting into this. It was frightening, but it came from a place of love.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to stay.

–––––––

@lookiamtrying @jtargaryen18 @sapphirescrolls @jobean12-blog @sweeterthanthis @gotnofucks @mcudarklibrary@saiyanprincessswanie @golden-ariess @navegandoaciegas @stargazingfangirl18 @opheliadawnwalker3 @tilltheendwilliwritee  @imanuglywombat @bucky-the-thigh-slayer @navybrat817 @anyatheladyclown @buckysbunny @nacho-bucky @donutloverxo @stephanieromanoff @threeminutesoflife @angrybirdcr​ @angrythingstarlight @chixkencxrry @hurricanerin @marvelfansworld @the-soulofdevil @captain–barnes @drabblewithfrannybarnes @thebanprincess @winteralpine @leslie2898 @buttercandy16 @propertyofpoeandbucky @hevans-angel @thorfanficwriter @afriendlyblackhottie @avintagekiss24 @syntheticavenger @phant0m-queen @tuiccim​ @blueberrythor​ @river-soul @justthehiddleswrites @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog

[neptune-midheaven]

💓 Astro Notes PT 3 ! 💓

+I’m definitelyy gonna do sign posts soon, like houses, planets, asteroids, and all, it’s all gonna have a theme to each topic yada yada yadaa, so look outtt+

>A bit of a long post here so have fun scrolling through it hehe :))

*All aries risings have sign/house synchronization because the house order doesn’t move or if it does move at all it hardly does, only shifting by a sign or two depending on how late the ascendant degree is, this is notorious of aries’ independence streak by wanting each sign to be in their native houses, to feel its house’s full power, aries rules 1st the house of identity so there’s the more symbolic way for this occurring. It’s pure energy here.

*Venus-saturn, especially conjunction, definitely carry a big daddy vibe. It’s more prominent if the two are placed in the angular houses.

*Taurus and libra are both rules by venus, but these energies are distributed between the two signs in different ways. A basic way to differ the two energy wise is taurus is the “masculine” side of venus, libra is far more “feminine”. Both are delicate but in different ways taurus is “heavier”, for it being an earth sign, contrasted with the airy and flighty libra.

*Libra sun is in fall in astrology, the fall meaning the behavior of the sign contradicts the traditional role of the planet, the role of the sun is to stand out from everyone else, its your radiance, what makes you special, it’s your ego and what you take pride in. But libra wants to be relatable to everyone, to NOT stand out, merge and meet and balance !! This is the opposite of aries, aries is independent, “what makes ME independent, me me me !!”, explaining its exaltation when the sun enters this sign, it’s not absolutely the same as leo sun or the suns energy overall but it’s a close fit, almost... perfect, that’s what the exaltation means represents here. Libra is focused on everyone else around them, everyone other than themselves, the people around them and how they can compromise to fit everyone’s needs. I mentioned before they don’t like to stand out, this is excluding fire placements in a libras chart which will create a person who relates well to others but still demands to stand out in whatever planet is in a fire sign.

*Whatever house leo is ruling is wherever your rising sign’s ego is being expressed in, ex: leo in 11th expresses their ego, creativity with friends, causes. This area of life is where you’ll likely take most pride in, excluding the suns placement in the chart.

*Neptune in 7th can attract a lot of partners in need of healing or help. This person is very healing and guiding in relationships, maybe they could even make a good guidance counselor, but I’m not so sure astrologically because I haven’t looked into it entirely, let me know if this is true.

*Neptune in 2nd is the type of person to browse a shop, find whatever they like but never end up buying it, they change their minds about it by putting it back right before they leave. They could’ve been talking about hooow much they want to get whatever they’re holding onto over and over again but never buy the thinggg.

*Aries mercury were always told to lower their voice or be quiet as kids I swear.

*Uranus in 12th feels they should hide their brilliance, these are veryy creative people they just keep it a secret.

*12th house feels like a never ending game of hide and seek, you find the planet sometimes but you’re always in a never ending loop, always searching for it.

*The moon in astrology, when looking into the mother, who’s ruled by the moon in astrology, describes your relationship with her, what she’s like, how she raised you etc...

*Ex: taurus moons, your mother gave you many gifts, she adored youu as taurus is ruled venus which rules gifts and appreciation, she was also very relaxed in your childhood, she still is now. This relationship is a very calm, steady one, moon is exalted in taurus meaning the role of the moon is comfortable in relaxed and comfy taurus.

*Ex: a moon in 8th, the house of intense and psychic scorpio, could have a psychic or even telepathic bond to the mother, this is a very strong connection overall and depending on its sign and aspects is where you’ll find the specifics of the relationship from, the details, how the relationship is flavored.

*Sun in 12th indicates an absent father figure. This placement is difficult, i’m so sorry if you have it because you can never feel like you can be yourself, it’s hidden from you. With any other placement in astrology, there’s a gorgeous, forgiving upside to it, you’re very healing and understanding of others, an empath or at least someone who sucks in the negative vibes out the environment, it can get quite exhausting !! so always need to seclude yourself now and then, you’re very loyal and caring of your loved ones, people love you for your sensitivity and empathy as this placement also makes you an old soul, someone overflowing with wisdom others rely on.

*5th house shows you what your child will be like, what traits they embody, what they will do and even how they act.

*Capricorn risings look elvish, they have high cheekbones a lot like a LOTR character and elvish, chiseled ears. It’s not OUT there but it’s subtle.

*Chiron in 9th has experienced religious trauma.

*A lot of 12th or 8th house placements carry a lot of karma.

*Mercury-pluto (especially negative) can become inconsiderate in arguments, they bring up a ton of shit to use against you, only as long as they can win.

*Scorpio suns are far more optimistic and light hearted than the moon sign.

*Mercury-ascendant aspects can make even an introverted rising sign more out-going, open, talkative (not that introverted risings can’t be talkative this is just what comes with this placement).

*You may be good at something without realizing it, take a peak at your 12th house or quintiles !! For quintiles, look up the trine form of whatever two planets are aspected for the general description since there’s not too much to find online sadly. 12th house is something you don’t really know or realize you’re good at, especially early in life, the secret talent pertaining to whichever sign or planet are ruling/in this house.

*Leo venus take pride in their loverss like damnnnn they literally treat their partners as royalty, king and queen, kissing the ground they walk on and everything, they’re so devoted in love, it’s adorable !! <33

*Pisces and leo moons, THE dreamiest, most romantic moon sign pairr, it’s well known pisces is the hopeless romantic of the zodiac, however to bring up the flamboyant, dramatic leo moon when describing a dreamy romantic you wonder, really ?? Yes this is extremely true ! Both signs, pisces and leo, are fairly alike, almost alike in fact, considering they both create a inconjunction in the natal chart, two signs who share some similarities while still contradicting one another in ways they express these similarities, both pisces and leo are creative, talented, have a love for the arts, film, music, loyal as friends and love to care for others, both are insanely idealistic. Leo rules the child remember !! so they’re a childlike sign with young idealism, an idealistic moon sign here. Both leo and pisces moons are children at heart, they’re so gooey and sweet.

*Sun in 10th can get any job they apply for, they could even be terrible at that job they want, the one they want to try out for, they would even have a breakdown over how terrible they were in an interview but still get the job like HOWW- WITCHCRAFTT.

*Aquarius mercuries were known as the smartest kid in class, the einstein’s of the class, everyone asked for their answers for the homework, they just carry this flair of intellectual superiority just like the sun sign haha.

*Your 12th house is what you unconsciously give off the vibe of, your ascendant and midheaven are noticeable layers, different types of layers of you !!but the subtle layers of the 12th house, sign or planet, can always be sensed unconsciously, 12th house energies are at a higher octave, a higher vibration than the other houses, even 11th, you can notice a person’s subtle 12th house energy but they’re still completely unaware of it as it’s ! hidden ! from them.

*Aquarius venus, and really all air venuses in general, are soo stereotyped UGHH, what I mean by stereotyped is the descriptions of each of these venus signs is literally like the same shit over and overrr again, they all get terrible reps in the astro community it seems almost close minded because it’s also such a hugee generalization. It’s only about how the air venus energy is used, manifested in the person, if its underdeveloped or not. If it’s underdeveloped it’s going to be chaotically afloat from material love affairs, which earth venuses don’ttt like, water too, fire can handle the floaty-ness but if the passion’s not there- BYE !! If you develop an air venus well enough, you can balance the material and intellectual realms in your relationships, this is kinda natural for earth heavy charts with one the air signs here, however fire or even more air could become a little tricky to ground yourself in relationships. Just let your partners know you deserve your space because you guys can really run out of mental power after a while, so it’s necessary for you to recharge !! just don’t ghost people completely when you do, it’s where this immortal stereotype comes from.

*Saturn dominant people are flawless beings.

*Saturn in 3rd, YOU GUYS ARE SOOOSOO SOOO SMART AHH. Their minds are always running at a fast pace like literal lightning, or they become too overwhelming (not in a bad sense ofcc, it’s just how it is) that the person’s speech rhythm is kinda forgotten about in a way, it feels like that their mouths aren’t always running in sync. The thought they’re going to express into words should come out but it’s so quick or even “heavy” it jumbles up a sentence or it causes the person to mix up a word or two. Their minds are fast fast fastt but they feel like their mouths are running in literal slow motion. There’s nothing wrong with this, this placement makes amazingly smart peoplee. Just relax, try letting yourself go in conversation, let all that big, brain energy freee !!

*Alsoo, as singers they would and definitely ALWAYSS get their notes right, they have actual PERFECT voices, they really should become writers or, like I said, singing would be perfect for them because they would never mess up lmaoo.

*Libra, computerized concern and sympathy...

*Pluto in 8th feel unbeatable, indestructible almost, they have above average regenerative abilities, they have the best survival tactics but they keep it a secret, it’s 8th house we’re talking about.

*Whatever saturn is in is the area where you’ll become flawless in, you’ll master that area throughout your life with time.

*There is a guiding planet in astrology, the planet that is closest behind the sun, it’s considered your “second” chart ruler, or basically has the energy of it because you can probably relate to it being one of the most prominent energies in your chart.

*Sagittarius//9th house mercury is soooo blunt, so blunt. Wait did I mention they’re SOOO SO BLUNT.

*Moon in 5th need to perform, they love to get out on stage and perform with their entire hearts, they’ll do amazing in the performing arts, theatre, and honestly they probably already aree. These people are so playful and generally so fun to be around, they’re natural hypemen as well !!

*Taurus venus love to be appreciated by their partners, the gifts, the kisses, the food and allll.

*Neptune in 3rd feel everything in their environment, they can sift through the energies and vibes, it’s second nature, no not second nature, FIRST nature, they’re one with everything around them. Their minds are like a hazy, cloudy ocean containing every drop, every thought of a place, a person.

*Moon in 11th, and 10th too, have a special ability to understand and sympathize with the public, they always know what the public wants and even how to give it to them. This can easily get them famous since they’re extremely understanding people, especially if moon is healthy in the chart.

*Someone with a lot of capricorn/10th house or aquarius/11th house energy is very extroverted, they enjoy socializing with others but suffer from social burn outs often, they often need to recharge.

*Scorpio risings have intense voices, like their tone radiates throughout your head and it can feel intense overall, even when they’re speaking casually. The specific flavor or tone doesn’t matter but how it sounds overall is piercing.

*In astrology, libra rising starts the house cusps with each houses sister signs ruling each cusps ex: pisces rules 6th house, the house of virgo in astrology. Symbolically, libra wants to balance out the houses by blending the energies with the sister signs together, by with what is (house number) and how it’s done (sign on each house cusp), for balanceee !!

*Moon conjunction uranus TRANSITSS can cause literal earthquakes on earth, shocking news or something shocking or groundbreaking will happen that day either around the world and in personal, daily life. Ex: this transit happened on halloween during the blue moon, so basically no one ever trick or treats in my neighborhood, like barely anyone comes out i mean, it’s always 5 houses apart where people typically hand out candy, some people are just hanging out, we always run out of houses to go to since it’s not very active, but this year EVERYONE was out trick or treating it was so crazy to see so many people out, it was quite literally shocking because that actually never happens also there’s a whole pandemic going on too lmaooo.

[goldafterglow]

my love is a dagger

Summary: Jack Daniels is hopelessly gone for you, and you’re starting to think it’s a two way street. Maybe.

Request: “May I please ask for Basorexia and Whiskey please? 🥺” - @scribbledghost (ma’am I’m SO sorry this took me so long and then after the long wait you got whatever this is); taken from this post

basorexia: the overwhelming desire to kiss

Pairing: Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x reader

Word Count: 4.8k+

Warnings: suicidal themes (just a little and not really but there’s definitely a line), sexual harassment, anGST!!, PINING omg SO much pining like folks get ready to y*arn, a little bit of fluff bc Jack is a sweet talking southerner and I couldn’t help it, more angst I rly hope you cry, there’s a cute little lesbian couple in one line so don’t read if ur homophobic! but that goes for all of my work :)))

Author’s Note: Thank the GODS for @catfishingmorales for being my first ever beta reader!!! maybe this one will make any fucking sense at all!!! also a special shoutout to my wife @pascalplease bc she stayed up all night vomiting headcanons with me about this and I didn’t even get to all of them.

Gif Cred: the lovely @coredrive​

Masterlist | Taglist Modifications

“Two single-bed rooms,” he says. No; he manages.

Jack has to pry the words out of his esophagus, the passageway so clogged with sleep that he thinks that if he clears his throat he might be able to clear it.

It doesn’t work.

He tends to add a little brightness and smile to his voice when he talks, always eager to please even strangers. He embellishes his sentences with pleasantries and a chipper shimmer that makes even the most overworked bartender smile and the most destitute rancher crack a grin because he has this uncanny ability to make everyone feel special. But right now, at eleven pm on a Saturday evening after what might’ve been the worst, most emotionally grueling mission Jack has ever completed, he is not pleasant. His words are simply a tool for him to get a message out, his voice choked and flat.

“I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, sir, but it looks like we only have one king-size room available,” the lady informs. She is looking intently at the screen, still typing and clicking like the words might miraculously change right before her eyes.

The powerful Agent Whiskey’s heart falls into his stomach.

He can’t tell if this is the best or worst thing that has ever happened to him. Is this finally the excuse he needs to sweep you off your feet, like the catalyst giving him the strength to overcome his intense paranoia? Or is this the last straw, the final stone before you step off the staircase of his heart and back out onto the run-down open streets without him? Panic floods his chest and he is so paralyzed that he doesn’t even know what to tell her; for once, Jack Daniels is speechless.

Thank god he doesn’t turn around; he’d’ve seen your wide frantic eyes and would’ve known immediately what you’re thinking.

“Oh, it looks like a vacancy just opened,” the hostess chirps, a hint of relief floating on her words. You and Jack turn your heads to your left, where a young couple is saying their “thank you”s as they rack up the handles of their suitcases, hand-in-hand. One girl leans over to kiss the other on the temple with a smile; they both seem so secure. You turn your head back to the hostess; the sight of two people being content was disturbing to you and frankly a little offensive. “Unfortunately they’re on separate floors. Is that-”

“We’ll take them,” Jack gruffs. He wants to sleep, wants to die, wants to be in any existence where your soft eyes aren’t glued to the back of his head because he can feel it and he thinks you might burn holes into his skull just to find that he’s hollow inside.

Empty.

The transaction is quick and a little forced. She hands you both your respective key cards wordlessly, and if your eyes had lingered on her just a little longer you would’ve caught her face falling into it’s default relaxed state of misery. Jack walks with you to the elevator in silence, but he’s still close. He’s always close to you. Often you’ll turn your head in an empty room and anticipate him being there just to be sorely disappointed, though you aren’t sure what you’re always so disappointed for. His spirit haunts your thoughts, floats around your body and does laps around your brain because he is always there when you need him, so much so that you expect him to be there when you don’t need him. You want him to always be there. To always be with you.

Strange thoughts to have so late at night.

Jack sets his bag down beside you, stepping forward to press the button for you; it’s such a small gesture, something that he probably didn’t even think to do since hospitality runs in his bones, and yet you noticed it.

Strange.

The door opens, and he wordlessly puts a hand on your back, guiding you towards the elevator in front of him. Letting you on first. You can’t help but smile a little at him; you can tell he’s so tired and yet he still finds it somewhere in his heart to make you feel so important.

“You know I don’t need that from you,” you tease lightly, turning to look at him as the doors drag shut. The elevator shudders around you, indicating that it’s ready to start it’s journey to the fifth floor.

Jack grins at you; it’s not something he’s doing with his voluntary muscles, something that he thinks is coming off muted because he just doesn’t have the energy. It’s something he doesn’t even think about doing, a visceral reaction to hearing your sweet voice like aloe vera on his scorched throat.

“Well then, darlin’, take it anyways just to indulge your favorite cowboy,” he almost begs, lip pouted and eyebrows raised like he’s a child asking for candy except he’s an addict crying for just one more dose before the night ends because the nights he goes home without the memory of your eyes, your smile, your scent in his system are the nights he can’t sleep through.

You giggle softly, nudging his side gently because you want to crush him in your embrace and lift him onto the barbs of feathers into the moonlight all at the same time. To Jack, it feels like you’ve just kneed him in the chest, hogging all his air and wrapping his head in plastic so he can’t breathe, not that he minds. He’d let you tear at the delicate skin of the inside of his wrists, bite into the gentle flesh of his cheeks until he’s on his knees, bleeding at the seams. He’d let you destroy him if you wanted to.

He sighs a little, so dead, as a flush of air enters the vacuum of the elevator; you’ve arrived. But he doesn’t want to leave yet, wants to wring every last drop of your attention out of your pliable bones, so he follows you out and walks you to your room.

“I don’t need this either,” you say, a yawn stretching and blurring the edges of your words.

“I know,” Jack concedes, rolling his eyes in a way that is so adoring that he might as well have kissed you full on the mouth.

Not that you wanted him to.

“I know you don’t need a lick of help from me, sugar. Maybe I just like giving.” He grins down at you again, his side brushing against yours as you place slow, careful steps down the carpeted floor.

Yeah, he likes giving.

He gives you his leftover coffee when he “doesn’t want it” - it’s a tall cup of his favorite brew. He definitely still wants it. He gives you his blazer when you call his desk landline just to tell him your office is cold because you know he’ll give it to you. What you don’t know is that it’s because he’s completely and utterly whipped for you - he’d strip naked in a snowstorm to keep you warm, hold you in an icehouse as the bite of the frost burrows into the cracks of his dried skin, because he doesn’t need clothes when you’re in his arms. That’s about as warm as he’s ever been.

He gives you his time of day - almost all of it. He’s the first person you see when you step into work, the last face you see when you’re ready to retire. He walks you to your office every morning - he had to beg Champ to switch offices with him so that he could be adjacent to you, but every ounce of dignity lost was paid back to him with royalties in the precious extra seconds he gets to spend rubbing his shoulder against yours. He saunters into your office unannounced daily at 12:35 pm sharp to eat lunch with you, flopping onto your couch with the audacity of a man wet with wealth and simultaneously listening to you rave about your day with the patience of a therapist. Your time is a sacred commodity to him, and he makes sure that he’s earned it.

He gives you his whole soul. Sometimes he wonders if you’ll one day open your purse and find his glass heart sitting there, beating hard and loud and only for you. He wonders if you’d pick it up and smash it against a wall. He wouldn’t mind it at all.

The silence hangs in the air, dancing on your breaths as you seem to be inhaling each other, soaking in each other. It’s strange, the moments you share alone with Jack. There are the ones you share late at night, croaking at each other over the phone about how shitty that one show ended or how beautiful blue things are. Blue like his suffocated lungs, like the ocean of tears that drown him when he looks at you, like the finger you’ve got him wrapped around real tight.

But then there’s the moments when you’re in a room full of people. The briefing room sitting at a table spanning the length of the room that’s completely full of people, a club chock full of sweat and neon energy, the lobby of the lavish estate of a target where the bourgeoisie can swarm and stalk each other. All he has to do is toss you a roll of the eyes, a grin, a subtle brush of his hand against yours, and you are instantly thrown into the web of his affection as you get lost and locked in the atmosphere of his presence. Like, even in a room full of people, he’s the only one around. You’re not breathing in oxygen but the hickory fumes of his skin, the only sound getting registered being his dark honey voice. You’re not quite sure how he does that, distorting reality so heavily that you feel like you’ve traversed to an alternate dimension every time he touches you, pays any mind to you. Every single time.

“This you?” Jack asks, his words like a rubber band to your pulse as you’re snapped out of your train of thought. You look up at the room number - room 513 - and then down at your keycard. It reads the same. There’s a dull ache of disappointment that erupts through your chest, beige and static like the chipped paint on the walls.

“Yeah,” you mutter, turning to face him with your back to the door. He smiles at you softly, gentle like his fragile soul that you always manage to make hurt so bad without doing a single thing, and he opens his arms to you. Nothing out of the ordinary; you’ve grown accustomed to his goodbye hugs. “You’re so needy,” you giggle, stepping forward to bury your face in his pillowy chest and letting yourself sink into the quicksand of his warmth. It’s so easy to get caught up in him like a butterfly to a flower, and yet it’s so hard to pull away. He’s always been difficult to separate from; every time it’s like you’re sewing a microfractal of your esse into the velvet of him. Not big enough for you to notice, but still missing, and it adds up every time until there’s a big gaping hole in your chest that Jack holds claim to and the only way you feel right is when he’s with you.

I know, he wants to say to you. I know I’m needy. I know that you’re the only one, the only person, the only fucking thing that I’ve ever wanted this bad. I know I steal your time and your space and your thoughts but I’m a greedy man. Please forgive me. But he doesn’t say that; he could never say that to you. So instead he buries his face into the top of your head, trying to get a big sleepy lungful of you before he parts with you for the night, and says “Can you blame me, baby?”

You look up at him, eyes bleary and red but still eager to be so close to him. “Always such a tease.” He smiles wide at you, like he’s looking at a whimsical sprite so colorful and magnificent, but it’s just you. What does he see when he looks at you?

“G’night, pretty girl,” he coos, arms still wrapped around you and eyes big and doe-y. Please don’t leave yet, my perfect thing. Except that’s the part that stings him the most; you’re not his. He doesn’t get to say that sacred “my.”

“Good night, Jack Daniels,” you whisper, words fanning on his cheeks like waves of heat from a bonfire. But you don’t move, and neither does he. Not yet. Please.

He’s looking down at you with a certain reverence, like you were sculpted by the angels and placed right here in front of him with intimate precision. And then, without a breath to spare, he leans down and presses a kiss on your forehead so light that you wonder if it even happened or if someone has just thrown a marshmallow at your face. A friendly kiss from a friend that you’re friends with.

It feels like the seams of your limbs are being ripped out as you slowly separate from him, flashing him a soft smile as you take your duffel bag and unlock the door in front of you. You step into your hotel room, the air conditioning immediately sticking to your damp skin. As you close the door you catch him still standing there, looking at you like you’re something so precious.

Platonically, of course.

You sigh as you look around the room, suddenly freezing. The tiny dress you’re wearing doesn’t add much insulation and the big diamond necklaces and chandelier earrings and silver cuffs adorning your body like ornaments become ice on your skin. Kicking your shoes off and into a forgotten pit of the room, you step into the bathroom. Flicking the light on, you stare straight at the bulbs, letting the light sear your pupils just so that you can focus on something other than Jack fucking Daniels. Your jewelry is the first to go, becoming a delicate display on the bathroom counter. Something so pretty, but they’ve left angry dents in your skin that are starting to inflame and you figured it was too good to be benign. Nothing so beautiful, nothing that makes you feel so beautiful, could do so without hurting the paper-thin barriers of your heart. You’d have to be a fool to not know that.

You open up your duffel bag, fishing around impatiently until you find your makeup remover and cotton pads. As you erase the paint on your skin, removing the rough mission from the memory of your face, you start beginning to look less disheveled and more exhausted. Now you can really see the dark circles under your eyes, the discomfort of Rolex’s touching the small of your back and Armani cologne grabbing at your hips while you let it happen. Your body had become free real estate and in just hours you had broken down to feeling like you were stained, a dirtier version of yourself that couldn’t ever be cleaned.

You hadn’t felt so filthy when you were in Jack’s arms.

Eager to try and scrape the mission from your lungs, you peel the tight fabric off your body, letting out a breath of something far redder than relief as it falls to a pool around your ankles. You turn around to reach for the shower handle and grip it hard, letting the cold steel fill your palm as you twist it mid-way. While you wait for the steam to seep into your pores you reach for a bar of packaged soap on the bathroom counter, sizing up the créme box. It’s about a centimeter thick, easily filling your palm, and you frown a little at realizing that most of it will be thrown away, unused. Such a waste.

Turning your attention to the water, you run your hand under the water pouring out of the shower nozzle. It’s warm enough. But you don’t want it to be enough. You want it to melt your skin, to burn through your used body and shed your cells to unleash the layers beneath, the layers that Jack had touched, because thinking that your body has been safe inside his embrace feels better than thinking that you put your head in the jaws of the alligators and hoped they wouldn’t snap.

Once the water is burning, sure to inflame your skin, you step in and close the shower curtain before beginning to let the soap glide along your arms. Except it’s not enough. You’re not clean enough. So you run the bar over yourself again and again, wearing it down as your skin turns hot to the touch until you’re using the tips of your fingers to salvage the last bits of product onto your chest. Shit. You don’t even realize that the bar is all used up until you feel the sensation of your fingers rubbing against your now irritated skin and yet you still feel soiled. So you elect to give up on your sorry attempt at washing away the strange eerie touches and predatory looks and turn off the water, drying yourself off.

The solitude in the air stings.

By the time you’re laying in your bed and looking up at the plain off-white ceiling so that you don’t have to look at the old collections of dirt in the crevices of the wall and carpeted floor, you haven’t thought about Jack for the past 30 minutes. Not since you were washing yourself and the ghost of his fingers scraped your scalp, making you long for the feeling of his chest pressed to your back and the sound of his voice floating into the vinyl of the curtain liner while his hands danced in your hair - 

Not since then.

But Jack Daniels is most certainly thinking about you, and he’s far too deep to bother pretending that he isn’t anymore.

He stands outside your door for just a little while longer after you close it, staring at the fool’s gold embellishment on the front as he basks in the faint warmth of your spirit that lingers in the space of the hall and inside of his bones. He’s not sure how he got so lucky so as to be able to touch you without abandon, kiss your forehead out of greed and hold you in his arms because he really is so needy. He replays the scent of your dainty floral perfume and rewinds the heat of your forehead under his used, chapped lips, trying to commit you to memory as if he hadn’t done this a million time already, as if he hasn’t tried to burn a million of your hugs into the plush cotton of his skin like a brand. Your fading ghost consumes his mind, and by the time it’s whispering farewell to him, he’s already at the bank of elevators waiting patiently for the doors to open for him. Jack does a lot of that; waiting.

The weight of his duffel bag starts to grow and he can’t tell if his tired left arm is getting weaker or if the bag is getting heavier, but he can tell that his nerves are aching because he already misses you.

He’s always missing you.

The trip to his room is quiet, lonely, and as the elevator doors close for him to make his way to the 6th floor he wonders if this is how it’ll always be. Having you so close, seeing you right in front of him, and yet never truly being with you the way he wants to be. Never belonging to anybody, just a wisp of air passing through your life without holding any true substance or having any real meaning to you; but what a privilege to be one of your wisps. To have been in your lungs and have seen what he imagines are wide open plains, vibrant with wildflowers and gentle beasts. He wishes he could stay.

The elevator door dings.

This time he is caught off guard and he inhales like a shudder, eyes darting around the cold yet damp walkway to see if anyone has caught him thinking, caught him yearning.

Hallucinating.

Deluded.

He steps inside of the compartment with his stupid heavy duffel bag, immediately letting it fall to the elevator floor. His eyes find the plastic, cloudy buttons making up the keypad of the elevator. His left arm lifts to press the “6” button but he immediately regrets it, feeling a searing agony shoot through his shoulder. He mutters a little “fuck” to himself like it’ll help balm the pain, and of course it doesn’t, but Jack is a stubborn man and the buttons are to his left, so he shakes his arm out the way you shake out your boots before stepping inside mama’s house and tries again. But his dry, chapped fingers struggle to reach for the buttons, shaking in his own seismic wake. It takes him a few seconds to steady himself, taking temporary control over his body so he can actually touch the button; the plastic is cracked, a small piece having fallen off to be lost, likely thrown away. A discarded fracture in the shell leaving the inner label forever open and exposed, never to be whole again.

The elevator door shuts.

Jack lets out a low sigh, leaving his arms to fall to his sides as he leans against one of the walls. The back wall of the elevator is reflective, muddled and stained but clear enough that Jack can see what has become of him. His stetson is barely on his head anymore, his tie crooked and his collar untucked. He almost feels like a suit monkey, walking around playing dress up with the caveat of poisoning a man’s fresh champagne. But you told him he looked so handsome all gussied up like a proper gentleman worthy of taking a dime like yourself out. So he leaves it at almost.

He does a lot of that too.

The elevator hiccups, and as expected the doors open, inviting him to leave. He looks down at his duffel bag and he can already feel the weight of it on his weeping muscles, but he’s so close to his room and he can’t give up now that’s he’s made it so far, so he uses the momentum of his swinging right arm to sweep the bag up off the floor and drags himself out of the elevator. Not the best thing he’s ever done, but certainly one of his proudest moments.

The sixth floor is less damp, less like a moldy underwater cave and more like he’s at the top of a breezy mountain where the strands of air are like spurs to his cold, tight skin. Crisp. It is different, and yet he feels the same. Like his joyful warmth has drained out of his system, flushed out of his body, and on the inside he is the 5th floor of a shitty decrepit hotel in the middle of fuck all Kentucky. 

He makes quick work of finding his room, the inertia from getting off the elevator being the driving force that gets him down the two hallways and standing before room 645. He pulls out the plastic keycard, adorned with scratches on its surface and stains on its edges, and shoves it into the card reader. With a subtle flash of green and a gentle click, the door gives way for Jack to practically fall inside. He flings the bag as far across the room as his arm will let him, letting gravity control his movements as he is drawn to the white mattress in the center of the room. He releases a groan a little louder than should be appropriate this late at night - he checks the alarm clock on the bedside table to confirm that it’s 11:08. He hasn’t been apart from you for longer than what, 4 minutes? No, he did stand outside your door for a little bit. He decides it’s been 5 minutes.

Oddly enough, the extra sixty seconds don’t make him feel any less fucked.

Now that he’s finally still, his body begins to focus on how sore his legs are as any pain grows from the ends of his limbs and seeps into his chest. He can feel the weight of the night press down heavy on his diaphragm, suffocating him in a way that travels to his eyes and sprays sand like mist onto the walls of his throat. He selfishly lets himself lay there for a second, thinking about that weight being you pressed up against him, face buried in his chest or his neck or in his own face. It’s sacrilegious the way Jack thinks about your touch, the flutter of your lashes like majestic butterfly wings against his cheek, so enticing. So pretty.

His shower is fast despite the way his muscles screech at him to let them rest, begging him to just fucking sit down. When he leans down, back made of creaky burnt red iron, to reach for his sleep clothes, he does a double take; there’s not much in the bag at all. A bunch of small, disguised weapons, communications devices, a pair of grey sweats, a white t-shirt. Nothing oppressively hefty to pull on his tendons; at least, not in a way that could practically drag his shoulder out of its socket. Then suddenly he remembers; he had been holding your bag until you’d both reached the lobby desk. It was a long walk from where you’d been instructed to dump the care and the hotel, so after watching you squirm a little in the freezing air, he offered to take your bag off your back. He’d walked with a bag in each arm for maybe a minute before he realized that his greedy fingers missed being wrapped around your side, missed your melted essence seeping into his stomach, so he’d held both bags in the one left hand for the rest of the thirty minute walk. He hadn’t even noticed how bad he was hurting; perhaps you were too distracting, smile too alluring as your words painted his eyes in lilac and blinded him from his own discomfort.

For being the one person Jack wanted, you sure did hurt him a lot.

Once he is dressed, he lets his sore body absorb into the linen sheets as his muscles finally find some form of permanent relief in the salve of stillness. But this is a dangerous state to be in; when Jack isn’t talking someone else’s ear off, he thinks. He fantasizes, ponders, mulls and muses himself into a state that is suspended between consciousness and sleep.

He thinks about your lips.

You’ve never been too shy to mouth him off, poking and prodding at him and his eccentric cowboy aesthetic. Seeing you walk in every morning and beeline it straight to greet him with a casual fifteen-second hug sends daggers flying into his heart every time, a pain that he’s learned to brace himself for and yet can never seem to be able to handle. And when he looks down at you, adoring eyes and all, he can never help but glance at your lips. It’s always short, a self-indulgent guilty pleasure that he could never admit to, and he thinks about the way they feel against his collarbone when you hold him tight. He thinks about the way they might feel on his own lips.

Sinful.

And then he is thinking about that wretched mission, flashes of luxury clothes and manicured hands trying to feel you up right in front of his eyes. The way you fake smiled at men with money and wrinkles as they leaned into your ear, trying to whisper enticing tales of exorbitant trips to islands that are garishly tropical and dresses so exclusive and designer that no one in the world would own a duplicate. Watching in utter silence because no matter agonizing his need for you is, you’ll never be his.

Suddenly that ache in his body has traveled to his face. It’s so painful to think about you, and yet he takes the jagged edges of his love for you and drags them through his wrists because he’d rather fucking bleed than ever forget you.

Outside his window he hears the clouds crash into each other as an icy downpour beats the pavement. And like a curse, at the expense of his own self-destruction, the image of you in his arms in front of room 513 slices through his brain. Your face right under his mouth, forehead right up against him, your lips right fucking there. And then the feeling of you pulling away. Of you leaving him to rot with the flies, because he’s never going to be strong enough to tell you how bad he needs you,  let you tear his heart into a million pieces for good.

From somewhere in his room the rain begins to fall on his face.

people who asked to be tagged: @gustavos @catfishingmorales @keeper0fthestars @1zashreena1 @blancatobarxoxo @honeyedspace @chaotic-noceur @opheliaelysia @adikaofmandalore @din-damn-djarin @ergotautology

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This is new so I’m putting it down here too, but I made a little form for those of you that want to be added/removed from my taglist (pls take it my tags are very disorganized rn).

[musette22]

You Make My Heart Skip A Beet

You Make My Heart Skip a Beet

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes (Stucky)

Word count: 3.8k

Rating: Teen and Up

A/N: Based on this lovely prompt by @greyhoundsgirl​. I have to be honest here, I’ve never actually seen Top Chef though so I thought it would be safer to make up a new fictional amateur cooking competition which I’ve titled Chef Wars :p 

No warnings to speak of, apart from maybe for awful food puns, but it is a bit of a cracky piece, and it’s in Sam POV (poor guy). Hope you enjoy!! 💗 Huge thanks to the amazing @rainbowsandcoconut​ for brainstorming, food puns and awesome beta’ing, as usual 😘

Read on AO3

Summary:

“I made soda bread.”

Steve lets out the 6’2” supersoldier equivalent of a squeak. “Oh, I love soda bread,” he says eagerly, rolling forward on the balls of his feet like he does when he gets excited. “My mom used to make it all the time when I was growing up.”

The tips of Barnes’s ears turn red, and he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “I know.”

****************************

When Sam and Steve had first been approached about being guest judges on an Avengers-themed special of Chef Wars, they’d spent a full fifteen minutes jumping around the common room in the Tower like a pair of overgrown kids on a sugar high.

Guest judges. On Chef Wars.

It so happens that Sam and Steve watch Chef Wars religiously. In fact, Steve even mentioned this in passing in one or two of his more recent interviews when asked how Captain America likes to spend his downtime, which is probably how the show’s executives had thought to invite them in the first place.

Sam’s love for cooking and cooking shows was passed down to him by his mother Darlene, and he, in turn, passed it on to Captain America – though if you’d told ten-year-old Sam that, he would’ve thought you were nuts. Poor Steve isn’t exactly the culinary sort of guy himself, but once Sam started turning up on his doorstep three nights a week to keep him company and make sure he didn’t sink further into depression, he’d slowly started to enjoy the shows Sam insisted on watching with him. Sam figured the familiarity of the actions and the low stakes of an amateur cooking competition would be perfectly suited to someone trying to integrate into a new century, while still being just exciting enough to hold the attention of an adrenaline junkie like Steve.

And he was right. So now, every Thursday night, the two of them chill on Steve’s couch, yelling at the TV and pretending they‘d do a better job of it than the contestants. Which, to be fair, Sam probably would, but Steve decidedly would not. What Steve lacks in culinary skills, though, he more than makes up for with his crazy supersoldier metabolism, rivaled only by the Other Guy and sometimes Thor, once he’s cracked open the mead. Steve can eat, and he does so with relish.

So needless to say, when they got the invite, they’d both jumped at the chance. Who wouldn’t, when presented with the opportunity to do the thing they did every Thursday night for funsies, but this time for realsies? And after weeks of giddy anticipation, today is finally the day.

Filming day.

The whole thing had gotten off to an excellent start. The sun was shining, Steve had actually been whistling on their way to the studio instead of nervously drumming his fingers on the dashboard (something which got on Sam’s nerves like nothing else), and they’d been offered some quality Italian espresso when they arrived. The show got on the road as soon as they’d gotten a quick tour of the studio, and after lights, camera, action, the contestants were introduced one by one.

There is Bernadette, a Missouri housewife who turned out to be somewhat of a BBQ expert and who reminds Sam of his Aunt Jenna; there’s Bob, a big, burly dude from Kentucky who wouldn’t look amiss on a Pro Wrestling show but who ends up surprising them all with a surprisingly delicate edible flower-dish dedicated to his lovely wife; and Yulia, a tiny, fierce girl from Bulgaria with some mean knife skills who Sam suspects could very well be a distant relative of Natasha’s.

And then there’s Bucky Barnes.

Bucky Barnes is a thirty-one-year-old physical therapist from Brooklyn who’s looking to change careers and get into the restaurant business full time. He has that whole hipster vibe going on: long, meticulously conditioned chestnut hair in a messy top knot, designer stubble, sleeve of – admittedly awesome – tattoos on his left arm. His cool, blue eyes and sharp cheekbones give him a model-like appearance, and yet there’s something soft and disarming about him.

Steve certainly seems to think so, at least.

The moment Barnes came walking through those glass doors, Sam heard Steve suck in a sharp breath at his side. A quick glance at Steve’s slack-jawed expression told Sam all he needed to know, since the dude is about as subtle as a sledgehammer. He’d elbowed Steve in the side until he looked over and pretended to wipe some drool from the corner of his mouth. Steve’s eyes went wide as he hastily mirrored the movement, missing the joke by about fifty yards. Oh, boy.

From that moment onward, Steve’s brain seemed to have gone through a blender, turning it into a rainbow smoothie – which was pretty unfortunate, considering they were going to have to interact with the contestants in a way that was suitable for daytime television.

The thing is, Steve is not exactly what you’d call a people person at the best of times. He’s fine with someone he’s known for a while and feels comfortable with, but with strangers he’s just… a little awkward. Credit where credit’s due, Steve is one of the most loyal, sweet, funny and whip-smart guys Sam has ever known – and let’s not forget stubborn as hell – but he’s also very, very bad at social cues. It’s not his fault, of course. Steve had gone from growing up pretty isolated without any real friends to speak of, to suddenly spending years surrounded only by his army buddies, which wasn’t at all representative for how normal people interacted with each other (Sam knows this from experience).

While Steve’s many social faux-pas are an endless source of entertainment for Sam, he’s not a total asshole, and he has tried to help Steve practice his social skills. Unfortunately, giving him well-meaning advice like “just be yourself” seems to be a sure-fire way to ensure Steve will put his foot in his mouth somehow.

That’s why Steve prefers to put on his Cap persona for public interactions. When he’s Captain America instead of Steve Rogers, all he has to do is look commanding and sort of friendly and say bland things like “I’m very happy to be here” and “You did well, son” and no one would be any the wiser that beneath that righteous exterior, Steve was floundering and wondering when he could reasonably leave whatever social engagement Pepper had sweet-talked him into attending, and head home to the comfort of his armchair and his sketchbook.

For today’s engagement, Steve had wisely adopted this approach as well, and the fact that he was genuinely excited to be there helped to loosen him up a little – so really, it should’ve all been fine.

But then Bucky Barnes from Brooklyn walked into the room and turned his big, blue eyes in Steve’s direction, and Steve promptly seemed to forget who or what a Captain America even was.

So far, Steve has already missed his cue twice, and it’s taken Sam stepping on his toes to get him to focus. To be fair, though, Steve puts in a valiant effort to pull himself together, managing to ooh and aah in all the right places when talking to the other candidates – sheer dumb luck, if you ask Sam. But as Steve’s best friend and confidante, Sam sees right through it. He hasn’t missed the way Steve’s gaze keeps drifting in Barnes’ direction, and coupled with the blush creeping up the back of Steve’s neck whenever Barnes’s eyes meet his, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Cap has got himself a Manhattan-sized crush.

Now, most people probably aren’t aware that Captain America is also attracted to men, but Sam has a feeling that by the end of this episode, that cat will be most definitely out of the closet. Steve’s never purposely hid his sexuality; it was more of a question of it never having come up yet. It sure as hell has come up now.

And what makes this even better is that Barnes is just as bad. He stuttered his way through his introduction, very obviously starstruck at meeting Captain America, but also very obviously gay as hell for him, if the way his eyes lingered on Steve’s chest and thighs is any indication. Sam, for his part, is incredibly amused by it all. Not only does he get to be on the set of his favorite cooking show, he also gets to rib Steve, throwing in as many food puns as he possibly can – most of which go over Steve’s head because he’s too busy drooling over Barnes. Sam’s wit is wasted on his friends.

Then, it’s time to judge. In the first round, the contestants are supposed to make something which represents why they got into cooking in the first place.

Sam can feel Steve practically vibrate with nerves at his side as they walk up to Barnes’ station. Feeling magnanimous, Sam decides to have mercy on his muscly pal and take the lead on this one.

“Mr. Barnes,” he says, giving Barnes an encouraging smile. “Tell us about your dish, if you please.”

“Call me Bucky,” Barnes says, returning the gesture with a quick quirk of his lips.

Next to him, Steve repeats the name in a whisper, most likely unaware that he’s even doing it.

Sam has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking.

*****

Bucky’s confessional

“I grew up in Brooklyn, as the eldest of five kids. My dad left when I was fifteen, and while I was still in school, my mom had to work three jobs to provide for us all. She wasn’t home much, so it was kind of up to me to make sure dinner was on the table most nights.”

Bucky plucks at the seam of his black skinny jeans, lost in thought. “I think that’s why my specialty is comfort food. Nothing unnecessary, just hearty, nutritious food, y’know?” With a tilt of his head, he adds, “Although since all my siblings moved into their own places I’ve been cooking mostly for myself and my cat, so I’ve been experimenting with adding some twists to my tried and tested recipes.” He laughs, right hand clasping the back of his neck in a bashful gesture. “I’ve had… mixed success. Luckily Alpine has loved all of it. She’s my cat.”

“My first dish today is Irish soda bread with sage butter and Himalayan sea salt,” Bucky continues. “Bread was something we could never have enough of in our household. Five growing kids, y’know? And also, um...” A slight blush creeps its way onto Bucky’s cheeks, his eyes flitting around nervously. “Well, I guess you could say I used to be a bit of a history nerd growing up. I was super interested in World War II, particularly, uh, Captain America.” His blush deepens, spreading upwards from the neckline of his white t-shirt to the tips of his pierced ears.

“I, uh, I basically read every Steve Rogers biography I could get my hands on, which is why I learned to make things like soda bread because, y’know, Steve Rogers was Irish. Is Irish,” he corrects himself. Bucky’s eyes glaze over, taking on a faraway look. “Man, I couldn’t believe it when Cap was found a few years ago,” he marvels, “and alive. I don’t think I slept for a week after I found out.” He stares into space for a moment before shaking himself. He clears his throat, eyes refocusing on the person behind the camera. “Anyway, so when I heard that Chef Wars was doing an Avengers-themed special, I immediately applied because Steve – Cap, I mean- Captain America. Um. Yeah, so Cap mentioned in a few of his interviews that he watches Chef Wars, so I figured there would be a good chance he’d be watching this one too, you know? And then I got the email that I’d been selected and that he was going to be the one judging us, and I just…” Bucky trails off, looking a little faint, the blood draining from his face as quickly as it had risen.

“God, I just can’t believe I’ll finally get to see him in the flesh.” His eyes widen. “In person, I mean," he hastily amends. "And I’m excited about my dishes too, of course. I really hope Cap will like them. And the Falcon. Him, too. Yeah.”

*****

“I made soda bread.”

Steve lets out the 6’2” supersoldier equivalent of a squeak. “Oh, I love soda bread,” he says eagerly, rolling forward on the balls of his feet like he does when he gets excited. “My mom used to make it all the time when I was growing up.”

The tips of Barnes’s ears turn red, and he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “I know.”

When Steve puts a piece of bread into his mouth and chews slowly, he sniffs, eyes turning a little watery. “It tastes exactly like my mom’s,” he says in a hushed voice, sounding like he can’t quite believe his taste buds. Sam pats Steve’s back consolingly, before scooping up some sage butter with his own piece of bread and taking an enthusiastic bite.

“Hmm, nice,” he says, giving Barnes an appreciative nod. “And the butter? You make that yourself, too?”

“You butter believe it,” Barnes replies, then immediately looks horrified, like he can’t believe he made a pun that bad on national television.

Sam cackles, holding out his fist for Barnes to bump. When Barnes has recovered enough to return the gesture with his left hand, Steve stares longingly at their touching hands, before letting his gaze trail over the tattoos on Barnes’ exposed forearm. Since he's not exactly subtle about it, Barnes catches him looking and gives Steve a tentative smile when their eyes meet. Steve chokes on absolutely nothing and launches into an impromptu coughing fit. “Crumbs,” he wheezes, thumping a massive fist on his massive chest, “wrong pipe.”

Sam just smirks at him, before turning back to Barnes. “That was delicious,” he tells him. “Can’t wait for your next dish, man.”

“Really, really, good,” Steve chimes in once he’s caught his breath. “Well done, Bucky.”

Barnes goes as red as a tomato, eyes trained on the floor as he awkwardly shifts from foot to foot. “Thank you, Captain.”

“Steve, please,” Steve implores.

Barnes bites his lip, looking up at Steve through his lashes. “Thanks, Steve.”

Sam's pretty sure Steve stops breathing altogether right then. Christ, it’s like there’s an electrical current running between the two of them, the air crackling with it. Thunderbolts and lighting, very very nauseating.

Sam claps his hands. “Right,” he says loudly, “moving on to the next contestant now… Yulia, what have you prepared for us?”

*****

By the time the second round rolls around, Steve has had a series of meltdowns and Sam has spent precious time he could’ve been exploring the set and taking pics for his mom on talking Steve out of a bathroom stall. Damn, he’s a good friend. It takes all of Sam’s VA-honed therapist skills to convince Steve that he’s doing fine, he’s not embarrassing himself, and no one but Sam has noticed Steve’s massive heart boner for Barnes yet. Sam actually isn’t entirely positive about that last one – or the first two for that matter – but Steve doesn’t need to know that. There are still two rounds to go.

In the second round, contestants are asked to make a dish that represents who they are as a person.

While the contestants are cooking up a metaphorical storm, Sam and Steve walk around their stations to chat with everyone some more, camera crew on their heels. Steve manages to get out at least three complete sentences, and Bernadette and Bob are too in awe of him to notice the few times he says something that doesn’t actually make any sense. Yulia has given no indication that she even knows who either of them are, and Sam can practically feel the relief radiating off of Steve. He guesses that’s part of why he and Natasha get on so well.

When they round on Barnes’ station, Barnes has just started seasoning his dish. There’s a checkered dishcloth slung over his right shoulder and a focused look on his face, which turns into one of low-key stress the moment he spots Steve and Sam coming towards him. Leaning his hip against the counter, Sam settles in to watch Steve make a fool of himself. He's not disappointed.

“Wow,” Steve says inanely, gesturing in the direction of Barnes’ hands. “That’s- you’re- you’re really good at that.”

Barnes pauses his turning of the peppermill to give Steve a slightly panicked look. “At… grinding?”

At Steve’s strangled cough, Barnes seems to realize what he just said, his bewildered expression morphing into one of abject mortification. The poor guy looks like he’d very much like the ground to swallow him whole right about now.

Honestly, these two deserve each other.

When they've finished chatting to everyone and it’s time to taste, Barnes is asked to explain his dish and how it represents him. He seems to have pulled himself together somewhat since their last encounter, his stance a little more confident now and his eyes only drifting to Steve’s pecs every other sentence.

“I’m a simple guy,” he tells them, somehow managing to make it sound genuine instead of cliché. “I enjoy the little things in life. I like taking care of people, making them feel good and comfortable, and I think that’s reflected in my cooking. I enjoy making comfort food, the hale and hearty stuff.” He licks his lips, meaningfully adding, “Although, don’t get me wrong. I do indulge occasionally. I’ve got my guilty pleasures same as everyone else, y'know?” That last part is directed at Steve, who nods dazedly, like he knows exactly what Barnes means. Gross.

“So I guess you could say you’re just… arugula guy?” Sam grins, cheerfully ignoring the growing sexual tension.

Barnes stares at him for a beat, and then snorts. “You know what?” he says, returning Sam's grin, “the s’more I get to know you, the s’more I like you.”

Sam has a very real moment where he thinks he might actually fall in love with this guy himself. It’s only Steve’s doe-eyed look that keeps him from proposing to Barnes there and then. Okay, and maybe the fact that Barnes is clearly smitten with Steve, and also Sam is straight and very happily dating Nat, who would not hesitate to gut him if he decided to elope with some pasty hipster dude.

Barnes’ dish – mac and cheese with black truffle and locally sourced cheeses and fancy cuts of bacon – is mouthwateringly good, and Sam tells him as much. Using appropriate words to do so. You know, like a normal person.

Steve, on the other hand, moans loudly around his bite and then, mouth still full, he blurts, “That’s exactly what I thought you’d taste like.”

In the painfully awkward silence that follows, Steve and Barnes blush so hard the combined heat of their flaming cheeks could probably power most of New York City. This time, Sam can’t contain his laughter. He crows as he gleefully slaps his thighs, and even some of the crew is hiding having a hard time staying professional in the face of such blatant dumbassery.

Shaking his head, Sam grabs Steve by the bicep and herds him towards the backroom. “Come on, Casanova,” he says. “Let’s get you some ice for those burns.”

*****

For dessert, Barnes goes all out.

He actually makes Captain America cake pops, shaped and decorated like Steve’s shield with blue, red and white frosting. Steve’s eyes almost bug out of his head when he sees them. Barnes explains how they’re “sort of an adult version” of normal cake pops, which makes Sam raise an eyebrow. He’s been on the internet. He unfortunately has seen adult versions of all kinds of Captain America paraphernalia. Fortunately, Barnes just means that his cake pops have some sort of liquor in the center, “for a punch, you know?”

The starry-eyed look Steve gives Barnes clearly conveys just how clever he thinks that is, and Sam surreptitiously rolls his eyes. No game whatsoever, either of them.

“I’ve never had a cake pop before,” Steve says, carefully picking up one of the treats and inspecting it curiously.

“Oh,” Barnes says, blinking at him. “Well, normally you’d eat them in one go, but these are a bit bigger than usual because of the shape of the shield, so you probably won’t be able to fit -”

The rest of his sentence sort of peters off into a stunned silence as Steve proceeds to stick a whole-ass giant cake pop in his mouth in one go, letting out an appreciative grunt as he chews and then swallows.

Barnes’s mouth goes slack. “Oh my god,” he breathes, his eyes glazing over, and Sam cracks up. Again.

The cake pops are actually surprisingly good, despite their garish (sorry, Steve) appearance, and then it’s time to retreat and deliberate. As was to be expected, Steve has a crisis of conscience.

“I can’t vote for him just because he made my mom’s soda bread and he practically raised his baby sisters by himself and he cooks for his cat and he has pretty eyes, Sam!” he laments, voice muffled into his massive forearms. Sam makes the filming crew promise not to air this bit. It takes some doing, but finally Sam manages to convince Steve that Barnes’s food was simply the best. Better than all the rest. He even does a little Tina impression to get his point across, and that seems to do it.

When they announce the winner, Barnes smiles so wide it transforms his whole face and makes Steve melt into a puddle of Gü.

Sam has to nudge Steve again to get him to say his line, since he’s too busy mooning over Barnes to notice the autocue changing. “Ah, yes!” Steve says loudly. “First prize is a substantial sum of money, sponsored by Tony Stark, which we hope will go towards opening your own restaurant–"

“… and a weekend stay at Avengers Tower, also sponsored by Tony!”

Steve’s head whips around to him in surprise. Sam winks at him. “Including a private tour of the premises by none other than Captain America himself. Isn’t that right, Steven?”

A beat of silence, and then Steve.exe starts back up. "Right,” he nods, drawing out the word. “Yes. That’s right.” Sam pats his arm. Good man.

Stepping forward, Steve takes Barnes’ hand and shakes it slowly. “Congratulations, Bucky. I look forward to seeing you again soon," he says, adding, after a quick, bracing inhale, “and maybe when you visit, I can make my mom’s stew for you? If- if you like?”

Sam feels a surge of pride. Look at Steve go, being something almost in the vicinity of smooth.

Barnes laps it up, beaming at Steve. “I’d really love that,” he says in a low voice, still holding Steve's hand. “I’m sure you’re delicious.” His eyes widen. “It’s delicious. The stew – not- not-" Abruptly, Barnes stops babbling, then seems to come to a decision. “Oh, fuck it,” he mutters, and pulls Steve towards him, crashing their mouths together in a scorching kiss.

Over the noise of the assembled crowd's whoops and cheers, Sam gleefully calls, “And that, my friends, is a wrap!”

[cupiscent]

Comparative Debicki studies

I threatened to do this, and recent discussions in the Tenet discord chat have inspired me to get serious about it because I love Elizabeth Debicki and I love Kat but I am particularly fascinated with how Kat stands in subtle, nuanced contrast to the last thing I saw ED in: the Night Manager. So let’s go.

This is Katharine Barton, art valuation expert and wife of arms dealing billionaire and all-around baddie Andrei Sator (Ken Branagh):

This is Jed Marshall, trophy girlfriend of arms dealing billionaire and all-around baddie Richard Roper (Hugh Laurie):

The similarities are obvious already, right? The differences are where it’s fascinating. (This is going to contain spoilers for both pieces of media, be warned!)

When we meet Kat in Tenet, she is a bitter and despairing woman. She doesn’t love her husband any more (though it’s implied that she did once) but is being held hostage through both their child and her past indiscretions. The Protagonist uses her as a lever and access point to her naughty husband; she is exploited as an asset; she gets screwed over in the process, but ultimately saves herself (with slight risk to the whole operation). Despite her being at various points aloof/bitchy, furious, in peril, and saved from danger by the Protagonist, the movie never tips over into James-Bond nonsense--she gives him a friendly peck on the cheek at one point, and that’s that. Mostly, he represents the return of hope, in the form of someone that her husband can’t control. That gives her the impetus to wake up from her despair--we see her literally sit up straight and pay attention when he walks out of the restaurant where he was supposed to be brought low--and eventually triumph.

When we meet Jed in The Night Manager, she’s probably diving naked into some body of water. This is a common theme for her. Jed knows that she has been purchased as one more accessory of Roper’s billionaire lifestyle--like a yacht, or an artwork. She is here to be expensive and desirable and unattainable to the average person. At one point she states to Tom Hiddleston (whose character has so many names I’ll just call him by actor), “I don’t care who sees me naked, I do care who sees me crying.” She also has past indiscretions, including a child, now being raised by her family far away from her. This pains her; there’s a strong indication of substance abuse. Jed is not happy, but she’s an immaculate and perfect pretense. It’s unclear if she’s ever loved Roper, but she’s certainly here of her own volition, carving out a life with her own sort of power. Then things start getting shaky, Hiddleston starts rattling the bars of her perfect cage, and she starts to get afraid. She is used as a lever and access point to the secrets of her naughty husband; she is seduced by Hiddleston, and exploited as an asset; she gets terrified, and traumatised, and ultimately saved by Hiddleston (at risk to the whole operation).

The big point of difference is obvious: Kat saves herself. And gosh that is powerful, especially contrasted with Jed, who trades one violent man’s protection for another, and who is saved partly because Hiddleston couldn’t save the last beautiful woman who came to him for help escaping Roper’s net of crime. (Then again, The Night Manager is le Carre, in all his complexity. Hiddleston needs Jed to be his salvation. He’s a goddamn mess who no longer knows himself and he needs to be her hero. In comparison, the Protagonist needs to get the job done, but he still wants to help Kat as much as he can.)

But in a way, Kat is still under the protection of menfolk--she’s first mentioned as “niece of Sir Someone-or-other Barton”, and there’s an implication that that’s partly why she hasn’t been more summarily dealt with by Sator. She’s got status and privilege and power behind her; people who can make life extremely difficult for Sator. But none of that has saved her from making terrible choices and ending up in a terrible situation. It isn’t enough to save her.

Jed’s power is self-made. She wields her body like a weapon, carefully honed and beautifully caparisoned. Every man in the room is supposed to be stupid with lust for her the moment she walks in; that’s the whole point of her, that’s why Roper picked her. But all that power also can’t save her from her terrible choices and this terrible situation. (I’m particularly fascinated by the nuance here of the “powerful” femme fatale, and a narrative of the power of a confident woman that usually shows up in lines like, “fuck those stuck-up bitches, you think you’re too good for me?” Jed’s is a fragile, ephemeral power, that evaporates in the face of male violence. Kat is physically threatened and beaten by Sator, but she’s never made quite as helpless, alone or terrified as Jed is. In a way, Kat is saved by the Protagonist, it’s just not at the end of everything.)

Both of them are women who seem to have a lot of poise and power, but are the victims of abuse and physical violence from their partners. (Sidebar here that I get very weary about intimate-partner violence being used as a marker of villainy in films. Of course he’s evil, he’s not just an arms dealer, he beats his wife. Never mind all the “such a nice guy”s who also beat their wives.) Both of them show different sorts of courage in attempting to leave the situation. Both of them show, in varying ways, how goddamn hard it is.

But in the end, the thing that strikes me most starkly and hauntingly is that Kat would probably think Jed’s a strumpet, and Jed would probably think Kat’s a bitch, and neither woman would be able to escape their solitary confinement. And I feel like I’ve seen some echoes of that in reactions to Kat, where some movie-goers don’t seem to know what to make of her if she isn’t supposed to fit into that James-Bond’s-girl sort of role.

Anyway, the bottom line is: I initially made a joke with my husband about Elizabeth Debicki getting typecast as the evil arms-dealer’s trophy spouse, but these are two fascinating characters done different in ways both big and delicately small, and I remain in absolute awe of her magnificent performances.

[diddlesanddoodles]

DUMPLING ch 54

WARNING: This chapter contains brief mentions of gore and themes that some readers may find disturbing or alarming. 

Nenani could not stop thinking about the strange boy in the tree. What did he mean that she smelled like fire? They all had been sitting around a fire the night before, so should they not all smell like fire? Why only her? Or did he mean that he could smell her magic? Did magic have a smell? And if Haiyer did have magic, as the stranger boy insisted, why had he not bloomed yet? Had her mother put a seal on him as well? No, that did not make sense at all. Their mother ran from Aidus out of fear that he would kill Haiyer for not having magic.

She suddenly had a lot of questions for Maevis once they got back to the castle. And perhaps a few for her mother as well.

They did encounter a number of other bodies as they walked, forever sleeping among the tangled roots, but they did not stop to inspect them as they had the others. Keral’s eyes studied them as they passed, but he kept a steady pace that Farris matched. The kitchen master did not even look at them, and Nenani was growing concerned that he might find them upsetting. There wasn’t much Farris could not face, and the sheer practicality of his manner made it all the more worrying to Nenani. She hated the idea of him being upset. Not mad, she was quite accustomed to that. But the idea of Farris being upset was disconcerting. His eyes seemed to dart away the moment a body came into view, his shoulders tensing up, and there was a subtle shift in his breathing. He didn’t want to see them. 

She couldn’t blame him.

 ………

It was barely an hour passed mid-day when they finally came across a road. It was made of white and grey gravel, pounded flat over years of heavy use, with neatly spaced gouges down the center marking the path of cart wheels. The road looked like a long pale scar carved into the forest, cutting through copses of trees that had stood hundreds of years before there was ever a road. Ten minutes following it and they happened upon the first gate.

Two obelisk-like pillars stood sentry on either side of the road with an ornate iron gate strung between them. The metal bars had been shaped and pounded into elaborate twists and curves. Though it was clearly meant to be a display of wealth, there was something dominating and commanding about it.

Atop each of the obelisks were marbled granite spheres with trees carved into them. Keral rearded the gate with a scrutinizing eye. 

“For a man with the reputation for being very hospitable, his garden gate sure don’t look it.”

“Doesn't matter the man’s reputation,” Farris replied. “All gates are meant to keep folks out. Be a lot more suspicious if it looked more welcoming. Besides all that, a gate means we’ve made it. So we can get on with the rest of this madness and get back to the castle.”

The gates themselves were locked tight by a severe-looking padlock, but Keral still gave it an experimental jiggle that sent the iron works screeching and moaning in protest. A few moments later, as though having rung a bell, a figure emerged from behind a bend in the road. He walked quickly, but his short stature and portly middle made his walk more of a waddle. And if the flushed complexion and puffing cheeks were any indication, he was not very pleased. His eyes looked between Farris and Keral’s faces and then to Jae and Nenani, who both were peeking out from behind the brothers’ heads. His eye narrowed and he flung his arm out to his right in a manic gesture.

“Deliveries are to be made at the red gate,” the man said, waving his arm. “How many times must we tell you bloody...”

The man paused, suddenly taking note of Keral’s coat and its color. A little of the blood in his cheeks drained away. Keral’s easy stance straightened and his muscles and tendons tightened as he assumed a more commanding presence.

“Deliveries?” he asked, tilting his head curiously. “We aren’t here to deliver anythin’. We’re in need of some assistance as it happens.”

The man swallowed thickly.

“W-well, if you’re needing food, you’ll have to come back later,” the man said. “Alms are only distributed on Fridays. And His Lordship isn’t in residence just now.”

“I know he ain’t here. And we’re not looking for alms either,” Keral said. “My name is Keral Athair, Captain of His Majesty’s Rangers and I’m here to claim quarters for myself and my companions.”

The man balked, and a condescending scoff was just at his lips when his brain reminded it whom he was speaking to and he disguised it behind a cough. He readjusted his stance to match Keral’s, but his shorter stature and more rotund figure did not quite make the effect. “To claim quarters? Sir?”

“Aye. I’m sure you're familiar with the practice, ain’t ye? A man in service to His Majesty may call upon the lords of the kingdom to – ”

“Yes, yes. I am aware, sir, of what claiming quarters means. We just don’t see many rangers up this way and so it has been quite some time since we’ve had...the honor to host,” he said. “And may I ask why you’re here to grace us with your presence?”

“On business for His Majesty,” Keral replied and supplied no more.

Nenani watched the exchange with a mixture of confusion and anxiety. She had never seen anyone talk to Keral the way the sentry did. In her experience, he commanded a great deal of respect. It was a new proposition to witness anything to the contrary. And if Farris’s expression was any sort of a tell, he felt similarly. She wondered if it would be better for him to say who they and Jae were. If a captain of the Rangers did not merit an immediate invitation inside, then perhaps the king’s adopted son and the two heirs to Silvaara would. But Keral remained tight-lipped.

The sentry looked very uncomfortable and ill equipped to know what to do, and it was clearly annoying Keral, who snorted with impatience.

“So then might we be brought up to the house?” he asked shortly. “I’ll need to make use of your falconer to send the king a message. It is of some importance.”

The last part was said with an exasperated inflection. Finally the man seemed to understand well enough, and he stumbled forward to open the gate. But his expression was curiously dour. The iron gates were pushed aside with the screaming of their hinges as the man stepped to the side and waved them in.

“Follow me, if you please.”

The sullen-faced man said nothing as he led them down the long drive. There was a stark contrast between the trees inside the gated property and those outside. While winter had ravaged the foliage of color and leaves, the manicured and pruned trees of the Brennan estate looked as though it were still midsummer.

They were lush and full of leaves, and there was only a splash of autumn colors here or there. The rest were all a verdant green as though suspended in perpetual summer.

“Does he have men tie the leaves back onto the tree?” Jae whispered to Keral. The ranger’s eyes remained steady and he only grunted noncommittally.

“Lord Brennan must be mighty proud of gardeners,” Farris said to their guide. “To be able to keep color like that in this cold.”

The sentry’s head shifted as he answered. “His Lordship takes great pride in his family’s estate and heritage. Maintaining Blythe trees takes a delicate hand and firm knowledge for them to keep evergreen.”

“So it’s not their natural state fer ‘em to be green like that this time ‘a year?” Farris asked.

“Those trees were cultivated by His Lordship’s ancestor more than eight hundred years ago,” he said. “It is a symbol of his house and is believed that so long as the Blythe trees stand, so shall the house of Brennan. So yes, sir, great pains are taken to keep the trees healthy and prospering. Their coloration is a consequence of the superior care they are given.”

Nenani was surprised at just how long it took for them to reach the house. The road took them though two more locked gates before the house came into view at last. Even then, it still took the group another ten minutes to transverse the long drive and arrive at the great stone entryway of the house.

It was easily the largest house she had ever seen. It wasn’t a castle in any sense of the word, but a grand house.Tan and dark stone stacked together in a very pleasing way to make tall strong walls topped with sloping roofs. A single large dormer overlooked the property. For a house, it had many windows and did not appear to have been built with defense in mind, unlike the Vhashallan castle. A vast meadow spread out behind the manor, and she could see the mountains in the distance.

And yet, the nagging voice in her head was buzzing again, much in the same way it had when they had first ventured into the forest. But she was quick to shake the feeling away. This house belonged to Lord Brennan. Her recollection of him was that he seemed very amiable and friendly. Her mother had taken such an immediate liking to him at the dinner. But his house, much like the forest that surrounded it, did not feel welcoming at all.

But then, she had to admit, how something looked upon first meeting did not always reflect the truth of it. She had experienced such a phenomenon time and time again since coming to Vhasshal. Farris and Keral were both such examples. And they were not in any state for being overly critical. So she ignored the little nagging voice. Looking to Farris and then to Keral, she felt secure enough to know there was nothing to worry about. It was nerves, she told herself. She was merely eager to return home.

……………….

A tall, thin woman giant waited for them at the front door. The sentry rushed ahead of them to whisper something in her ear, and she had to bend herself over for him to reach. Her expression did not change, and she merely nodded.

“I shall take it from here, then,” she said to him. “Please return to your post.”

In stark contrast to the sentry, the housekeeper was calm and composed, as though she had been expecting them all along. She was dressed all in a mottled black and dark green fabric and wore her large, hawkish nose proudly. Her small brown eyes stared down along its length. It was almost comical the way she held her head so far back, as though she were going to sneeze at any moment and wanted to be prepared.

“I do apologize, my lords,” she said. “But His Lordship is away at court on His Majesty’s invitation. But the hospitality of this house is at your disposal. I am afraid, though, you have caught us in a bit of an awkward time, however. Most of the rooms are under renovation and are not decent enough for occupation just yet. I have a few small rooms upstairs we put you up in.”

Keral did not meet the woman’s eye but instead gazed around at the house behind her. “We don’t need nothing fancy. A single room will do for all of us. And I’ll be needing to speak with your falconer as soon as possible.”

She dipped into a polite curtsy. “I shall send for him immediately. We also have accommodations more appropriate for the humans, sir, if you wish.”

Keral shook his head. “No. They’re stayin’ with us, ma’am, thanks all the same.”

The woman’s lips pursed tightly. “Of course, sir. I only meant that...”

“They stay with us. We don’t plan on intruding for very long and they’re tired from the journey. If you could show us to a room, we’ll sort it all out ourselves.”

The woman dipped again and made a vague gesture to follow her.

Through the main entry, they spilled out into the atrium. The floors were a dark-colored wood, polished to a high sheen, as were the walls. Marble pillars drew the eye to the ornate wooden ceiling and the carved stone statuettes at the corners, like little stone spies. Tapestries were hung along each wall leading to the main staircase. It too was made of the same dark wood. However, the housekeeper led them down a smaller corridor off to the side, a servant’s entrance, and they followed her to a much more humble set of narrow stairs that led them to a modest guest room. There were three beds lined up along a wall close to the only window. There was a small table on one end of the room and a simple fireplace at the other.

“I shall send the maid up to light the fire for you gentlemen,” she said. Farris went to one of the beds and helped Nenani down from his pack before slinging it from his shoulders. Keral did the same with Jae but did not pulled Haiyer from his pocket. “Shall I send up some supper for you as well, my lord?”

“You’re most kind, ma’am,” Keral replied. “If it’s not too much trouble, could ye have some brought up fer the humans as well?”

She gave the smallest of smiles and inclined her head. “Of course.”

“Thank you.”

“My name is Miss Embrews, if you should need anything else. Once the falconer has arrived I shall send a footman to inform you.”

“I would appreciate it,” he replied. And with that, Miss Embrews turned and shut the door behind her. Her footsteps faded away and only then did Keral’s stance relax. He turned to his brother. “That was odd.”

Farris snorted. “That sentry was a prickly lil’ bastard.”

“He was,” Jae agreed, bouncing experimentally on the bed before flopping back. “Why did you tell them who we were? Wouldn’t that have...I dunno, put more of a fire under their arse?”

Keral’s eyes wandered around the room, taking in all the details. “Hm. Eh, might have. But I have a funny feeling. Better play it safe and not say anythin’. Fer now.”

Nenani’s ear tingled. Keral’s senses and intuitions were sharp and well honed. If he was picking up on something just as she was, perhaps he was right and they needed to proceed carefully. Lord Brennan may be genial and kind, but that was no guarantee that his servants were anything of the sort.

“It feels weird here,” Nenani admitted. “The forest felt that way too. Like...something saying we shouldn’t be here.”

Farris nodded. “Aye. Have to agree with ye two. Somethin’s off. Don’t smell right.”

Keral had been walking the room, assessing it and poking at the walls experimentally. He kicked one of the bed’s legs and upon Farris’s comment, he spun on his heels to face his brother, eyes alight with inspiration. “Ye know what it reminds me of, Farris? When Mum would get worked up over something and she’d spend two days washing and polishing everything in the house until it sparkled.”

Farris’s eyes widened. “Fuckin’ hell, yer right. Even smells like it.”

“Everything’s too clean,” Keral said. He looked around the room again with new eyes. “Even the castle ain’t this clean.”

“If there’s no one living here,” Jae said, pushing himself onto his elbows. “Doesn’t it make sense that it’d be clean?”

“Might be. But ye remember when Warren had the Queen’s apartments renovated before the weddin’?” Keral asked. “All the hullabaloo and all?”

Jae nodded. “Yeah. Why?”

“Ye remember how filthy the place was all the while? With all the supplies and dirt being tracked everywhere from the workers?”

Jae’s lazy expression widened with clarity. “Yeah. I do remember that.”

Keral nodded. “Aye. She says they’re renovatin’ most ‘a the rooms? Where’s the evidence of it? Where’s the supplies? Where are the workers? The dirt?”

Farris made a displeased rumble. “We need to send that message out quick and get outta here.”

Keral nodded and reached into his pocket to fish Haiyer out and set him down next to Jae. The little boy sprang up to his feet and spent several moments happily celebrating his freedom by frog hopping in circles around the other boy.

“I’ll send the message and we can rest here for the night. Just gotta keep our eyes open fer anythin’ off. And we’ll move on tomorrow with some supplies and maybe a cart. Whatever they’re doin’ up this way, I’ll need more than a funny feeling to inspect further. My position gives me a lot of freedom to dig around, but I’ll need more that to do much of anything. Right now at least.”

“He was really nice at the dinner,” Nenani said. “Mama really seemed to like him.”

“No surprise,” Farris said. “He has a good reputation at court. The king likes him.”

“Haven’t ever spoken with him myself,” Keral said. “But he always seemed a friendly enough man. Not one to show off or bring attention to his person. An odd trait in a courtier.”

Jae snorted. “You mean like Colem does?”

“No one does it like Colem,” Keral laughed. “But say what you want of the man. Personally, I find him to be quite amusing.”

Jae glared up at the ranger. “You only say that because you know how much he annoys me.”

Keral grinned but did not deny the accusation. “Believe it or not, there’s a lot more to that loony bastard than ye might think.”

Jae looked as though he wanted to reply, but they were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. Farris, who had sat down on the bed, reached out to coax Nenani closer to him. Keral motioned for Jae and Haiyer to remain where they were and then turned towards the door. He cracked it open and asked, “Yes?”

“I’m here to build the fire, milord,” said a young and high pitched voice. Keral pulled the door open to reveal a young maid with thin mousy brown hair tucked up under a simple cap. She, like the housekeeper, was very thin, with a hawkish nose. It was painfully obvious there were shared relations. She hurried inside, awkwardly carrying a load of firewood and some flint. “It won’t be but a moment, milords.”

She made quick work of setting the logs inside, but as she worked with the flint, striking it repeatedly to bring up a spark, her eyes darted to the side every so often. Jae, who sat on the bed nearest to her, watched and did not miss the quick glances his way or the pursed lips. Looking to Keral, he shared a bemused look. The ranger only gave a small nod and Jae got up from his spot, taking Haiyer’s hand, and they moved further up the bed and closer to Farris.

The maid rose to her feet as the fire began to burn properly and she gave a small bow. “The footman should be here shortly with your food, milords.”

Keral nodded. “Thank you.”

As the girl departed, a tall middle-aged man crested the stairs carrying a tray. The maid stepped gingerly aside as he moved into the room, and she gave him an amused grin before dashing off back down the narrow stairs. The same smile graced the footman’s face, but dropped the moment the maid was out of sight and he turned to the room. He sat the tray upon the table and turned to Keral.

“Will there be anything else, milord?”

“No, this will do fine. Any news of the falconer?”

“He lives in a cottage away from the house, sir. But Miss Embrews has sent for him. Shouldn’t be much longer, sir.”

Though displeased, Keral nodded. “Good.”

“If it pleases milord, I could take whatever message you may have and meet him halfway with it.”

“No, I will wait for him. Thanks all the same.”

The footman looked disappointed but gave a short nod and quitted the room. The food he had brought consisted of an iron pot and two bowls with a loaf of bread. Farris went over to it, taking the bread in his hands and scrutinizing it.

“Their ovens run too hot. Bottom’s burned,” he said as he dropped it back onto the tray. “I’d kick Quin in the arse fer tryin’ to serve that t’ anyone.”

“Not every baker can be as amazing as yers, Farris,” Keral replied, looking at it for himself. “Looks perfectly fine to me.”

“Say the man who eats dirt,” Farris quipped back. He pulled the lid off the pot. Inside was a cream colored soup with various vegetables and hunks of pale meat. “Looks under seasoned.”

Keral rolled his eyes.

“Gods forgive anyone who under-seasons food around you,” Keral grunted. “Just ladle it out and complain later.”

Farris merely grunted and took up one of the bowls to ladle in the soup. As he filled the first bowl and went to grab the second, a sudden flash of gold light filled the room, startling the lot of them.

“Wait!” cried a familiar voice. An orb of transparent gold hovered over Keral’s head, making quick circles around him. Startled, Keral shied away from it but frowned when recognition hit him.

“Ellis!” Haiyer cried out in delight, getting to his feet and rushing to the end of the bed. “You came back!”

Annoyed, Keral resisted the urge to swat at the fairy. “Oh, back already are we? Where’s that mage ‘a yer’s lass? Don’t suppose he’ll be turnin’ himself in, eh?”

Her voice was frantic and quick and no one could make out what she was saying. She flew away to fly laps around Farris’s head.

“Gods piss on it, girl!” Farris barked. “We can’t understand a word. Slow down.”

The fairy’s golden light took on a red hue as though manifesting her frustration. She flew to the soup pot and slammed the lid back onto the pot and stood on top of it.

“Don’t eat the soup!” she said, breathless.

“Why? What’s wrong with it?” Keral asked, the annoyance turning to anger.

“Poisoned?” Farris asked, his expression matching his brother’s.

“No!” she said. “People! There are people in it!”

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

[luxraydyne]

Renju's Body Painting, Symbolism Breakdown

I’m not lecturing anyone on what to make of this piece, just a couple of nice folks pointed out how much Stuff is going on here, so I figured it’d be interesting to return to this a couple weeks on and see what I can recall of what I was thinking.

Pose: 

Referenced almost exactly from Becquet's sculpture of Sebastian, with the figure tied with ropes to a tree-like stake.

We know that Renju gifted the Guido Reni painting to Marble himself, firmly tying the icon to him.

The story goes that Sebastian was persecuted and ultimately executed by the Romans for his commitment to his Christian faith.

Renju speaks of God once or twice, though it's more likely the symbol is significant to his queer identity, a point he shares with Mama, hence the gift of the painting.

He keeps his devotion to Pewter a secret, a fact which hinders the investigations into his murder, and in a twist of irony, leads to his lover's destruction. He lives more truthfully by divorcing Shoko and finding Pewter, but dies seen as a liar.

Red rope:

The red lines slicing through the frame roughly align with the wounds in Renju's body, standing in for the arrows lodged in the body of Sebastian.

They also form an approximate X or crucifix shape.

The black cables from which Renju's body is suspended in left path are changed to red, suggesting the blood pouring from his face (absent here) as well as the red string of fate myth.

Red thread:

There is also a red thread wrapped around Renju's neck, representing the ligature used to strangle him in left path, again, a morbid take on the red string of fate story.

Strangulation is, moreover, indicative of Renju's silence regarding his trauma, both from being preyed upon by the yakuza as a teenager and from hiding his love for another man from everyone who knew them.

Cloth:

The white sheet draped delicately over Renju's body, maintaining some dignity and acting as a cushion between his back and the stake, is hemmed in the same green as Pewter's lab coat, suggesting the small, subtle comfort their relationship provided.

It also has implications of persona and masking.

Let’s not shy away from the nudity of his body either. There is a definite sexuality to the fleshiness of it all, as well as a stark vulnerability, a sense of exposure.

Hook (top-left):

Taken almost directly from the diorama-like crime scene in left path. There is an artfulness to the horrific display.

The block and tackle setup with the hook and pulley is usually used on boats and sailing ships, fitting the nautical theme of Sunfish Pocket

It also objectifies Renju's corpse, rendering him into cargo

Scales:

Fish scale pattern, painted in gold, suggestive of the wealth, beauty and opulence that were the trappings of Renju's persona.

Alludes to the mermaid motif, adding a certain Otherness to Renju, a sort of unreality which pervades him throughout the story.

The fish caught by boats, of course, are meant to be killed and eaten.

Glasses (top-right):

At both crime scenes, in left and right path, Renju is missing his glasses, leaving his face exposed and bleeding, and presumably impeding his ability to see.

Here the spectacles are cracked and spattered with blood on the left side, alluding to the tearing out of Renju's left eyeball in both timelines.

Watch:

Pretty self-explanatory. The gold watch gifted to Renju by Pewter, matching his silver one.

The time reads 8:00, Renju's time of death in left path, and a crucial piece of evidence.

The watch face is huge, out of proportion with the other paraphernalia from the crime scene, implying the importance of this relationship to Renju, but also the threat it presents, unbeknownst to those investigating.

Oil barrel:

Nothing too complicated going on here, just a reference to the oil barrel into which Renju's corpse is stuffed in order to transport him to Sunfish Pocket where he would be put in display.

There’s possibly something to be said about the dirtiness of the oil barrel, the intended contents somehow dirtying or ‘soiling’ Renju’s body when he is stored in there instead. It’s a stark contrast between the clean white clothes he tended to wear, versus the black oil.

Pills (bottom-left):

In left path, we know Renju was drugged in order to incapacitate him before he was killed. This becomes more ironic the more you think about it.

I did consider including a glass or bottle of alcohol here as well, as a nod toward Renju's use of substances to alleviate his mental strain, but figured this might confuse matters and the implication of the sedatives did the job well enough on their own.

Car headlights (left):

Most obviously representing the car accident that puts Renju in hospital in right path.

Renju's car is also crucial to Shoko's murder and left path.

The headlights have a spotlight-like quality suggesting the harsh gaze aimed at Renju as suspicion is constantly on him.

The lights fade into shadow, however, gesturing toward both the darkness of Kabasaki and the accident in right path.

Blood (bottom-left):

In the absence of much blood on Renju's body here, the splatter pattern, tracking upward, is intended to imply the violent impact of the road accident in right path and the fatal damage inflicted on his body.

Eyes (bottom-left):

Another brutal irony to Renju's character is his transition from observer to the observed, and a victim in both cases. He grows from a kid forced to be the Kumakura's lookout whilst elderly murder victims died in their bathrooms, into the pretty face of a company, constantly looked at and judged by the public eye.

Paradoxically, Renju seeks the public gaze, and hides from it at the same time. He marries a woman he doesn't love to please the eyes, and hides the man he does cherish to please them. Ultimately, his attempt to love Pewter AND protect them both instead destroys them.

In left path, Renju is gawked at like an art fixture (like a painting? a sculpture?). In right path, Pewter is dragged out into the open and stared down in his place. There is no safe place.

Tire tracks (bottom-right):

Nothing fancy. Tire tracks unnaturally crossed to indicate the chaotic traffic accident that wrecks Renju's body in right path.

Road markings:

See above. Road passes straight through Renju's body, suggesting the speed and impact of the truck.

Text (bottom-right):

Lifted directly from in-game dialogue.

Mama catches Date staring at the painting on the wall of Marble, and explains that it was a gift. She seems a little surprised that a) Date hasn't noticed it before, and b) that the symbolism of it is not obvious. Aiba then explains the tale of St. Sebastian and his execution.

Shadow (background):

Behind Renju, there is a shadow of a single wing outstretched, a subtle suggestion of a fallen angel, and bringing us back to the theme of sainthood.

Of course, at the conclusion of the story, we realise that Renju has been long dead by the time his corpse is found in either timeline, his consciousness trapped in Shoko's body strung up on the merry-go-round, so you could argue that much of the imagery doesn't fit. Still, my focus here was on Renju's body as an object, as part of his identity which is taken from him, and as a parallel to Sebastian's body.

[hitsuackerman]

Unpredictable (Overhaul x Reader) pt.4

a/n: I love Gei here xD do ya’ll love Gei? I hope you guys love his extra ass <3

warnings: this cannot be read solo, cursing(?), subtle flirting

Links: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 5

Masterlist to my other fics: here :)

Overhaul’s waiting list: @jjk-biased​ @infinite-universe-love​

Taking your planner from your bag, you jotted down a reminder to dig up some old case files regarding the 3 villains Tsukauchi had just mentioned. Everything seemed clearer now as to why Overhaul managed to snag an invite. He was one of them no matter what his ideals were.

Forking the last bit of cheesecake, you stuffed your planner back into your bag and exited the shop. Scanning the area for any black cars, you were relieved that no one had been tailing you. There was a rising suspicion that Overhaul stalked you but perhaps it was simply chance. You couldn’t blame him though, you were usually buried under stacks of documents at this time of day.

Walking towards your first stop, you had to interview a witness by the convenience store. One of the cases you were working on involved arson. At first glance, you ruled it out to be some villain’s nasty prank. The more you dived into the case, you realized this was organized.

“So you recall seeing a person with black hair across the street?” You questioned the cashier while eyeing some chocolate bars. “Do you remember what he wore or an estimate of his height?”

“I can’t really picture his height but I do remember him wearing  a dark blue jacket with a high collar.” Peering at the glass doors, the witness tried to think back on the events that had happened. It had been a week since the incident but the fear was still there. “He just stared at the store for a couple of minutes, I remember. After that, he turned to that corner over there. Moments later, the explosion happened.”

“Hmm…” You mentally took down notes. Nothing much to take from that statement. “Well, thank you for your time and if you see something please don’t hesitate to call.”

Handing him your business card, you exited the store and crossed the street. Heading towards the corner mentioned, you scanned for any possible belongings left behind or a tell tale sign the initial investigators failed to see. Nope. Empty-handed.

Making your way back to the precinct, you felt a vibration in your pocket. Taking your phone out, you stopped walking and you blinked yourself back to reality.

You: Thanks for the cheesecake. Not gonna work.

Overhaul(?): Bold of you to assume I was after something.

Would it be logical to reply to his message? Moving aside to let people walk, your thumb tapped the locked screen. Generally speaking, there would be nothing wrong if you answered back. Communication was key, afterall. And, to top it off, he was basically your partner for this mission. Maybe some playful banter here and there wouldn’t hurt. That’s all you’ve been doing, anyway.

Chewing on your lower lip, you scowled and put your phone back into your pocket. Tsukauchi was right. His charm was strong. Either that or you're just paranoid of being kidnapped by one of the strongest men in the yakuza. Yet, a part of you wanted to know if he was waiting for your response. Probably not. Facing your gray cubicle once again, you rummaged through the metal file bin and pulled out a rather thick manila envelope. Closing the drawer with your foot, you tossed the envelope to your desk and began to search for what you needed.

The first document you found was of Nokusu. Looking at his quirk information, you took into account his ability to bend and manipulate shadows. The small footnote indicated that light played no weakness to his quirk. He wasn’t that up there in terms of ranking but he knew his cards well enough.

Setting it aside, the next file you picked up was of Tamisura. Ahh. You remember her all too well. Still an intern at the time, it was still clear as day the way the chief of police came with a rather huge gash on his chest. Healing him took 4 days and the only thing he mentioned was a name. Tamisura.

There was no detail about her quirk. Flipping a few more pages, the chief’s statement was all you had.

‘It seems as if her quirk gives her momentum. Stopping her movements was impossible.’ That’s what it stated. With the number of quirks present, it was a little too vague for your liking. Oh well. You had an idea and you could pull some straws with that. Stacking it on top of Nokosu’s file, you found the last of the three.

Akuji. Holder of one the most annoying quirks to deal with. Telepathy. Everyone is an open book when it comes to his mind.

Ransacking the files, you let out a loud and long groan. To your amazing luck, their profiles all had masks covering their faces. No stranger to this turn of events, you thought about contacting your confidants about possible information regarding these people but even you didn’t want to risk their safety. Villain or not. It became a habit of yours to make sure the favors you ask for are worth it.

Resting your chin on your palm, you reached for your phone and unlocked it. The first thing you see was the exchange you and birdman had. Checking at Tsukauchi’s desk, you found him hunched and busy encoding his cases. Eyes back on the screen, you decided to send a little message.

You: Busy?

Overhaul(?): Are you after something now?

You: I hate you. But, yes.

Overhaul(?): No.

What were you even expecting? Amused with the little exchange, you stretched your joints and packed your stuff. The profiles of the three villains now tucked into your bag. With only 15 minutes left before your shift ends, you took the liberty of scrolling the internet for dresses. Told to dress appropriately for the gala, you would have to comply.

There was no theme indicated but you were sure to go there with a black ensemble. That color was the safest and it was also the easiest to pick from. Getting a faint picture as to what you wanted to buy, you peaked at the wall clock and immediately turned your desktop off.

"Before you leave," Tsukauchi piped up. Peaking at you from his cubicle. "Chief wants to talk to you."

Nodding at his message you went up the stairs and hummed towards the chief's office. He'd probably want updates. He always did have a knack for annoying you. The mission barely started and he's already pinning you to the corner. Knocking on his door, you heard the permission to enter.

Now seated on the guest sofa, you gave him a respectful bow. As did he. Telling you to sit down, you obeyed.

"I request a little update of the mission." He began. The not so subtle exhale from your nostril only proved how obvious he could be at times. "How's working with Overhaul?"

"The status of the mission only has one movement. The upcoming gala has a few villains joining as well." You reported. "I'm not so familiar with how the yakuza works in big events like this, though. So, I took...no. I decided to join the event with him as my plus one."

"Smart choice." He nodded at the developments. "Has he taken his mask off?"

Snickering at the question, you shook your head.

"Take that as a side quest of yours." He instructed. "We need an update on his profile. We're still empty as to what he looks like without that mask. Gain his trust. Just enough for him to show you his face."

Great. Your personal mission just evolved into official business. Accepting the task, you pushed it aside and would rather let things take its course naturally. Overhaul was something else and there was no way you would rush things. Especially if it meant him showing something personal. You were keeping your word. One purpose and one purpose only.

Conveying what he needed to, he dismissed you and you were more than excited to get the hell out of his suffocating office.

Take out. That's what you needed to unwind.

Now that you were walking down the street, establishments began to light up the path. Neon signs heavily contrasting the orange and pink skies. With the mall coming to view, you decided now would be a good time to look for an outfit. And, mostly because shopping calmed your nerves each time you had the talk with the chief.

The air condition was heaven. Heading to the area where dresses were sold, you went inside the first store you saw.

The dresses were nice but came with a high price. Though thanks to your dad, your shopping needs were never a problem. Keeping yourself glued to the ground was always simple. With the job you had, the temptation of impulsive buying always flushed down the drain. Instead, the money put under your name went into aiding your missions and a few under the table deals here and there.

Seeing a dress you liked, you decided to try it on.

Inside the plush fitting room, you stared at your reflection. This brand always did good at flaunting the curves you had. The amount of running and training you did paid off. The dress was backless save for a small but secure bow resting on your nape. The lace mesh wrapped your arms delicately and the bead work was intricate. He would like this.

"Whot?" You thought out loud. Scratching your nape, your vision trailed towards  your face in the reflection. Your cheeks were a little pink and once again your heart rate was a little quicker than normal. “Lack of sleep. Caffeine overdose. Yes.”

Deciding to buy the said dress, you were accompanied to the counter by the clerk. As they were preparing the box and paper bag, you scanned a few trinkets inside locked glass boxes. Most of them jewelry for women and studs for men. They did look nice but you weren’t a big fan of diamonds.

One did capture your attention. Moving closer to it, you saw a shiny gold pair of cufflinks. Upon closer inspection, you saw how the small jewelry had what looked to be a crow. It was small but distinguishable if you knew your birds. Checking the tag, it wasn’t all that expensive. Y20,000.

Okay, maybe it was a little expensive but it looked hella worth it.

“Here’s your dress, miss~” The clerk snapped you out of your thoughts. The smile she used on all customers showing on her face. Her cherry red lips popped due to her pale skin. Accepting the bag, you glanced one more time at the tiny trinket. She seemed to catch up quickly. “Those are limited edition Bivenchy cufflinks. Would you like to see them?”

“Uh, w-” You let out a defeated sigh and agreed to look at the cufflinks.

An hour later, you were now back in the comfort of your apartment. The big paper bag with your dress now laid flat on your coffee table. Beside it, a smaller box with the brand’s name displayed in the center. Sending death glares to the impulsively bought item, you took out the contents and flopped onto your sofa.

Flipping the lid open, inside were the same cufflinks. They seemed to shine even more with the lights your unit had. Cursing yourself, you hadn’t put into consideration that a guy like Overhaul would probably have this item already. Or, something even more expensive knowing him. Closing the box, you placed it on the table and did what you had to do for the rest of the night.

Now that you were ready for bed, you scrolled down to Gei’s contact and called him.

“Hellooo my sweet quiet friend.” He greeted. The faint sound of television could be heard in the background. “What can I do for thee?”

“Hair and make up in two days, is that alright?” You asked shyly. When it came to underground thugs or villains, you were hella confident in asking for favors or settling deals. But when it came to Gei, you were like a child in her first day of school.

“Wanna look good for yo man, I presume?” He teased. For sure, his right eyebrow was cocked high by now.

“I wanna look good for the people in the gala.” You defended yourself. Twirling a few strands of your hair, you let out a yawn. “And, I don’t trust myself with makeup.”

“What time will he be pickin you up, booboo?”

“6. So, you can drop in at 4.”

“Copy on that.” He agreed. “OH OH OH. Did you buy a dress? Please tell me you’re not wearing that monstrous thing from 2 years ago. Honey, that color made me want to puke.”

Cringing at the memory of that vile yellow and purple dress, you THOUGHT you looked good in.

“I went shopping. Don’t worry.”

“What brand?”

“Auscer de la Venta…”

“YAS BEECH! WIG SUH-NATCHED!” He screeched through the line. “I swear to Queen Todrick, if his jaw ain’t gonn drop, imma whoop. His. Ass. even if it kills me. Oooh~ You think he’ll take his mask off?”

“Probably not. I doubt he’d even eat anything at the gala.” There it was again. The second person to wonder about what he was hiding underneath. There was the idea that he hid his face so he could get away if things didn’t turn out. But you recalled his explanation that he hates the air around him. “He hates dust so taking the mask off would probably be the last thing he would ever do.”

“Oh my lords.” Gei breathed out. “If he disappears when the food comes, I bet my money he’ll be eating in the men’s toilet.”

Okay. That made you laugh. Hopefully, you wouldn’t picture that scenario when he comes pick you up.

Gossiping for a few more minutes, your energy levels were now gone. Saying farewell to your friend, the moment you closed your eyes, you immediately fell asleep.

- - - - -

are yall enjoying the story so far? :’) comment or message me if you want to be a part of Overhaul’s waiting list or any questions about the story :)

[rightsockjin]

Meet Cute

Summary: Jimin is at a wedding alone. This doesn’t bother him. He’s got the best friends he could ask for, a booming career and a family. He was set. But as one of his best friends danced with his new wife, Jimin couldn’t help but wish he had someone special too. That’s where you come in with a mouth full of sass.

Warnings: A little angsty.

Length:1,591

Rating: K

~Admin OperaNickle

It was beautiful. The bridesmaids were dressed in maroon and the groom’s men in dark navy blue. Accents of gold littered the large room that the bride and groom had rented out and bundles of Buckeye Bells, Earl Grey roses and Baby’s Breath sat at the center of each table on top of beautiful crème colored table cloths. Around the circumference were elegant gold plates with delicate creme china on top, rimed with a fine gold line. Goblets of crystalline glass that reflected the golden light from the lanterns that hung from every corner stood at attention in different states of fullness with varying liquids.

       Jimin’s was empty once again after he’d refilled his glass with wine from the open bar, this being the third time that night and that was before the bride and groom had even made their entrance as newlyweds at the event place. Jimin knew he should probably slow down. If the looks that his friends were giving him were any indication, he really should stop, but he was the only one at this damned party alone in his whole friend group so screw their judgment.

       That’s right. Taehyung, Yoongi, Jin, Hoseok, Namjoon (who’s wedding he was currently attending-plot twist! Jungkook was right. Namjoon was the first to marry) and Jungkook were present alongside a partner. It was only him, Jimin, that was somehow still single. Somehow still alone. Somehow going stag.

       Was he bothered by it, one might ask. No. Of course not. He was Park Jimin. International super star. Millionaire. Dancer, singer. He was coveted by many a lady and many a man. He had his pick of whomever he wanted. At least…that’s what he would say, and has said on the multiple occasions that he’s been asked by his friends, parents, and fans about his relationship status. He’d say he was in no hurry. He had a full life ahead of him and he always had his original soul mate-Tae.

What else could he possibly want?

       In reality, it did bother Jimin to some extent. He couldn’t help but wonder if there was something he was missing. Something he wasn’t understanding about love and relationships the way that his peers did. But he never let himself dwell on it. Instead, he focused on being happy for his friends and bettering himself in every way he thought possible. The problem was that he had been doing that for so long that it was getting boring.

       When was it his time?

       The chatter in the room suddenly subsided. The laughter of happy family members who were fortunate enough to be invited to this wedding (because N/W/N had insisted on having a Korean wedding and a wedding of her own culture and the Korean wedding had happened in Korea) were shushed as the lights dimmed. It was replaced by the excited mumbles of friends. The rumble of what he assumed was music was building subtly in the background. He could feel it in his chest and a gargle of butterflies clambered around his stomach.

       He was happy for his hyungnim. Not to mention that he genuinely liked Namjoon’s girlfriend-now wife. It wasn’t a surprise to him or to any of the Bangtan members, who were sitting all at the same table,their girlfriends and fiancee’s sitting next to them, to see that tears had sprung to his eyes. It was expected in fact.

       The DJ held a mic up to his lip and asked for a round of applause in English for the newlywed couple. Then the doors opened and just like in the ceremony before, it was like the room lit up with the happiness that radiated from Namjoon and N/W/N. She looked beautiful in a nature themed dress that made her look like she was wrapped in flowers and vines. Her hair tumbled down her bare back -- he’d relieved it of the messy bun she’d had earlier. Her bouquet of flowers was held tightly in her left hand. The roses made from books and letters that were important to the couple caught his eyes once again. She was a creative one, that N/W/N. Her other hand was held firmly in the enormous hand of his leader. He could only see a third of Namjoon’s wife’s fingers but he could clearly see  the wedding band on Namjoon’s. Something he knew Namjoon would probably never, for the rest of his life, take off.

       Namjoon looked handsome as well, Jimin thought, checking out his friend. N/W/N had drawn the line at him wearing a white suit because she deemed it to be tacky, which Jimin completely disagreed with, but now that he saw the tux that he had eventually settled on, he had to admit that he looked striking. His maroon tie was gone, leaving his creme, flower embroidered, button up free. The collar stood tall against his neck and a button undone. His navy suit jacket was closed tightly, a thick belt of fabric sat low on his hips accentuating his wide shoulders. As Jimin looked down, he noticed that Namjoon’s Italian dress shoes were replaced with what looked like maroon high-tops. If he wasn’t mistaken, N/W/N had them on under her dress as well.

       Tears streamed down Jimin’s cheeks as one of their old songs blasted through the venue. Jimin knew that it was leading up to their first dance and tried to force the tears to stop. He and Hoseok had worked way too hard on the choreography for him to miss the execution.

       It was difficult, and while N/W/N wasn’t a professional performer like him and his group, she had kept up with Namjoon and he had hopes that it would go well. In the end he was worried for no reason. The first dance went off without a hitch, switching from multiple fast paced songs and ultimately ending in a slow fox trot. It was then that couples began to join the newlyweds. Hoseok was the first to get up with his girlfriend who smiled from ear to ear. They both loved to dance and Jimin wouldn’t be surprised If they had practiced just for this. Next was Yoongi and his fiancee. It was his Fiancee that had gently pulled at his suit and Yoongi, being the true softy he was, stood up and let her lead him onto the dance floor. Slowly, the couples trickled off until Jimin sat alone. He sighed and slumped in his chair.

       He had half a mind to ask someone, anyone to dance. Just for this song. Jimin wasn’t shy but as he watched the people swaying on the dance floor and caught a glimpse of Namjoon and his wife, it didn’t feel right.

       He grabbed his empty cup and sipped on the small puddle of wine that had stayed behind , tilting it up to his plush lips. There was a subtle buzz in his body. The alcohol tasted familiar and comforting. Just as he was about to stand up to get another glass full, he felt a pair of eyes trained on him.

       Carefully, he put his glass down and glanced around at the empty tables. It took him all of three seconds to connect eyes with a girl two tables away. She was wearing a stunning light blue dress and her hair was pulled up and away from her face in an elegant twist. In the darkness of the room, Jimin couldn’t see her very well but there was a soft beauty to her being that seemed to draw him in. He realized quite quickly that she seemed pretty sad as she looked between him, her table and the dance floor. She seemed to be in the same situation as him.

       Maybe it was the wedding or maybe It was the fact that he was well on his way to tipsy, but Jimin decided he’d ask her to dance. It was just one dance right?

       He stood abruptly and determinedly walked over to the single woman. On her part, she watched him with a mixture of what looked like fear and surprise. Jimin smiled at her, trying to ease her worry. She returned it in a much smaller scale but Jimin considered that a win.

       Finally, he was before her, looking down as she stared up at him. She had bright eyes and long lashes. There was a soft rouging on the apples of her cheeks and a sparkle on her nose.

       Jimin was momentarily taken aback. It might have been a good thirty seconds before he realized he was rudely staring. He cleared his throat and carefully leaned in. The woman didn’t move, instead she leaned in so Jimin didn’t have to yell over the music which had now shifted to another slow dance.

       “I couldn’t help but notice that you’re alone,” he started then quickly continued, “I was wondering if you wanted to dance?”

       The woman blinked up at him, looking him up and down a couple of times. Sizing him up. Jimin felt a bead of sweat form on his temple. Something about her made him feel nervous. Like it didn’t matter that he was Park Jimin. It didn’t matter that he was world famous, or that he had money. Jimin felt small in a way that he hadn’t in years. Like he’d been in the cosmos for a long time and he’d finally touch down on earth once again. Gravity pulling him down. He was small. One person. Just him.

       “That depends,” she answered, crossing her arms, “are you going to step on my toes?”

[aboutanancientenquiry]

On Herodotus and Thucydides

The following very informative text is the review by Dr. Vasiliki Zali (https://bmcr.brynmawr.edu/2013/2013.07.18/) of an important collective work on the two great Greek historians ( Edith Foster, Donald Lateiner (ed.), Thucydides and Herodotus. Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, 2012). It shows very well that the dominant view in contemporary scholarship is to see both Herodotus and Thucydides as the founders of the Western tradition of historiography.

“Hardly any justification is needed for the topic of this book. The relationship between Thucydides and Herodotus, the founding fathers of Western history, has always fuelled heated debates between scholars. It is still one of the most contested historiographical subjects and has become increasingly fashionable in the past few decades, which have seen the tables turned with the rehabilitation of Herodotus. This volume is the first book that targets specifically the interaction between the two historians.

The ‘Introduction’ furnishes a succinct review of the scholarly discussions on the relation between Thucydides and Herodotus and their reception in ancient and modern times, complemented with useful bibliography. It also sets out the purpose of the book ‘to make us better readers of both historians’, a task which ‘requires re-examination of Homer’s influence on historical narratives’ (p. 6). Finally, it outlines the essence of the various chapters.

The book is divided into three parts: ‘Part I: Methods of Reasoning’; ‘Part II: Common Themes’; ‘Part III: Reception’. Part I starts with Rutherford, who looks at structural techniques (scenic sequences, progressive iteration, ironic reversal) which are used by Herodotus and Thucydides (especially in his Sicilian narrative), and are borrowed from Homer. The paper affords an appealing opening to the volume, in particular as its first section provides a neat discussion of the relation between historiography and epic, and concludes that Herodotus and Thucydides are both historians and artists.

Stadter is concerned with Thucydides as a ‘reader’ of Herodotus and contends that, despite their differences, Thucydides admires Herodotus, knows his work, and perfects or rectifies some of his methods and claims. Thucydides is seen to reply to Herodotus in his handling of chronology and Herodotean events (Thermopylae and Plataea), in the opening of his history and in its first extended narrative on Corcyra. In the subsection about Corcyra, an interesting and delicate comparison of Thucydides’ Kerkyraika and Herodotus’ Croesus logos indicates a shared interest in foresight, historical action and the human situation.

The underexplored topic of the use, form and function of indirect discourse in Herodotus and Thucydides is next discussed by Scardino. This thought-provoking piece reveals a great variety of usages of indirect discourse (e.g. featuring in authorial introductory and closing formulae; introducing exchanges in direct discourse; reporting speeches on less important themes) and reinforces the case for rhetorical elaboration in Herodotus as well as bringing out similarities, and some subtle differences, in the historians’ employment of indirect speech. Scardino observes that the same standards of reliability apply to both direct and indirect speeches. Indirect discourse, very much like direct discourse, is equally subject to rhetorical elaboration and makes use of similar argumentative motifs. In the use of these two kinds of discourse there are both divergences (direct discourse: important material at crucial dramatic moments; indirect discourse: less intense emotional moments, synopsis and repetition of argumentation) and, most importantly, correspondences (dramatization, characterization, commentary on events). Hence, ‘one can consider both types of speech as functionally equal exegetical tools in historical representation’ (p. 94).

Rubincam argues for a link between Herodotus’ and Thucydides’ use of numbers and their respective authorial personae. Herodotus’ propensity to present different versions of stories and often conjecture on their reliability explains his fondness for providing impressive numbers and exhibiting his calculations. Thucydides, on the other hand, as he filters all the material he has collected and provides us with what he thinks is the most reliable information, presents us with ‘a deliberate policy decision to report as much numerical information as he had been able to obtain from his informants, even if its usefulness was limited by incompleteness’, and he does not ‘build beyond this by extrapolation’ (pp. 107-8). Three appendices usefully explicate and corroborate the argument. Numbers interestingly emerge as a narrative device which is part and parcel of an individual historiographical style and dependent on the situations, interests, abilities, temperaments and ideologies of each individual historian.

Stahl’s chapter on blind decisions that precede military deeds in Herodotus and Thucydides opens up Part II. Referring to two examples, Athens’ decision to invade Sicily in Thucydides and Xerxes’ decision to invade Greece in Herodotus, Stahl highlights the narrative emphasis on the blindness of the decision which brings about disaster in both cases, and detects even more specific common motifs: greed as primary motive for blind decision-making; futility of appeals to reason and established facts; neglect of sensible advice; yielding to supernatural guidance; measuring plans and warnings by their factual outcome; juxtaposing initial confidence/strength with eventual distress/weakness. In their treatment of most of these themes and the last one in particular, the historians recall Homer and, chiefly, his depiction of Agamemnon.

Lateiner discusses the use of oaths in Herodotus and Thucydides. Despite differences in their kinds and frequency, oaths are equally ineffective in both works as they all too often become liable to manipulation and are broken. That oath breaking causes retribution in Herodotus but not in Thucydides is a consequence of the different themes they narrate: ‘the former, a conflict sustained for ethnic deliberation against an alien culture; the latter, a bipolar, self-destructive rivalry for rank and hegemony fuelled by imperial greed’ (p. 181). Manipulation of oaths and their unpunished violation in Thucydides convey the disintegration of values in the context of the Peloponnesian War.

Foster argues that Thucydides uses Herodotus’ Thermopylae narrative as a pattern for his Pylos narrative, and she also considers Homer’s influence on both historians. In juxtaposing Herodotus’ narrative with the Iliad, Foster notices both similarities (e.g. Persian/Trojan disorder vs. Greek order in fighting, verbs of action) and innovation (Herodotus’ emphasis on explaining events). The historians’ battle narratives bear resemblances in terms of structure of action and explanation, but Thucydides’ narrative is also significantly different as it features Homeric descriptions of human psychology and the battlefield experience, and focuses on reversals of the roles and fortunes of the Spartans and Athenians. Thucydides deliberately links his narrative with Herodotus’ to underline the difference between the two wars. Particularly intriguing is Foster’s comment on political commentary underlying Herodotus’ Thermopylae narrative: ‘Herodotus’ politically charged descriptions of the final Spartan action aim to create hostility to the Persian leadership, sympathy for their doomed conscripts, and admiration for Spartan heroism’ (p. 200).

Blösel explores Thucydides’ narrative on Themistocles, whose portrayal should be juxtaposed with Themistocles’ complex depiction in Herodotus. The Thucydidean Themistocles is as patriotic as the Herodotean one. What differs though is the side Themistocles works for. In Herodotus he serves the interests of Athens and of all Greece. In Thucydides he cares for Athens only and helps develop its future empire. This attitude results in him being at odds with Sparta and the rest of the Peloponnese and therefore looks forward to Pericles’ similar attitude.

Munson sees Thucydides’ stance towards the Persians as a reaction to Herodotus’ depiction of his Persians. Thucydides is only concerned with Persians and non-Greeks to the extent that they have dealings with the Greeks. He focuses instead on the ethnic character of the Athenians and Spartans that caused the war. The Persian Wars feature in the political discourse of the Peloponnesian War but commonly are an ineffectual argument. The narrative of the Sicilian Expedition has parallels with Xerxes’ expedition against Greece and they both share an emphasis on the moral element with the punishment of hubris in each case. After Athens’ defeat in Sicily, Persia takes centre stage and decisively affects the outcome of the Peloponnesian War. But this Persia is not Herodotus’ great empire, under the complete control of the Great King. ‘It is rather the peripheral space of its most western provinces, where the king is present only as a removed authority (or potential constraint) in documents and diplomatic discourse…For the narrator Thucydides, the Persian satraps are simply pragmatic executives, careful with their investments…and eager to recuperate the revenues…from the cities in their provinces’ (p. 261).

A trio of chapters on the ancient Greek and Roman reception of the two historians rounds off the volume. Pelling examines the relationship between fourth-century rhetorical handbooks, the Rhetorica ad Alexandrum and Aristotle’s Rhetoric, and Herodotus and Thucydides. After carefully setting out his caveats and pointing out methodological problems (i.e. sparsity of rhetorical material pre-dating Herodotus and Thucydides, source of influence), Pelling detects similarities in pleas for alliances in the Rhetorica ad Alexandrum, Herodotus and Thucydides – with variations depending on the circumstances – and suggests that the Rhetorica ad Alexandrum reflects fifth- century expectations. A combination of the expedient with the just in symbouleutic oratory, recommended by Aristotle for the success of speeches of this kind, can be traced in both historians (notably in Thucydides the references to moral considerations are reduced as the war progresses). ‘The difference may be that the unpersuasiveness of such [i.e. moral] arguments is often felt in Thucydides, while in Herodotus the speakers may seem to be getting it right. It is less clear that they are always getting it right because those arguments are moral’ (p. 302).

Baragwanath tackles the influence of Herodotus and Thucydides on Xenophon’s Hellenica. Her discussion contributes to raising Xenophon’s stock as a historian and his Hellenica as a work of history. Xenophon’s combination of Herodotean and Thucydidean elements helps him increase his authority and define the nature of his work. Alongside continuity there is difference and originality, seen, for example, in a new definition of greatness. For Xenophon what is worthy of narration ( axion) is not necessarily linked to power as in Herodotus and Thucydides, but is primarily an ethical accomplishment, and it further includes an individual’s character and leadership qualities. Two specific examples, the speeches of Procles of Phlius ( Hell. 6.5.38-48; 7.1.2-11), showcase a comparable merging of Herodotean and Thucydidean features. In both speeches the expedient is combined with the ethical, and the latter is represented by the friendship, and consequently the joined leadership, of Athens and Sparta. ‘With its ethical focus, Procles’ idealizing Herodotean/Solonian/Socratic vision, which stands in tension with the profound sense of the absence of progress that is generated by the way Hellenica both starts and ends with Thucydides, proposes a way through the impasse’ (p. 340).

Samotta’s chapter provides an overview of the impact of Herodotus and Thucydides on Roman republican historiography (third to first centuries). The histories of Herodotus and Thucydides – either through the works of the Western Greek historians or through copies in Rome acquired as spoils of war –considerably influenced the Roman historians. The Roman historians used both these classical models, adapted them and departed from them to enhance their authority and indicate the superior nature of their work. The process of reception was greatly affected by the political and historical context in the different phases of Roman historiography. In the first century B.C., a time of major literary production, as a consequence of the rise of Atticism and in a context where ‘the Romans could identify themselves deeply with the Thucydidean issues of exercising power while trying to uphold civic morality’ (p. 372), the Roman historians showed particular fondness for Thucydides.

This volume comprises a selection of significant contributions not only to the growing scholarship on the subject but also to the survey of the narrative techniques of each historian and to the reappreciation of Herodotus’ literary artistry. A wealth of topics is covered and the book offers important underpinnings for further, in-depth research. Every chapter has its own, unique merits, but some especially stimulating and acute observations are in the section on reception. Among these chapters, Scardino’s work provides valuable insights for further research into the reasons that determine the historians’ choice for indirect discourse, while Pelling’s study gives a significant boost to Herodotean rhetoric and encourages new research pathways with the attention it pays to Herodotus’ impact on early rhetorical developments. There are only a few negligible typos and the editors have done a commendable job.

The only cavil is that not all chapters fit as comfortably with the rubrics of the different parts of the book – and this is a common problem with collective volumes. Some explanation, in the introduction to the volume, to account for the division of the book into these three parts and embed each chapter within the context of its respective section, would have been helpful and desirable. Alternatively, a conclusion by the editors could have nicely pulled together the impressively varied material dealt with in the disparate chapters, and hence increased the coherence of the volume.”

[nevergiveupneverrun]

Bodyguard - Chapter Sixty-Three “Back to reality”

Hello, how are you? Here is chapter Sixty-Three of my Story Bodyguard, yay!! I hope you will like this chapter.

I’m sorry in advance for the mistakes… English isn’t my first language and I do my best. Here is the link to the previous chapter: Click Here.

I hope you will enjoy this chapter :) 💛

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- Do you want another coffee?

- I have already taken two, it will be fine, thank you. But maybe you, you need it?

I look down, uncomfortable, at his remark and his insinuation, barely concealed.

We have been seated, for several minutes, in the restaurant room of the hotel where clients are busy having breakfast. Minutes that seem like an eternity, so uncomfortable is the situation.

- Reassure me, won’t you let me do the talking to myself?

- I did not expect your coming… I answer, looking up.

- I understood well, indeed… he resumes with a smile.

- Listen, it’s not what you think… I tried awkwardly to justify myself.

- What do I think? You have nothing to explain to me.

- I don’t want you to have bad ideas.

He laughs briefly at my words, before speaking again.

- You know, I’m reassured, I would have been quite disappointed that you were both stubborn enough not to see the truth in the face.

- The truth?

- I don’t think I’m teaching you anything, if I tell you, that it’s not just a simple professional relationship that binds you, Amelia, and you…

- It was only one night… we both know it was one of our last moments together… nothing more… I finished softly and weakly.

- But you made the most of these few hours… it’s not like you to be still asleep at 11 am. She obviously kept you busy…

I look down again in a few minutes of intervals, embarrassed and turning red.

The images of the night enter my mind and amplify my confusion.

~~

Earlier - 5 a.m.

~~

A caress.

A mouth running into my heart.

Fingers that draw me conscientiously.

Lost halfway between sleeping and waking up, pleasant sensations gently bring me back to reality.

- Amelia? I ask in a passive voice marked by sleep.

- Congrats, Mr. Hunt, you did not get the wrong name… I hear near me, in a mocking voice.

- How do you want me to be wrong? You are the only woman who has occupied me full time for 6 months, I replied already more awake, but still keeping my eyes closed.

I feel two hands resting on my chest and leaning on me, while the whole expanse of a body hugs mine.

- The day… but am I also occupying your dreams? 

I finally open my eyes, surprised to discover a room still bathed in semi-darkness… but my attention quickly fixes on the face leaning over mine.

The image of this woman who haunts my thoughts and who broke the barriers of my heart.

- You obviously occupy my nights, it seems, I answer, extending my hand to touch her cheek.

- Precisely, the day has not yet risen, she begins shyly.

- So what? I ask, my eyes fixed on my hand strolling her skin.

I perceive her eyes closing under my gesture.

Her reaction fascinates me and fills my body with intense and lively heat.

Silence settles for a few seconds. I finally detach my hand and her eyes open immediately and dive into mine: a hypnotizing glow illuminates her pupils.

I have the impression of falling into this gaze which observes me so tenderly.

- The night is not over… we are still simply Owen and Amelia, she whispers.

I close my eyes for a few seconds, while my hands find her waist and position her above me.

- I’m not sure I understand, I resume in an innocent tone, finding her image.

Amelia’s hands slowly move up against my chest and finally settle on my shoulders. 

- You know very well what I mean… but you can also just admit that you are tired and that you need to rest… she whispers in my ear.

- I need a lot more to get tired, you know, I replied with a smile, thus fixing her on top of me.

- Really?

- Yes, I say. I am very enduring… and in everything I do… I end in a mysterious whisper.

- Men and their promises, Amelia replies, with undisguised teasing.

I get up at this moment, keeping her in my arms and repositioning ourselves to sit on the bed, as Amelia’s knees now encircle my waist.

We observe each other for a few seconds and the atmosphere changes radically: the fun gives way to an electrical tension between us.

I draw her face with my eyes, inscribing in my memory every detail, every line, every element that makes her so unique to me.

- Why are you looking at me like that? She whispers suddenly interrupting me in my contemplation.

- Like what?

- You look at me like… it’s the same look I saw when…

Her sentence is extinguished in a whisper without her completely revealing her thoughts to me.

- No man has looked at me like that… she finally resumes slightly.

- I never take my eyes off you, you know…

- Yes, that’s part of your old reflexes, she retorts with a smile.

- No, I never take my eyes off you, I repeat, insisting on each word.

Her gaze opens a little more following my answer.

Then I make out, captivated, a weak smile on her lips.

The glow in her eyes takes on a softer shade and shines brightly.

Wet reflections slip in, like emerging tears.

Her hands placed on my shoulders, go up in a caress, and rest delicately on my face.

- You are so mysterious, Mister Hunt. And just… irresistible… she whispers.

Her face gradually approaches mine, and she kisses me with infinite softness and tenderness. As no woman has kissed me until then.

Her head leans towards my ear, to slip me a few words that electrify my whole body.

- I want you even more now…

She takes a step back and I find her image: her simple words activated a familiar tension throughout my being and I feel the first signs of my growing male reactions.

While my heartbeat quickens…

- That’s a real problem, I don’t know if we’ll be able to find a solution…

My hands run over her back gently.

My lips quickly claim the contact of her skin: my mouth disappears into her neck, kissing her on a specific, particularly sensitive point as she instantly moans.

Amelia’s pelvis immediately starts sensual friction against me, which ends up arousing my desire for her, to an almost painful point.

- I think you can help me precisely… she indicates between two sighs.

My lips leave the refuge of her neck and hurriedly find her mouth.

The sensation of Amelia’s movements against me releases a passion that spreads over our kisses. A disorderly fight settles between us: by our caresses, our kisses, our sighs which rise always stronger…

My hips start to move imperceptibly in turn and naturally synchronize with those of Amelia.

My body is vibrating for one thing right now.

For her.

Only for her.

To be as one with her.

- O’… now…

Her almost pleading request breaks the melody of our jerky breaths and sighs.

I was only waiting for that… that she claims this connection, that she authorizes me to seal our two bodies in one.

I perceive her pelvis position against me. And gradually a heat envelops the most intimate part of my body. And as always with this woman who is definitively special to me, this unsettling and strange feeling resonates… the one that my body and hers are two parts of the same whole. Because there merge and fit closely just perfectly.

She remains motionless for a few seconds, sitting on top of me, our two intimately connected bodies, our deep and rapid breaths as a sound theme around us.

Then a back and forth first subtle more and more intense animates Amelia’s hip.

I quickly lose myself in the sensations.

I put my head into her neck, feeling her breathing and her moans intensify above me. My lips run aground on her skin to muffle my own sighs.

- Owen…

My name escapes her in a vibrant mixture bordering on pleading and screaming.

I had never heard my first name pronounced like this by anyone… with such a powerful erotic dimension… a mark of complete abandonment in the instant.

Her movements against me accelerate, revealing to me that she loses a little more control and I fall with her in the spiral of this pleasure so strong…

A few more back and forth and a deeper moan escapes Amelia’s lips to which I respond in turn.

It only takes a few seconds for us to catch our breath.

I take my face off her neck and look back at her face.

Her hands are firmly behind my neck.

Her eyes are closed.

Her magnificent and radiant face.

I smile as I contemplate her, moving my hands back and forth on her back before kissing her quickly.

I see a smile growing on her lips in the middle of our embrace.

My heart races a little more and I tip her against the bed, freeing my lips from hers. I quickly put my face back into her neck, to kiss her on this famous point that makes her vibrate more than any other.

I hear her laughter rise in the room at my eagerness and quickly pull back to observe her.

- Don’t you want to sleep now? She asks me while calming her laughter.

- Not really anymore, no… it’s my turn, I answer, covering her body perfectly with mine and shifting strands of hair that fell in front of her eyes.

- Your turn for what? 

I smile mischievously, then place my lips in the hollow of her ear, tilting my face.

- I remind you that you woke me up to take advantage of me…

- Precisely, are you not tired? She retorts, the breath already faster.

I lift my face to look at her: I express my gaze over her, full length, while my body is already waking up in parallel.

- Maybe in four hours… I whisper kissing delicately her breast.

Her laughter echoes again and vibrates under my lips…

~~

- Owen? Hey, Owen, are you here with me?

A frank and supported question rises in front of me and brings me back to the present moment.

- Yes, excuse me, I answer, refocusing my attention on the man sitting in front of me.

- You seemed to be lost in your thoughts for a few seconds… so as I told you, this is the accessory you were waiting for… he indicates, indicating with his hand, a rectangular box of a mat black.

- You didn’t have to come in person to bring it to me, Nathan… I thought a courier should play this role.

- Absolutely, but I did not inform you of the identity of this courier, he continues with a smile. Open and tell me if it matches.

I slide the object on the table to place it right in front of me, then gently open it.

A velvet case is revealed in the heart of which rests a silver necklace, illuminated in its center by a butterfly-shaped pendant, decorated with bluish stones.

The jewel is beautiful… perfect.

- We have followed your indiction for the “butterfly“ motif of the necklace and you will see in its center, it is not a stone, but a push-button… if Amelia feels in danger, she will just have to press it to alert us.

I nod while contemplating the jewel when Nathan’s words suddenly make me react.

- Us?

- I didn’t come just to bring you this accessory, Owen… I intend to stay to give you a hand… I’m sure I can be of use to you in Jackson’s absence.

- Nathan, you are not…

- So, here is the material for us to stay in contact, he continues, cutting me off, revealing the earpieces with a microphone so that we can communicate as well as two beepers, probably connected to the necklace mechanism.

- Is it Jackson’s idea? I ask a little bewildered by Nathan’s direct involvement in my mission.

- I actually spoke with Jackson, who revealed to me his concern given the stakes of the event and the very strong threat that hangs over… but he didn’t ask me anything, I made the decision myself to come, he confides seriously. Owen, it would be unconscious to think that you will be able to do everything on your own… I know you are one of the best, if not the best element I have seen in my career, but you need a back-up, given the circumstances… it is a professional who planned to act… there will not be even with two to block his way.

I lower my gaze, letting Nathan’s analysis resonate in me. And as always, he was right all along. Having him by my side was an asset that I could not refuse out of pride. Amelia’s life was at stake…

- What makes me such an implication from you? It is not really an official mission for the government…

- No, effectively, consider it as a mutual aid… between friends… this mission is not official, but it is important and special in your eyes, this young woman is dear to your heart…

I do not reply to this remark. This chronic embarrassment, when it comes to evoking feelings, assails me again: even more discomfort under Nathan’s attention… this man took a place of mentor… with this fear of disappointing and revealing myself that crystallizes under his gaze.

- Amelia is a beautiful person… she is sincere with you, do not doubt it…

I look up and smile slightly at Nathan. I knew too well what he implied… this past that haunts me. This past which blocks me and dominates me despite myself…

- By the way, you better go back up to find her, I’ll stay here and you let me know when we can get briefed for the ceremony?

I pause, get up before keeping my attention for long seconds on my long-time ally… an ally who proves to me again at this moment that I can count on him, in all circumstances.

- Thank you, Nathan…

He smiles widely at me while handing me the necklace box in his hand.

- Don’t forget that, see you later.

I leave the room after a last knowing smile at Nathan and join the elevator.

~~~

I find myself facing our suite in a few minutes and slide the key into the lock.

I enter the room as gently as possible, and close the door behind me, without being able to avoid a pronounced squeak.

I walk a little more in the room and my heart accelerates slightly.

Instead of finding a sleeping Amelia, it’s an empty bed that welcomes me.

The sheets are pulled to the side, a pillow has fallen to the floor.

I put the necklace box on the central table, next to my gun, which unconsciously captures my attention.

- Amelia?

I sweep the suite with my eyes in a few seconds.

Tension arises as no answer to echoes my question.

I had only been away for an hour at the most… would that be the extra hour when I was not by her side for him to act?

I go to the alcove, but only find my small suitcase… nothing abnormal.

Everything is in the same position.

I turn around and my gaze is fixed on a closed-door: the one to the bathroom…

I move energetically towards this room before knocking on the wood.

- Amelia? Are you here?

Still silence.

My hand grabs the handle and I activate it immediately, already fearing to discover an empty room.

I enter the room without hesitation… and my heart races.

My eyes are drawn to the silhouette in front of me, covered with a tiny towel that reaches mid-thigh.

- Owen?

She immediately turns around and removes the headphones from her iPod.

- What is happening? She asks me, worried, pulling the towel against her.

- Uh… nothing… you didn’t answer, I thought… excuse me, I let you prepare yourself… I say by lowering my eyes, to detach myself from her silhouette widely offered to my look.

- Okay, I hurry.

- Take your time, I’ll wait for you in the suite… I conclude by stepping back before closing the bathroom door behind me.

I run a hand over my face while feeling a shiver run through me.

For a few seconds, I thought of the worst.

In the most painful of my failures.

~~~

The day was going to be very long.

~~~

More than ever, I was not going to take my eyes off her… to prevent a nightmare from taking shape and interfering in reality.

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Thank you for reading. Stay safe 💛