#I’ve really come back to my roots in the sense that I’m making better choices I’m going for ethical and sustainable and local at every

[saturdaymournings]

I love you all so much by the way and I love the way that I feel like I’m real when we talk :) I’ve spent too long being ignored and forgotten and when I see the silly little gay people in my phone I feel happy !!!!!!! Thinking so much about this right now I feel like I’m returning to the person that I always should have been

[apostaterevolutionary]

Collecting some thoughts on veilguard cause tbh I really don’t know how to feel lmao so. Unstructured ramble time

I’ve watched the trailer and the demo and I feel very. Idk? Still ‘wait and see’ mode for me. It’s been 10 years. Inquisition imo was the weakest of the 3. And while I have kind of moved on from DA there is a part of me that wants this to just blow everything out of the water and be amazing. I’m just not sure if that’s what I think will happen. Right now, I just think it doesn’t feel dragon age-y enough (in terms of what I, personally, consider the defining traits of the series) but I don’t want to jump to conclusions with so little information

The trailer was. Fine. Vibes were a little off but given its Varric narrating, it makes sense (also. Unpopular opinion lmao. I love Varric but I don’t think he should be a companion again. If there’s a carry over companion, it should have been Dorian. And tbh he could still be there, considering they said 7 companions but Varric is not included in that. So did they mean 7 *new* companions and maybe a few others? Advisors again maybe? Idk. Maybe Varric is a temporary companion, but I don’t think he should be there except maybe as a cameo. Scout Harding is an unexpected but fine carry over though). I don’t really have an opinion yet on the companions themselves cause there’s just. Nothing to base an opinion on other than the character designs

Gameplay demo shows that they’re definitely going very Inquisition-y. As in, continuing further down the path it started. Which isn’t unexpected, but is a bit disappointing, though not necessarily a dealbreaker as of yet. It’s probably smart tbh to go more in an action rpg direction than back to the crpg roots given it’s going to be compared to bg3 no matter what they do - better to differentiate as much as possible. Though I don’t think that’s why they did it, probably more a happy accident. I just. Idk, I found inquisitions combat a bit boring and I haven’t been impressed by what I’ve seen yet. But a 20 minute demo is probably not enough to really form an opinion

I feel like you can still see the echoes of this being a live service game at one point too. Healing potions coming from pots found in the environment (I never got over healing spells being cut btw lmao, bring back spirit healers already), the “ability wheel” (unsure about that too, given it sounds like we can’t control companion characters anymore? Kinda really don’t like that :/), stuff like that. I still feel like DA2 combat was the perfect balance between fluidity and strategy but it is what it is. It performed badly, so they’ve disregarded it wholesale rather than consider that some aspects of it may still be worth exploring. It sucks, but that’s capitalism I guess

As for all the other little things, idk, I really am not sure what to think yet lmao. Some sound good. Some less good (why only 2 companions, I don’t like that at all - also weird that the demo shows you won’t have a tank for the initial bit of the game. That’s a weird choice). Nothing to make me go aaaaaa either positively or negatively yet. I don’t even know what to say. My feelings are just so complicated about it, but also kinda empty at the same time. Like. It’s a bit of kombucha girl meme but also muted? I would like to feel just. More about it. But I don’t yet. I’m too unsure. Not quite numb, but almost tbh

At this stage, I feel like I’m gonna wait till it comes out and see what happens. No pre-ordering until I get a better idea. It’s like. With origins, I’ve played it a lot. DA2, even more - countless times lmao. Inquisition though, I played 2.5 times immediately after release and have tried to play it multiple times since but. I only ever get 10-20 hours in before I get bored and can’t make myself continue. I’ve tried many, many times and idk why but I just can’t do it. I never even played any of the DLC, so like. I kinda need to do that first if I’m gonna play veilguard but I have never succeeded before so idk how I will now lmao. But I feel like at least trespasser is necessary and I have genuinely never played it. And I gotta play the rest of the game first to get there and I genuinely don’t know if I can sksksjs

And with that in mind like. If inquisition is that unappealing to me, a game that feels very inquisition-y, potentially leaning even more into the stuff I didn’t like about it, is. Definitely not what I was hoping for. It’s still possible it’s leagues better than inquisition and actually playing it will be a great experience. But right now I just don’t know. I probably won’t be able form any kind of opinion until it comes out and I start getting info from trusted folks that I know have good DA opinions lmao

Idk. I’m not trying to be a wet blanket or a hater, and I genuinely don’t think I am being a hater at all, but I am just. Very tired and nervous. But also cautiously hopeful. I’ve said ‘idk’ a lot lmao but I truly don’t know at this stage. I guess we’ll see. Let’s hope it’s actually amazing and the very thing we need to make the series as a whole feel like it used to for us lapsed DA fans

[michelleelizabethtanner]

I love the idea of Rio including their children as a part of their shared kingdom by symbolizing them through the five points of the crown. Confirming his commitment to Beth and acknowledging the kids as a part of the commitment. Absolutely obsessed with the tattoos such a good idea!

Thanks Anon! You have no idea, I was really worried how cheesy the whole ring/tattoo thing would come across. And yeah, it’s a little shmoopy, but I’m okay with that. Shmoopy was the goal.

Although, as I mentioned, as I wrote the tattoos they had a pretty straightforward meaning of representing Rio’s eagerness for a commitment. To Beth, to their partnership… The man just wanted to be chosen! I’ll be honest, I see their co-parenting and step-parenting as VERY much secondary to what they’re setting up for themselves. Idk if I can even properly describe it. Like, I don’t see Rio as having always wanted a giant suburban family. It’s almost something to overcome just to have what he wants. And not like he can’t (or hasn’t) grown to give a damn about her children for her sake. And vice versa for Beth and Marcus. But these kids have a father and a mother. They are already a family unit.

Families can look different and I am not a huge romanticizer of Brio as co-parents. I would imagine some co-parenting would be inevitable if they’re choosing to live together. But also, these kids aren’t babies and there isn’t a whole lot of granular, fundamental development that’s needed. Rio, for example, can be a presence without attempting to insert himself as a parental figure. He’s an authority figure in a different way. Same with Beth. She doesn’t need to mother Marcus. Because Marcus has a mother.

The Brio commitment is more about them than anyone else. And the reason that’s important (to me) is because both of these people have spent their lives serving others. In their own ways they have both martyred themselves to gain the positions they felt were appropriate for each of them. They each gave up something to wear their masks. The tragedy of it is that neither of them had to. They were largely in their self-imposed prisons because childhood traumas are far-reaching and developmental factors like abuse or socioeconomic standing, for example, shape people’s entire lives.

So given those factors, the rewrite of these characters in the Rough Night universe offers them their lives back. The hope is to give them freedom and balance and possibility. The symbols they chose for themselves and each other are rooted in the bond that drew them together in the first place. That true seeing of the other person as a reflection of oneself, and choosing to become different (better) people in service of that fulfilled feeling neither of them thought they could have.

I hope this doesn’t read gatekeepy of the interpretation of Crystalline! I am always so honored the way people read and apply meaning to these stories. It’s such a compliment when someone takes your work and makes it make sense in their own meaningful ways. I guess I just wanted to share my thoughts on Brio as it relates to the choices I’ve had them make thus far and the general vibes I had about them in my head as I wrote. And maybe this gives a glimpse into where I envision this universe going as they return to their everyday lives. Some of that writing may still happen if any aspect starts to solidify more clearly in my mind. But I also really like the idea of the readers continuing to apply their own meaning and imagination to the possibilities for Brio. Because POSSIBILITIES is exactly what I wanted to give to these characters.

[jonathankatwhatever]

I sat down at the piano, realized I could play without a mediator, that I could think my thoughts into sound through my body in the exact form of connection I’ve been trying to describe, when the piano stopped working. It’s raining outside, so maybe it’s just temporarily shorted out. I’ve paid an interesting penalty learning this degree of touch with a piano that has such heavy action and where touch requires soft pedaling more than it should. I wish I could have been in time for the electric ones with actual piano action. That would have been a luxury. But better too heavy than the non touch of most keyboards.

It’s 30 Apr 2023. As through an hourglass, these are the days of our lives. The only good part of that soap was that line with the picture.

Simple, simple, simple. That makes consistency. Oh, so that’s really neat: I remember this idea coming up not long ago in two guises, one being the inability to recover the full memory of the discussion of consistency, coherence, and persistence, and the other being the realization that as a right-hander I could not repeat the complex movements of something like a golf swing. That now reveals more of itself. I’m trying not to lose the threads; they’re fast moving and all I catch is glimmers under the water.

Complex movements repeating to a lower tolerance because I’m not accurately anchored, meaning I’m anchored at the wrong End, at the wrong End of the 1-0Segment of potential anchoring which relates to the Actuality, which is the first time I’ve used that idea in this way. I’m seeing Actuality as the concept which bridges between the Registry, which we identified specifically only yesterday, Triangular in gs describing events as we know them, events that occur then at ideal level of complete focus, meaning whatever awareness exists is aligned in the correct balancing movement to an End so that End leads to another to another, etc. to form an Actuality. This can occur rapidly or slowly.

This is fascinating. It makes complete sense, of course. By fascinating, I mean that it’s such a simple piece, and it fits the idea which came out yesterday of this being simplified to a tinker-toy model. I can see that in Actuality because we now have the Registry defined as the Triangular which records grid squares. That is why the D7 discussion matters so much: that is the literal proof of a D3 + D4 inherency which directly connects to fCM at the magic CM28 level. I say magic because a simple construction of CM64 is 2*CM28 + CM8, which is also the construction of CM36. Look at CM36, which we’ve defined from the beginning as Not a Thing, compared to the Is of a Thing of CM64. That’s a choice, of course. So, CM28 is the order of the cyclic group, which is appropriate because that is how fCM works: it forms groups which connect. So, if we append CM8, we are appending what meaning? As discussed yesterday, that is the count of gs Irreducible Ends (which connects to the 1Segment count of 16). Adding to that discussion, if you lay out these Ends, then you have the root of a CM64. That means you have CM28 + this root or side.

Since CM64 is 2*CM28 + this side, then you can see a directional existence of a Thing in which you cycle over CM28 in this direction to another, which does the same thing back. That does literally what I’ve been trying to do: it reduces the interpretive area between to the efficient minimum, to a line or side or count which directly connects as opposed to an area. This is more obvious perhaps if you remember these are grid squares so the line is an Extent of grid squares. That means this simplifies to varying levels of continuity.

I need to take a break. This is momentous.

This is literally a manifestation of a Thing having 2 related ‘parts’.

—————

I’m getting this material, but it’s not quite fitting in and I can’t identify the snag. I remember thinking about an n-dimensional ideal, meaning where that generalized into a black hole because that generates a point at infinity which is fully enclosed, meaning that it is not visible in D3-4Space. Or maybe better, it disappears in D4-3Space so it is not visible in D3-4Space. Finally got that out. Took a lot of stretching. I’m able to do more every day. I was way up on my right foot today, so the communication separation (which enables communication ironically) is progressing. The math for that is really compelling now. I did an example on Facebook, which I love because it makes me focus on using simple words, about why lefties are 10%: it enacts L9, which includes within the higher Layers, and it does that because the space is literally the construction of a line to a square to a cube, and thus handedness through that space needs to fit to that dimensional structure. It’s beautiful and truly brilliant.

I’ve reached the stage where I can pretty much phrase this in group terms. I just don’t think in words like torsion, though I actually do it all the time with my body. So maybe I can do that.

Need a break.

[buddiesmutslut]

AGREE AGREE AGRE 10000%.

Like, Bobby’s heart wasn’t beating for FOURTEEN MINUTES, but he immediately wakes up & is then right back to work?? No lingering effects, no coma dreams, absolutely 0 drama from him? Weird?

I don’t feel like the Diaz parents were supportive, I feel like they were just as manipulative as ever, but maybe I just don’t like them & that’s coloring my view of their scenes? Who knows. Also I guess we’re not getting whatever Isabel’s secret was, which I’m bummed about bc I LOVE Isabel Diaz 😩

BuckTommy continues to underwhelm & make me uncomfy, but that’s fine, bc it was like, 15 seconds lmfao.

I’ve BEEN confused about Madney taking Mara in, both because of the logistics AND Ortiz’s crusade, it’s wild to me that she’s stopping at Hen? That makes 0 sense to me, but that’s gotta be it, right? Bc would they really just keep dragging this storyline out & out & out? I mean, they would’ve said something to the affect of her going after the rest of the 118 if that’s the direction they were planning on taking, right?

We knew Gerrard was coming back & yes it sucks. Also, it makes no fucking sense bc he’d gotten so many complaints that he had to be taken out as captain & now he’s just… back?? W no problem? Like, I know this is TV, but still.

I figured we weren’t going to get any hint of Queer (gay) Eddie this episode bc of how much was going on, but all the hype had my hopes up 😩

I knew Amir was innocent, but I was definitely not a fan of the way Athena went about everything. Like, god damn, girl. You can NOT keep doing this & expecting me to root for you 😅

I’ve never really been a fan of the writing on 911 & some of the weird ass choices they make, & i guess it’s good to see that that doesn’t change just bc there’s a different show runner for this szn 🙃. I’m hoping it was just bc this was a shorter season & s8 will be better 🙏

Also, I will not live if Buddie doesn’t go canon (I mean, I will, bc I have to, but I will be crushed) but I agree that it doesn’t seem like the show has made a choice either, & maybe it’s just bc they were writing the episodes as they were going (which is still fucking insane to me, but okay?) but I genuinely don’t think they know what’s going on anymore than we do, & that doesn’t feel great lmfao. Again, hopefully they figure it out in s8.

Okay I think that’s it, I’m sorry for word vommiting all over your post, OP 😅😅😅

Oof... I have to say that every single storyline in that episode was unsatisfying imo

Bobby waking up 30 mins into the episode and everyone just lightheartedly moving on?

Buck and Christopher didn't hug goodbye and Buck and Eddie also didn't hug?? This episode's Buckley-Diaz scenes were just kinda meh aside from Eddie telling Christopher goodbye (pls Christopher come back next season wahhh) and I liked seeing Eddie's parents be more supportive

Bucktommy scene was cute but there continues to be no chemistry between them so what's the point???

Madney taking in Mara in a truly flabbergasting series of events???? There's no way they'd be approved as a kinship home for Mara, and there is no possible way on this earth they would be licensed as foster caregivers that quickly. Also, if Ortiz's interference removed Mara from Henren, why would she not continue to interfere with Mara being placed with Madney? (As if such a person would even have influence in this situation in the first place.) I mean, I like that the outlook is positive now, so yay? This one might just be me because I work in foster care and I just know how things work, but it is so grating. Oh, also, there is no way Hen would be able to just march into the group home and see Mara. No. Way. A fabricated tale that doesn't exist. I know, I know, I know, it's tv. But they could have done a modicum of research :')

I thought we were supposed to get some kind of cliffhanger????? I mean, I guess?? I'm not feeling a lot of suspense lmao. Gerrard will be captain while Bobby figures out how to take the 118 back, there will be drama until suddenly it'll all be better again.

And lastly, Family Feud theory is bones </3 But if it turns out eventually that Eddie is queer, we will all know that Family Feud was always on our side lmao

Okay, I guess the one satisfying part was that Amir's character and intentions were finally made clear... he was so clearly innocent, just hurt. I appreciated his role in this season and the actor KILLED it.

Dang I'm just frustrated with this season's writing overall. Bi Buck is wonderful, but I can't say I enjoyed a lot else, but it seems like I'm in the minority idk! I understand it was only 10 eps though and I'm still glad we got the season. I'm a Buddie shipper btw, but if it doesn't go canon, I'll live. However... it seems almost like the writers themselves haven't even decided, and um... they need to decide and then they need to commit to what they decide. I've been saying that for a loooong time. Keeping it THIS open-ended and hinting around is a disservice to everyone at this point, I think. I just think they're scared to make a choice, honestly.

I'm relieved to hopefully not be thinking about 9-1-1 anymore for a few months, but I have to find a new lil hyperfixation for a while. Suggestions? Lmao and does anyone wanna talk about our feelings? 🥲

[merginyourface]

Mountain takes Aether on a hike maybe they get a little stoned watching the clouds maybe they make out a little?

WC: 1235

One Needs to Be More Daring Than the Other

---This isnt what the request says it is really. No smoking and no making out.... But it is Aether and Mountain hiking!!! Fluff!!!(sorry)---

“How much farther is it?” Aether asks, just a little out of breath. 

Mountain looks over his shoulder to the other ghoul who is trailing a few steps behind him and rolls his eyes. “Not that much longer, you’ve almost made it.” He tries to encourage him, but the groan that Aether lets out tells Mountain it’s fallen on deaf ears. 

“You know, I picked you to come out with me because I thought you’d complain the least but now I wonder if Rain would have been a better choice.” Mountain calls without turning around to face him again. Even though he’d hiked up this trail countless times, it was better to keep your eyes in front of you in case of loose rocks or roots. He’d warned Aether to be just as careful and he seemed to heed the warning, not having fallen once. The large ghoul was well balanced.

“It better be as amazing as you say it is.” Aether warns, stumbling again over some stones, but keeping himself upright. 

Mountain doesn’t give him a response, he knows the spot he’s taking Aether to is beautiful. 

“And don’t even bother trying to say you’d rather have brought Rain, you know you invited me because I’ve been too busy with Dewdrop. You’ve been feening for my attention.” 

Mountain scoffs at his verbiage, “feening.” He scoffs. 

Around ten minutes, and no broken bones, later, they make it to the spot Mountain had been leading Aether too. The spot where he likes to come and unwind when tensions are high. The spot he likes to come when his spirit is low. 

It’s a clearing in the trees alongside a pebble filled creek. The water flows fast, cold, and crystal clear. So clear you could sit at the bank on a moss covered rock and watch the fish swim by or the crustaceans crawl over and under small stones. If you sat still enough and made no noise, you could see small creatures come up to refresh themselves by the crystalline water. Mountain wondered what effect his own power and Aether’s quintessence might have on what creatures were drawn to the creekside. 

But there were other reasons to keep quiet by the creek. To let yourself be lost in the sounds of such a lively spot was better than any high. Laying back on the creekside to watch the clouds pass overhead, listening to water cascade down and between the rocky river. But the birds in the area, the song birds, sang most beautifully during the day. And if your eye was fast enough, in the tree line you could see them jump from tree to tree. 

As Aether looked around, keen enough on his own to sense the wonderful things about this area, the birds, the sound of the water flowing in the creek, the distant and louder pour of the waterfall, the wildflowers, and more. Mountain watched as Aether pulled in the fresh, crisp spring air through his nose and let it slowly slip from between his lips. 

“Do you like it?” Mountain asked a little timid now, though he wasn’t sure why. 

“I do. This is wonderful, but--” 

“But?” Mountain was quick to ask. 

Aether laughed off his concern and pointed into the distance, “That sounds like a waterfall in that direction?” He wanted confirmation. Mountain nodded his head but looked wary. “Is it not accessible?” 

“It is, mostly, but it’s sounded by dense trees and the ground can be a bit unstable.” Mountain usually wouldn’t get too close himself. “The roots of the trees created somewhat of a drop from the stable ground to the river which means that--” 

“I’m sure it's fine! You’ll keep me safe, just tell me where to step.” Aether started walking toward the sounds of rushing water. Mountain sighed, a little anxious bringing someone else over there, he’s nearly slipped into the couple foot drop into the water before.

Once the trees start getting more dense, Aether stands to the side and lets Mountain lead the way closer to the waterfall. 

Once they’re coming up on it, Mountain starts pointing out what solid ground vs. hollow soil looks like. The easiest way to tell was the dampness. Hollow soil was usually drier and would just crumble away when stepped on and could lead to a gnarly twisted ankle. Aether started getting the hang of it and found himself stepping beside Mountain rather just following in the same steps behind him.

“Just be cautious.” Mountain warned. But he was excited Aether was enjoying himself so much. 

“I’m always cautious.” Aether waves him off, nearly skipping the rest of the distance causing Mountain to roll his eyes. 

“Hold up, you're getting close.” Mountain warns but Aether isn’t listening, not really. 

“I see the waterfall!” He calls out instead, a little farther ahead than Mountain.

“Aether, please. Wait for me.” He tries again but it’s too late. There's a short yell as Aether drops down from Mountain’s line of sight. He curses as he too is now skipping to the edge hoping the quintessence ghoul is uninjured. 

Once he makes it to the edge, he sees a very wet, very annoyed ghoul sitting on his ass in the water. Mountain looks down at him and can’t help but chuckle. “I told you to be careful!” He chides. 

“I was!” He pouts, “Or I thought I was. The ground just gave out under me and I fell right in.” Mountain shakes his head, this is exactly what he thought was going to happen. Really, he was right more often than he gave himself credit for. 

“Help me out, please?” Aether groans as he stands up in the water. “My socks are wet.” 

“More than just your socks are wet, idiot.” Mountain laughs again and Aether shivers. “You’d think I did invite the water ghoul.” 

“Shut up and help me.” He growls and Mountain raises his hands in defeat. He looks for the most solid part of the ravine edge to kneel on to help him up. He finds a good solid chunk of dirt and waves for Aether to walk down that way. 

The large ghoul wades somewhat miserably in the shin-deep ice cold water, “Still got all your toes?” Mountain asks, knowing how cold it probably is, even for this point in spring. He can hear Aether mock him, mumbling the words back in a higher pitch. 

But when Aether grabs his hand something mischievous glints behind them that has Mountain wanting to pull away from the ghoul. Before he can, Aether yanks hard on Mountains arm, pulling the tall ghoul into the ravine as well. 

Mountain lets out a small yelp as he collapses into Aether’s lap, who had fallen back with the force of his own yank. 

Now both ghouls were completely soaked. Mountain scrambles off Aether’s lap and sits up onto his knees in the rushing water. “You're kidding me?!” He half laughs, half yells. Aether chuckles as he scoops up a handful of the icy water and tosses it in the earth ghouls face. 

He blocks his face with his arm and scrambles to his feet and wipes the water from his eyes. He looks at Aether who is eyeing the drop the two of them took to get into the ravine. 

Mountain catches on right away, “Got another plan to get us out, smart ass?”

[caker-baker]

Eternally Yours

“They’re not like us.”

“I know”

“They never will be.”

“I know.”

The villain sighed at the hero’s resolve, and stared them down with a stony gaze. “I have to be older than you.”

“Oh?” The hero entertained the idea for a second, still not looking at the villain. “What makes you say that?”

“The light in your eyes hasn’t died yet.”

That did make the hero glance over briefly, catching the villain’s near glare, but they just as quickly refocused on the sunset, allowing their arms to rest on the trunk of the tree.

“They’ll turn on you.” The villain continued.

“Inevitably.”

“You’ll end up like me. Old, tired, nowhere to go, nothing to do except grab for power and demand respect.”

“I am old. I am tired.”

The villain scoffed. “Please. You still have hope. Write me when you get chased out of your first village.”

Despite the fact that the day did come where the hero was turned on, despite the fact they were chased out of their home, despite the fact that the villain was right, the hero never wrote them.

The villain kept watch, though.

“How did it feel?” They emerged from the shadows, not at all scaring the hero, still trekking to their next home.

“Can’t say it didn’t hurt.” The hero shrugged, letting the plants under their feet grow just a bit more.

The villain noticed.

“You’re angry.”

The villain was happy.

“No.” The hero disagreed, and the plants stopped responding to their call. “No, I’m just happy I got to stay as long as I did.”

“How can you be like me?” The villain asked. “We’re so different.”

“I like my calling much more over your shadows.”

“Anyone would prefer the ability to nurture life over shrouding the world in darkness.”

The hero laughed, it almost made the villain stop in their tracks.

“How often do you hear someone laugh, Villain?”

In theory, the villain heard laughter a million times over. This was different. This was a sound of joy that reached the villain’s soul the way most things couldn’t.

So, the villain didn’t answer, and just cleared their throat.

“Write me when it happens again. I mean it.”

The villain was gone.

It took a little longer the next time around, for the hero learned to better cover their tracks, but it didn’t last.

For the second time in their life as a hero, they were chased away.

For the third time in their life as a hero, the villain appeared.

“It’s troublesome, tracking you down. Writing me would save the worry.”

“I didn’t have much access to stationary.” The hero teased, and the tree branch they were sitting on creaked, another response to the hero’s touch.

The villain did have to look up at the hero, which was a bother, but they could climb.

And the hero waited.

“I see you’ve bettered your calling.” They said, looking at the cluster of trees that popped up overnight.

“It was an accident.” The hero defended. “It’s kind of new.”

“Aren’t you also old and tired?” The villain quipped. “Were you really just living for years thinking you wouldn’t die, with no inkling of a idea that you could have a calling?”

The hero blushed.

“Oh.” The villain sucked in a breath. “You need to get it under control before you try for the next miserable little village.”

“Avoid the Westlands.” The villain continued. “There are so few with callings left already. They’ve begun killing those even suspected.”

“Thank you.”

It had been a while since the villain was thanked.

They disappeared in a flourish of darkness.

It was the Westlands the hero went to. It was the Westlands the villain furiously traveled to, all the while wondering how the hero managed the faster pace between the two.

They didn’t wait for the hero to be hurt this time.

“What are you doing?” The villain hissed, dragging them to the edge of the wood on the Westland border. “I told you what they’re doing here, I warned you.”

“I want to help the others who have callings. I want to help the ones wrongly accused.”

“You fool!” The villain threw up their wall of shadows, and continued pulling the hero along with them. “You blithering ass!”

The roots of the trees grew larger under the villain’s feet.

“Stop it!” The hero shouted, pulling back, letting the villain trip over the roots. “I’m going to help them.”

“Like the hells you are.” The villain shot back, recovering from their stumble quickly. “They’ll kill you faster than any of them for daring to sympathize.”

“So instead I’ll live on knowing I could have helped my people and didn’t.”

That struck a nerve with the villain. Were they not helping one of their people right now? Were they not trying to save the hero from certain death?

“If you die-” the villain snarled, and turned slowly to face the hero. “I will never forgive you.”

The hero smiled.

The villain fled to the Eastlands to reign further terror along their path.

This time, the hero chased after them.

“You need to stop, please.” The hero said softly next to the villain, who was content in watching the flames burn brighter. “All the people are already out.”

“I noticed you sneaking around with them, my dear. I could have stopped you ten times over.”

The threat was clear: I can be worse.

“Won’t this further hurt our kind? Knowing it was one of us who did this?” The hero gently placed a hand on the villain’s shoulder, who placed their hand on top of the hero’s.

“I wasn’t caught. I never get caught outside of the west. Besides, they were starting too think too much like the Westlands.” Their grip on the hero’s hand tightened. “How many years was it? No word from you. Knowing I couldn’t do this to the Westlands without all the blame being pinned on us.”

“Did you-” the hero thought over their words. “Did you do this for me?”

“I did it because I was angry, my dear. But I was angry for you.” The villain removed their hand, and cleared their throat. “How many did you save?”

The hero’s eyes lost just a bit of shine. “I waited, for so long. There were hardly any with actual callings. Just the accused. It’s like it’s just us.”

Not such a bad thing. The villain thought.

They didn’t stop their crimes, especially the ones that caught the hero’s attention.

“When I heard of a new lordship, I didn’t think that meant-”

“That it was me and my power grab?”

“I knew you were somewhere near the north.”

The villain tsked. “They’ve given it a name since the commoners revolted, with my support, naturally.”

“Commoners?” The hero repeated, stepping back.

“That’s what they are.” It was pushed aside, quickly, quietly, like all the things the villain did. “Come along, we have plenty to do now that you’re here.”

“I’m not staying.” They stepped back again. “I came to petition the new lordship for our people’s protection.”

“Already done. Outlawed on my land. It’s become a safe haven to whoever’s left.”

“Why was the Westlander Militia symbol on your guard’s post?”

The villain’s eyes snapped up. “Deals were made. You can help now that you’re here.”

“I’m not staying. There’s more work to be done.”

“It can be done here.” The villain snarled. “I’ve waited for you for years to come to your senses.”

“Wait a few years more.”

“If you leave now,” the villain interrupted the hero’s angry walkout. “You’ll never have my power in your hands again.”

The hero never even hesitated.

It kept on, decades at a time. One chased after the other, to persuade, to stop, to comfort.

“You can’t make-” the villain sighed, and placed their arms around the sobbing hero. “You can’t make attachments, please, love, say this will be the last one.”

“It can’t only be us.” The hero hissed through their tears. “How is it only us?”

The villain had seen this before, the eventual break of the mind, wanting for a release, for companions as eternal as you, waiting for the moment death would allow you to see them again. The villain had been in the same break before meeting the hero.

For the first time in their long history, the villain gave them space.

But it took too long.

Their world melted into modernization, the age of callings over, the age of superpowers beginning.

There still weren’t enough of them, and the public opposed the young new heroes too much.

So, the villain did what they did best. They grabbed for power, and fought back in the most immoral ways they knew how. Against the government they had their hands in, and against the perception of the public they couldn’t seem to touch.

But it took too long. The villain was lonely. And the villain began searching.

They liked the modern age for that reason - it made finding people so much easier. Maybe not the people who hadn’t been born in this era, but everyone had something to follow, even if it was just one second of their face in a traffic camera.

The villain would know them anywhere.

And the villain followed. When they reached the end of the trail, they did not approve of the hero’s current living situation.

Nothing dire, but all too meek for the villain’s taste.

Miles and miles outside city limits was the hero, in some field in some farmhouse with no farm. The hero could grow one if they wanted to, meaning the lack of flora was a choice.

When the villain knocked on the door, they expected the hero to answer with a sigh of disapproval, a click of the tongue.

They didn’t expect it to slam right back in their face.

The villain had hardly glanced at the hero’s face, and that was the most infuriating part. Their counterpart should have known how lonely it was, how delightful it was to see some familiarity in a constantly evolving world.

Breaking the door down wasn’t the smartest move, maybe, but it got the job down.

“Hero!” The villain shouted, trying to sense them among the kitschy decor.

Naturally, the hero was halfway out the spare room’s window, and the villain picked up on it. They knew the hero, more than the hero would like to admit.

They covered the spare room in darkness the second they crossed the door frame. Immediately, something inched up and around the villain’s legs.

Of course the hero kept plants in their home. It didn’t matter, the villain could see through their own cloak, and the hero couldn’t, still blindly reaching for the edges of the window.

“Talk to me, damnit!” The villain shouted, pulling the crook of the hero’s arm back, pinning their back against the villain’s chest.

“Let go of me!” The hero shrieked. “I want nothing to do with you.”

The darkness dissipated.

“Since when?” The villain shot back, trying to ignore the greenery growing higher on their body. “What’s happened, my dear?”

The hero tried to push off of them, but the villain was the one doing large acts of terror with nearly no one to stop them, the hero, it seemed, hadn’t been doing much to keep up with the villain’s physique.

“You happened!” The hero shouted. “You and your damned fighting with the public.”

“You could have come and stopped me at any time.” The villain hissed into the hero’s ear.

“And you could let me go.”

The villain froze. They didn’t want to, and they especially didn’t want to admit it.

“Give-” they cleared their throat. “Give me a few minutes more, please.”

At that, the hero went silent, and obliged the villain’s request.

“Thank you.” The villain planted a light kiss to the top of the hero’s head. “Don’t run away.”

For what seemed like the millionth time in their lives, the villain let go of the hero.

For the first time in a while, the hero stayed.

With a wave of the hero’s hand, the plants creeping up the villain fell to the ground.

“What do you want?” The hero demanded, finally turning to face the villain.

The villain had to suck in a breath. It had been so long since they had been able to fully see them in all their glory.

“You’re taking too long. I was giving you time and space, but it’s been-”

“I know how long it’s been.” The hero cut off the villain. “It was intentional.”

That hurt. But they would especially never admit it out loud.

“I need more time.” The hero added as an afterthought.

“Really, my dear.” The villain scoffed. “It’s been plenty of-”

“You don’t get to decide how I grieve. I loved her.”

Oh. This was the route the hero was going.

Fine then, the villain could play this cruel game.

“Love?” They repeated, shoving their hands in their pockets. “Love is something people like us can’t afford. Love isn’t some game we get to play.”

“It’s not a game!” The hero protested. “You’re saying you’ve never been in love?”

Never with the wrong person.

“I fancy myself a patient person, my dear, but I draw the line at love.”

“You don’t draw lines at anything! You don’t get to decide anything about me!”

“I’m far too perfectly aware. If I had my way, you’d never leave my side, you wouldn’t insist on doing things the kind way.” The villain’s lip curled. “You wouldn’t fall in love with the wrong people.”

Oh. So this was about jealousy.

It was not a shocking realization to the hero. They wondered, in fact, how they didn’t see it before.

“Spare me your melodramatics.” The hero mumbled. “You’ve had just as long as me to find someone new.”

“How did that work out for you?”

The hero took a visible step away that time.

“Falling in love,” the villain stepped forward. “Is foolish. Having room for anyone but the people like you is selfish.”

“Selfish?” The hero repeated in disbelief. “You’re calling me selfish? You’ve done more to harm our image than protect it! All for the sake of some petty vengeance story.” They steadied themselves in a protective stance.

“We’re really going to do this?” The villain smiled. “We’ve had our squabbles, but this one could level the city, even with the distance.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

In the end, there wasn’t much to be said about the fight to end all fights. Everything succumbed to darkness, even the creation of life itself.

[saphirered]

Saph I hope you feel better! I really liked the VM Snow White you just posted, but could you also please do the same prompt but with M9 boys including Molly? If you’re not feeling up to it that’s fine too!

Thank you! The meds are beginning to do their job luckily. I'm glad you liked the last one. I blinked, my hand slipped and now it's here. Prepare for some angst. Hope you enjoy! 😘

(Caleb)

Caleb had always known his past would come to haunt him. He was prepared for it. Prepared to take the hit, take responsibility for everything and he’d face his past be that with or without the people he loves. Part of him, once he got used to having these fools around, having you around, wanted it to be on his own, to protect them and protect you. To not have any more lives lost in the grand scheme. The people he loves becoming collateral would be unacceptable. But you had become collateral in the grand scheme of things.

When it became clear to his enemies he was a bit more attached to you than the others, they took this weakness and exploited it. They pushed his buttons before, using you as a tool, verbal bait even, but he never fell for it. His reluctancy to act on his feelings, to keep them to himself instead, were the very thing he hoped would keep those loose ends from latching onto you. His love is a curse, the objects of his desire always to be torn away from him no matter how hard he tries to prevent it. He’s lost you to that same curse. Not lost. Almost lost.

You’ve been cursed, your conscious mind separated from your unconscious body. Simple healing spells wouldn’t do the trick here. This curse holds no roots in the divine. He’s spent days researching and that much he could confirm. This curse would take an arcane approach. Something he prides himself in to be his specialty. Lucky you. Lucky him. He had the others bring all books, ancient scrolls and other sources of knowledge brought to him, along with a wide variety of components once he’d made a significant dent in the research matter, assuring him this would have the greatest chances of success.

It’s not the soft canopy bed with the plush pillows from the fairytales you’re placed on. Instead you lay on a wooden table, inscribed with all sorts of arcane sigils. Nor do you look like some angelic peaceful being. Your brow is furrowed in discomfort, your hands balled into fists at your sides. Caleb moves a brush against areas of exposed skin, painting symbols to match with precision and care, afraid to even make a single mistake, triple checking every mark. He speaks the incantations while incorporating the components varying from precious gems crushed and whole, herbs and incense. And then he waits. He doesn’t expect the effects to be immediate, often with these magics it is not and he knows that but that doesn’t get rid of the impatience and fear.

“How I long to hear your voice again. I know this will work but that doesn’t ease away the sliver of doubt. What if… What if… That’s what I keep asking myself. I know it’s stupid.” Caleb wipes an hand over his brow as he pulls up a chair and sits at your side, elbows leaning on the table careful to avoid any sigils just in case.

“It also faced me with the harsh reality that I held off telling you how I feel. It looks so stupid now in hindsight because what good did it do anyone. In the end you still ended up paying for my mistakes. I was stupid to push you away, try to convince you your own feelings were unreciprocated. I know I didn’t have you fooled in the slightest but to know I could have loved you, it makes me feel like I am to blame for wasting that opportunity and possibly shortening our time together. The thought of losing you before having given you my love will forever be my greatest regret.”

Caleb watches the muscle of your hand unclench and relax. He hears a deep intake of breath and staring at your face he’s met with your smile, one filled with love as he helps you sit up. All is good once more.

(Fjord)

Fjord’s drenched to the bone, out of breath, anger running through him like he’s never experienced. Still he’s unsure if his anger is directed at the one responsible for your eternal slumber or at himself for making a ballsy move that didn’t pay off in the slightest and in fact backfired in a worse way he could have ever imagined. He played a game of chicken with Uk’otoa and lost. He’d have been fine by letting someone else pay the price for him. Why should he care about some stranger becoming victim to the leviathan? The one who paid the price, became the victim to his actions didn’t end up being a stranger. It had to be you of all people hadn’t it?

Uk’otoa must have been watching his dreams, even his waking actions if that were possible and have seen his infatuation with you. When the leviathan threatened Fjord in another briny dream of his mentioning your name he had called bullshit. The snake had never been able to reach out to anyone it didn’t already have some kind of grasp on. Little did he know Uk’otoa had just that. Just enough of a sliver through him, and the Cloven Crystal to get to you.

So there Fjord sits at your bedside. You’re just as drenched as he is, hair dripping, skin glowing in the candle light of the room reflected off the water particles. Your lips are tinted blue, a redness around your eyes, your skin is cold. The sleep you’re in is a state of perpetual drowning and Fjord knows what it feels like, to drown. He can only hope you’re spared that pain. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to forgive himself if you are tortured like so because of his actions. Clasping your hand between both of his he runs his fingers over your knuckles. He bows his head. It still feels so wrong to not have you respond to his touch. So wrong.

“I want you to know that I am to blame for your fate. I’m about to do a very stupid thing to make it right. I know you’d tell me not to but I can’t sit by and watch you suffer like this. I’ve tried everything. I’ve begged and bargained. I’ve shouted at the skies but I got no reply. Everything comes up empty and I see no other choice than to do this. It might sound stupid but I came to ask for your forgiveness.” Fjord pauses. Usually he would have gotten a reply. He would sell his soul for just having you tell him everything will be alright. It’s a good thing he’s about to sell it for so much more than that. It’s worth it. It’s worth having you alive and well.

“I won’t ask for forgiveness for what I’m about to do because I will never regret it. I ask only you may one day forgive me for what I might become. I need you to know I love you and did, will do all of this out of love. That’s why I hope you’ll never see me again after I give myself to Uk’otoa. I can’t bare to watch that affection in your eyes being replaced by hatred, but most of all disappointment. I hoped to be worthy of your love and I will always regret never having truly experienced it.” Fjord’s voice cracks slightly. He studies your face, as if to ingrain every detail into his memory, as if he thinks he might never see it again.

“I’m afraid. I’m so deadly afraid.” Fjord whimpers pressing a kiss to the back of your hand before he lets go. He checks his supplies, taking out the Cloven Crystal, glaring at the orb intensely cursing the thing to oblivion. Coughs pull him out of his staring match with the crystal. Your body moves, leaning over the edge of the bed vomiting up brine. Fjord drops the orb and his belongings running over to you and helping you gather your bearings until you’re no longer chocking on sea water.

“You better not do what I think you’re planning with that orb or so help me Storm Lord, I will drown you myself.” Fjord can’t do anything but laugh despite the very real threat on his life as you pull him into your embrace.

(Caduceus)

Caduceus isn’t bothered by death. Death is part of life as much as living is. It’s inevitable. Every soul will move on, leaving its vessel for the earth, the fire or the wild things to bring forth something new. What does very much bother him are perversions of death, those who try to cheat death, upset the natural balance, maim and manipulate that what is and should be. He hates it with a passion and seeks to rectify it, return the world to that balance when faced with it. That’s where you come in. You much like him have a respect and understanding of life and death similar to his own. Very few people understand that. Very few people do not fear the end when they see it coming. You’re one of those very few people.

You understand Caduceus on a different level, in his sentiment and mannerisms while others may think him strange. Not that he cares if people do, you’ve been his filter in the big shiny new world past the borders of his grove. You’ve been his safety net, his grounding force, his safe haven when the world seems against him and he thinks his senses might be wrong. The Wild Mother must have gently blown her winds to bring you together.

That’s why it seems so wrong you’re affected by this darkness having taken hold over your body, leaving you in a state of not entirely alive nor dead. Resurrection has been futile as much as draining your life and allowing you to move to the care of the Wild Mother herself. You’re trapped and that’s why Caduceus fears what would happen should you die. He’s seen what this perversion of life and death has done to his home, the forests surrounding it and the creatures living in it. He’ll do everything in his power to prevent that from happening to you.

Caduceus has put your body through the typical burial rites and rituals, preserving what he can by using wards and the divine blessings granted to him by his goddess, sending her prayers of your recovery but you appear to be even beyond her reach now. He moves a damp cloth across your arms and face, brushing aside your hair, humming to himself until he’s done, moving on to clean the room around you, getting rid of the dust, placing things back where they belong and replacing the decayed flowers with fresh ones. Caduceus gathers his tea, preparing a cup for himself as he watches you.

“Can you show me how they’re doing?” The wind grows cold. He knew that would be the answer but still he could hope maybe that answer could change.

“Are they in pain?” The wind grows warm but then cold again. You were, but not anymore. It seems that the new wards he’s put up are doing their job. That’s good.

“Is there a cure?” The gentle breeze disappears. She doesn’t know then. This goes even beyond the goddess herself but it doesn’t mean it’s impossible. Caduceus will keep hope, though it is dwindling fast, for your sake he’ll have hope. He’s always spoken to the dead before and while you’re not really dead, there’s a strange comfort to something that feels so final.

“Hey. I’d ask you how you’re doing but that’s not gonna work now, is it? Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine. I know you are. You’ve managed to keep me alive with the others for much longer than I’ve been taking care of you like this. I think we’re going to be fine. I know you’re here but I still miss you. Calliope makes for terrible company watching things unfurl between the others. She’s too much of a hopeless romantic. You forgot to tell me the recipe to that special brew of yours. I’ve been trying to recreate it but I haven’t been able to. I think what I’m trying to say is, I could really do with having my best friend back. That’d be nice.”

Caduceus sips his tea, face devoid of his usual dopy smile. A sudden breeze hits through the window, blowing it open. A few lighter weight and loose items go flying but the thud of a heavier one is clear to hear. Caduceus closes the window and feels something solid hit his boot. It’s a crystal from the ones surrounding the grove. He picks it up, feeling the warmth run through it. The breeze directs towards you and he feels himself walking over to your body. The crystal calls to you and when it touches you your body runs with energy, pulsing, like you’ve been forcibly pulled back to this world. You look around eyes wide breathing heavy.

“Hey.” Caduceus smiles. “I made tea.”

(Mollymauk)

Maybe pretending you and him were some high born assholes was a questionable decision. Taking on an invite directed at the said people you were impersonating even more so, and stealing, sorry, borrowing without asking, some things from their summer cottage to swim in luxuries, an out right terrible idea when these people happen to be very well connected.

So when these fancy folk came back to the cottage earlier than expected, the two of you had grabbed what you could before making your grand escape, chased by their private guards until you lost them. A safe distance away you set up camp. Time to inspect your findings before returning to the carnival. Your eye for valuables had always been much more keen than Molly’s and your appraisals usually spot on. It was only natural he would let you do your thing but he’d still help you.

Particularly proud of getting some ornate jewellery box Molly had pried it open and revealed the jackpot. But of course you couldn’t just sell recognisable jewellery as is and you couldn’t keep such a thing on you very long. So of course you went to work, prying the stones from their settings. A particular necklace was giving you trouble, not even your tools being able to pry it out, you even broke one so you left that one for last.

The two of you had argued, eventually setting on just smashing the stone with the pommel of Molly’s scimitar, the broken gem still providing plenty of pay and not being as recognisable in peaces. So you held the necklace across a stone while he smashed it. When it did a spark hit, next thing he knew you were on the ground, your hands burned where you held the precious metal. At first he thought you were simply knocked out but when you didn't wake up he grew worried. Splashing water in your face, shaking you, lifting your legs, nothing got you to wake up so instead he carried you and the jewellery back to the carnival. Two days and still you didn’t wake up. It became clear this bloody gem was cursed when dark veins started crawling up your skin as the days passed.

Since this was technically on him, Molly took care of you. He makes quite a doting nurse when he wants to be but never without an inappropriate comment or two. It was quite strange to not hear you laugh at or scold him for these comments. Nevertheless he’d fluff up the pillow beneath your head, provide you an extra blanket when the night was cold, tell you stories, or simply the events of the day, the people who came to the carnival, some things he lifted from people’s pockets and so on. Molly has to say he’s ashamed to admit he’d got frustrated with your unresponsiveness or rather the fact you still hadn’t woken up and there was nothing the others could do for you. A healer would still be a week or so out.

“You know, while I’ve really begun getting used to these little one-sided conversations and your lack of judgement at some of my more terrible decisions I really prefer sharing them with you in the moment. I’ve gotten caught by the guards twice now and without you, Gustav is getting a bit sick of bailing me out. I miss our little flirtations. I miss your sometimes wrong opinions, though you’d say they’re proven facts. I miss your company. I think our time apart has given me time to reflect how much you truly mean to me and how much I need you in my life.” Molly leans on his elbow as he studies your face unmoving. You look so peaceful and asleep but he’d much rather get lost in your eyes when you’re awake.

“I laughed at you when you told me the most valuable thing in the world anyone could ever give another is their heart but I think I know what that means now. I’ll offer you mine if you will have it. So please, come back and make sure my head doesn’t get up too high into the clouds or I might just float away.” Molly leans back looking at the ceiling of the tent with a sigh. He’s pulled out of his mind by a snicker.

“A dramatic confession of love to the unconscious target of your affections? And you call me cliche.” Molly looks at your face, eyes still closed but smug grin clear on your face. He pokes your side making you jump.

“You are insufferable.”

[cherry-valentine]

Fall 2022 Anime

Boku no Hero Academia Season 6 is the first season I’ve come into having already read the manga. Halfway through last season, I started reading the manga and have now caught up, so this is my first time starting a season while knowing exactly what’s going to happen. A plot summary seems silly at this point, so I’ll skip right to the meat of this write-up. In my opinion, the War Arc covered in this season is where the story peaked. This is by far my favorite arc, but it also ushers in some of the worst writing decisions I’ve ever seen in a series this popular. Luckily those baffling choices come in late enough in this arc that they don’t ruin it (they just ruin the rest of the series lol). I’ve long had a love-hate relationship with this show, because I enjoy it and it does a lot of things well (and the things it does well, it does really REALLY well), but it also pisses me off in a lot of ways (the treatment of the lady characters overall is my biggest gripe, though I will admit that this improves the longer the series goes on). But this season? So far? It’s fantastic. The animation is great, as usual. The fights are exciting, the little snippets of comedy (this is an overall serious arc though) are on point. This is also the arc that best displays the dark side of hero society, the corruption, the forgotten victims, the people who have suffered in this sort of world, which is fascinating. Shigaraki in particular makes an excellent villain, and that’s all I’m going to say about him to avoid manga spoilers (I could, and maybe will, write an entire essay about his character and how it’s developed in the manga). Since this arc is so damn good, BNHA is at the top of my list this season. A first for this series!

Blue Lock is a new sports anime, this one about soccer. Last season, while watching Ao Ashi (another soccer anime), I kept seeing Blue Lock mentioned in the comments as a “better soccer series”, and that it was getting an anime. Well here it is. While I do appreciate a good, straightforward sports anime like Ao Ashi, these days a sports anime has to stand out in some way to get me excited about it. Blue Lock stands out in two main ways: the high production values that give it outstanding visuals, and the absolutely bonkers premise (all the best high school strikers in Japan are gathered up, told to live 24/7 in a state of the art training camp, and are weeded out through grueling matches against each other and are encouraged to be traitorous assholes, all to arrive at one boy left to be the best striker in Japan). Right away, it separates itself from other sports anime with that setup. It effectively cuts out any and all drama that doesn’t involve the sport. These guys don’t go to school, so there are no scenes of them in class or interacting with characters not on their “team”. No scenes at home, involving family members. They don’t even have team managers or coaches. It really does boil the entire story down to these guys playing soccer. That’s a pretty bold move, but it pays off. And going back to those visuals, the animation quality is amazing. The character designs are vivid and interesting. The colors are just beautiful. The only complaint I have in this area is that the backgrounds are all pretty drab. This makes sense in context (as they’re living in a training facility), and actually might be a good thing, as it makes the colorful characters stand out even more. Speaking of which, all of them are fun, and the main character Isagi is easy to root for, even when his inner jerk is dragged out. All in all, Blue Lock is one of the better sports anime I’ve seen in a while.

Yowamushi Pedal has a new season. Watching it made me realize how much I missed this batshit crazy show. It’s a sports anime about bicycle racing, and it ranks just under Prince of Tennis as being one of the most unrealistic sports anime I’ve seen. From the guy who has named his pecs Andy and Frank (and literally talks to them, and they literally warn him of dangers!) to the skinny little guy who can immediately expand his torso like a balloon (something about being able to expand his lungs but it looks hilarious), to the tendency several riders have to go into a frenzy and race at top speed with their tongues hanging out of their heads (yes, dangle your tongues out while bicycling very fast through the mountains! Totally not a terrible idea!). Then there are the moments when a rider from one of the teams has to drop out of the race after doing something cool, for the benefit of the team (basically sacrificing himself). These are treated with all the drama and severity of literal death scenes, and it’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen. But above all of this, there’s the gloriously creepy villain Midousuji, who is hands-down the best villain in sports anime history. He’s gross and terrible and downright monstrous, but damn if he isn’t the most entertaining character in the show. The animation is fine, but the character designs are unique. This is a weird anime, but it’s never boring! Go into it expecting a wild, weird, fun time, and you won’t be disappointed.

Spy x Family is on its second cour, and there’s not much more I can say about it than I did a couple of seasons back. Following a highly skilled spy as he puts together a fake family consisting of a telepathic child, a wife who is a secret assassin, and now a precognitive dog, the show is adorable and very funny. The animation is stellar, with extremely expressive faces, lovely backgrounds, and characters that never fail to stay on model. It’s a little more fast paced than the usual “soothing feel good” anime, but for me it still falls into that category. Though the stakes are occasionally high (with characters being in actual mortal danger), the overall soft tone of this series assures us that the threats will always be neutralized, so there’s little tension in that regard. The charm of the show lies in its super likable cast and wonderful visuals. High on my watch list.

Raven of the Inner Palace is a unique series about a certain mysterious consort to the emperor in ancient China. Though she has the title of consort, she has little contact with the emperor and instead uses her magical powers to solve mysteries around the palace, talk to the dead, help spirits cross over, etc. Of course, when the emperor meets her, he decides to become her friend. The show is basically about their mystery-solving adventures with an ever expanding cast of support characters. It’s a relatively simple setup, but the ancient Chinese setting gives it a specific charm. The art is gorgeous, with breathtaking clothing designs and beautiful scenery. The music is also a high point, with excellent opening/ending themes and background songs. The Raven consort herself, called Shouxue, is an interesting character. She’s a bit of a tsundere, but in this case her standoffish attitude makes sense for the plot (she has a tragic backstory that necessitates being wary of others, especially the emperor). She softens as the series moves along, but she remains a powerful character. Her growing relationship with the emperor isn’t exactly original (of course they’re going to end up falling in love at some point - I can predict that without reading summaries of the light novels this is based on), but they have enough chemistry to make them fun to watch regardless. This is a slower-paced show than most of the other anime I’m watching this season, and it feels like a breath of fresh air.

Mobile Suit Gundam The Witch From Mercury could be called “the show that pissed off a thousand fanboys”, with a lot of people calling it “woke Gundam”. Apparently, if you have a female protagonist in a Gundam tv series for the first time since the franchise began in the 70‘s, it’s automatically woke (never mind that Tomino has wanted to have a female protagonist since the 90‘s). Add to that the *possibility* of a lesbian couple (and to be honest I don’t think the series will have the guts to follow through with it) and the fact that female characters in general seem to have larger and more important roles in the story, and you have an army of angry manchildren on your hands. In all seriousness, the show does have a different vibe from most previous Gundam series (but not all). If I had to choose its closest relative, I’d say its Reconguista in G, with its school-setting and relaxed atmosphere for the first chunk of the series. Most hilarious to me are the people assuming this series won’t get “serious” and have actual mobile suit battles (as opposed to the mobile suit “duels” that take place at the school). I mean, are they just pretending the prologue episode and all the shadowy political machinations don’t exist? Regardless, the show is great so far and would be an excellent starting point for people who never really got into Gundam but are curious about it. The animation is gorgeous and the plot is (at least for now) easy to follow. The two female leads are likable and have great chemistry. And yeah, it’s basically “Utena with giant robots”. If you’ve watched Utena, you’ll be the embodiment of that Leonardo Dicaprio meme where he’s pointing at the screen while you watch the first couple of episodes. But hey, if a plot setup is good, why not use it again in a different setting? Hell, let’s have Utena in feudal Japan! Utena in the wild west! Utena in a zombie apocalypse! I’m here for it.

To Your Eternity Season 2 opened on a surprisingly weak note for such an excellent series, but it’s already sorted itself out. The show follows an immortal entity called Fushi who can take the form of any living being it comes into contact with (after that being has died). Fushi most often uses (and generally prefers) the form of a young man, so I’ll be using he/him to refer to the entitiy. The series is, basically, about Fushi moving through the world and learning about life while also fighting creatures called the Nockers that keep attacking him for unknown reasons (most often harming the humans around him in frankly horrific ways). Each person that Fushi comes to know eventually becomes another form he can take (as he is immortal, of course he outlives everyone). The interesting thing is that he can use whatever skills that person (or creature) had, leading to at least one person spending years cultivating certain skills so that Fushi would have access to them after she dies. Unlike with season one, season two skips large chunks of time, several generations in a single episode at one point. At first, I was a little annoyed that we were not getting to spend much time with the characters (in one infuriating case, a major character from season one returns only to almost immediately die). Season one’s emotional beats were so powerful because it let us get to know and grow to love the human characters before they inevitably died. But! Thankfully, season two has now settled into a story arc and is letting us grow to love a new set of characters. And yes, they will eventually die, like always, but the point of the story isn’t “will these characters die or not?”, it’s “what effect will these characters ultimately have on Fushi?”. And figuring that out is what makes the series so endearing.

Golden Kamuy has a new season (I think this is season four, but honestly it’s hard to keep up with all these shows after they get past season two). From the start of season one, this has been one of my favorite modern anime series. It has a strong plot, unique character designs, a compelling setting, and some of the most bizarre but charming humor I’ve come across. It’s refreshing in the way it never sexualizes its female characters, but instead chooses to objectify its large assortment of buff, handsome male characters with frequent nude scenes that seem to linger on their well-toned bodies. Despite this, the show is firmly seinen (aimed at an adult male audience). It’s actually been fun to watch the guys in the comments questioning their sexuality in real time. I don’t care what your sexuality is, you’re going to walk away from this show with at least a minor crush on Ogata or Sugimoto. Probably both. Fanservice aside, the show is just wild at times. It can get brutally gory, then it can be hilarious, then it can make you cry. It has a Gintama-like quality in that it does lots of different things very well. If you’re not watching this series, you’re missing out (something I think I’ve said about it before, but it bears repeating).

Chainsaw Man is definitely this season’s most hyped show. I had avoided the manga because, just from looking at the covers and some other art, it looked like it was full of unnecessary fanservice and that the lady characters were highly sexualized. Before the anime started, I did a little googling to see what the general opinion was. From everything I read, most people (regardless of gender) had generally positive opinions on how the female characters were treated, so I decided to try the anime. The basic setup is that there are creatures called Devils that can embody certain things, like a Gun Devil or a Chainsaw Devil or a Bat Devil. A young man named Denji, who is probably one of the most “down on his luck” protagonists I’ve seen in a long time (he’s broke, orphaned, pratically homeless, practically starving, and has already sold one eye, one kidney, and one testicle just to survive) ends up combining with the only thing he really has in the world: his pet Devil dog. This gives him the power of the Chainsaw Devil, which he can transform into to fight other Devils. He’s quickly recruited by a group of government sanctioned Devil Hunters who are searching for the powerful, menacing Gun Devil. The setup sounds like typical shounen action fare, but the series goes a bit darker than I expected fairly early on, and maintains a unique atmosphere. Denji is fun to root for just because he came from such a humble place, but his lack of social skills makes him come across as a jerk at times. It’s understandable, given his background. Every shounen action series has its own “thirst trap” character that’s super popular with the ladies in the audience, and this one has Aki. The anime wisely spends the majority of its budget on subtle little movements he makes, like lighting a cigarette or taking a drink of coffee. I think there’s a whole animation team dedicated to the flow of his hair when he wears it down. As there should be. Overall, the series has a strange vibe to it but it’s highly entertaining.

Best of Season:

Best New Show: Blue Lock Best Opening Theme: Golden Kamuy Best Ending Theme: Spy x Family Best New Male Character: Isagi (Blue Lock) Best New Female Character: Shouxue (Raven of the Inner Palace)

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

Cult Girl: Doctorate (Hannibal x Pregnant!Female!Reader) pt. 14

Hannibal reads too much into Max's attempt to reconcile and cult girl revisits her past.

@wisesandwichshark @pearlstiare

Trigger warnings: discussions of death, abandonment, military casualties, emotional abuse

You soon returned to the opera knowing you had nothing to hide. Hannibal selected for you an off-white maternity gown so form-fitting it was practically painted on. He wanted everyone to see that you, his queen, empress and goddess, were carrying his child.

It only took that evening for the whole dynamic to change. Suddenly, you were an expectant new mother. Imogen had been a massive hit, you were planning to go again.

You were affixing your heavy cubic zirconia earrings when you heard a knock at the door. You hesitated, but hurried down the stairs when you saw who it was.

"Max?" You said, upon opening the door. He stood there awkwardly, holding a bouquet of flowers. "Hi?"

"Hey, [F/N]." Max greeted, eyes darting nervously around the porch. "I just came around to apologize in person. I'm sorry I was such a chauvinist prick."

You leaned against the door. "Oh?"

"You were right." He continued. "I don't know what it's like to carry a baby, and, unless something goes very wrong, I never will."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that." You smiled.

"Anyway, these are for you." He said, handing the bouquet over. "They're chrysanthemums."

"Thank you, Max." You said, accepting the flowers.

"Archie and I-" He scratched the back of his head. "We thought that, maybe, if you'd still have us, that we'd name the baby Chrysanthemum. With your permission, of course."

"Like the picture book?" Your face lit up. "With the little mouse girl?"

Max nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, exactly."

You hugged the bouquet into your chest and considered it again. You looked back at Hannibal, who hadn't looked up from his expectant fathers' website for a second all day. He surrounded himself with books about child psychology, attachment theory, developmental behavior patterns and somehow found himself on a tangent about institutionalized misogyny in medicine.

"I'm sorry, Max." You said, sincerely. "I really do appreciate you coming down here and apologizing, but-"

Max put his hands up and gave you a disarming smile. "I understand. Plans change."

"I just really want to stress that it's not you." You assured him. "I've kind of... really grown to like the idea of being a parent. And I think that was Hannibal's plan all along, too."

"I believe a congratulations is in order, then." His voice turned up in delight. "I'm very happy for you. Both of you."

You clutched the bouquet to your chest. "Thank you."

"Well, I'd better get going." He stepped backwards down the stairs. "I've got three pints of Ben and Jerry's in the backseat and Archie'll have my head if I come home and they've melted."

"Max, wait." You stopped him before he could get down the driveway.

"Hm?"

You leaned against the threshold and smiled warmly. "Don't be a stranger, okay?"

Max returned the smile. "Of course not."

You waved goodbye and shut the door. You hurried to the kitchen to put the flowers in water before you had to go.

"Who was that, love?" Hannibal asked, half-heartedly. He was still very fixated on his research.

"Max Thomas-Park." You answered, unwrapping the flowers from the decorative plastic.

Hannibal looked up from his computer, but left the room silent for you to fill.

"He wanted to make amends." You explained. You walked across the room to the china cabinet and selected a vase big enough to hold the ornate bouquet. "Brought flowers and everything."

"Chrysanthemums?" He asked, sniffing the air.

"I see your sense of smell is coming back." You commented.

"Interesting selection." He narrowed his eyes on the bouquet.

"Well, he said that was what he wanted to name the kid." You offered. "It was a cute pitch, not gonna lie."

Hannibal shut his laptop and examined the bouquet up close. "If he wanted to express regret, he would have done better to bring you blue or purple hyacinths."

"Well, like I said." You made a point to project a little more. "He said he wanted to name his daughter chrysanthemum."

"Mums are given to show sympathy for those in mourning." Hannibal continued, clearly having his own conversation.

"Hannibal-"

"I think your cousin got her hooks in him and he's planning to--" He cut himself off, lest he speak the unthinkable into reality. "That's why he brought mourning flowers."

"Max Thomas-Park is conspiring with Anna to kill our unborn baby?" You said, flatly, to emphasize how insane he sounded.

Hannibal held a bloom between his fingers and looked closely at it. "It's the kind of hint I would leave. For courtesy's sake."

"I think looking at parenting blogs all day has made you a little paranoid." You observed, knowing full well that an overprotective husband and soon-to-be father of your child was not a bad problem to have. Nevertheless, you shut the laptop and touched his cheek. "Come on. We're going to be late for the opera."

You heaved yourself into the passenger's seat of the car, feeling the seat give beneath your heavy frame. Every time you got into the car, you remembered that you needed to shop for a car seat. The thought just as soon left your mind every time. 

“We need to look for a car seat.” You said as Hannibal shut the door, hoping that he’d remember. 

“I mean,” Hannibal blurted out, still lost in his own conversation. “Max is a cultured and well-educated man. He has to know the implications of his flowers.” 

You huffed, dreading to think that paranoid delusion was symptomatic of his parenting style. “Right. The twenty-seven year old data analyst who graduated with a finance MBA from UChicago is also proficient in the outdated and frivolous language of flowers.” 

“In Italy, mums are only given as comfort for loss.” Hannibal said with undeserved conviction. “Exclusively, [F/N].” 

You rolled your eyes and typed something up on your phone. You raised your eyebrows, feeling a bit proud of yourself for what you found. 

“In Korea, y’know, the country that Max’s family is from,” You corrected. “The chrysanthemum is a symbol of friendship.” 

Hannibal tensed up for a moment, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. It was as if he were trying to break himself out of a trance. “...I’m sorry, darling.” 

“I know you’re scared.” You stared at his profile, trying to make out an expression. “I’m also... pretty scared. But you can’t take it out on a guy who has nothing to do with it.” 

“I am scared.” He affirmed, but the way in which he did was a telltale sign that he wasn’t giving you the full story. 

“Of?” You raised your eyebrow. “Finish the sentence, Hannibal.” 

"I need to keep our baby safe." He answered. "And I cannot in good conscience let her come into the world knowing that someone wants to hurt her. To hurt you."

You sighed. "Hannibal, are you seriously still worried about Anna?"

"Don't underestimate the role privilege and entitlement plays in the decision to commit acts of violence." He enunciated carefully. "You of all people should know that."

"Anna has cultivated such a perfect victim image to project outwardly that even a hint of proactive violence would shatter it." You explained. "She's the poor girl who has things done to her. Her evil cousin ruined her marriage. Her evil cousin destroyed her career. And she's the innocent victim in all of it."

"Logically, I know that you can speak on her behavior with more authority than I." Hannibal admitted.

"No shit." You scoffed. "I had to live with her."

"Can we at least entertain the idea that she has something planned?" He pleaded.

"I'm surprised at you." You said. "You never really struck me as the overly-cautious type."

Hannibal shook his head. "With my own life, I'm willing to gamble. But not when it's you. And not when it's Imogen."

You tensed up. His admitted willingness to put himself in danger unlocked a core memory you had buried deep down. The only thing you knew about your own father was that he was willing to put himself in danger. To go overseas and die for fuck-all instead of live for the child he selfishly created then abandoned. He chose to give his life for oil. You didn't choose to grow up without a father and your mother didn't choose to raise a child without a partner. He made that choice for you.

"Now what are you not telling me?" Hannibal broke you out of your trance. "I know that look, [F/N]."

"Nothing." You shook your head. "You should really not plan on dying anytime soon."

"I promise you, I am not going anywhere." His voice softened. "Least of all, to Iraq."

"Okay, you're a pretty good therapist but you never told me you could read minds." You threw your hands up in defeat. "Are you a psychiatrist or are you Loki?"

"As fun as being the god of mischief would be," Hannibal smiled to himself. "I just happen to have a steel-trap memory and an admittedly quite obsessive fixation on the mental health of the mother of my child."

"I swear to god I never told you about him." You denied. "Not even in passing."

"You didn't have to." He assured you. "Beatrice did."

You were surprised for a fraction of a second until the information sat in your head long enough to realize it wasn’t surprising in the slightest. Beatrice took every opportunity she got to brag about her son's sacrifices. She never once mentioned the sacrifices he forced upon you. Only that her son was a hero.

"Did you get the 'don't believe anything [F/N] has to say about my son' speech?" Your voice flattened in complete non-surprise.

"It was a prepared speech?" Hannibal chuckled. "Pity. I thought I was special."

"She gave it to my first boyfriend." You rolled your eyes. "We were, like, fifteen."

"The root of your psychological issues becomes clearer every time we talk about Beatrice." He commented under his breath.

"I know." You conceded.

He pulled into the parking lot, turned the car off and placed his hand over yours.

"Your father was a coward." He said, bluntly. It was nice to hear what had been echoing in the back of your head out loud for once. "I know no country to serve. No god to glorify. I promise, you have the whole of me. My mind, body and soul belongs to you and our child."

You squeezed his hand. "I couldn't ask for anything else."

[msfcatlover]

Members of the Batfam in TMA

An incomplete list, because I only dabble occasionally in DC fandom, and so I don’t know the girls or Duke well at all (I will say I think Babs would be an Avatar of the Eye & Duke would be victimized by the Stranger, just for the record.) I’m also not accusing any of them of actively hurting anyone the way that all Avatars must; I’m listing which Entities I think each of them would have the hardest time escaping and which one they would be most tempted to give in to.

If anyone wants to chime in, I’d love to hear other opinions! Like I said, my comics knowledge is limited, so I’m sure I’ve royally fucked at least 3 of these up. Just... please be nice to me, okay? 

Dick Grayson:

Victimized by the Buried. Not in the literal sense, Dick’s not claustrophobic (that I know of,) but his fear of letting people down, of having to step into Bruce’s shoes, the toughest calls he’s had to make that haunt him in whether he could’ve done better… that’s all pressure.

Avatar of the Vast. Unsurprisingly, Dick’s an adrenaline junkie who’s been “flying” as long as he could walk. That sort of freedom is hard to resist, and while I don’t think he’d choose it, it would be so easy to just lose track of people (including himself) out in the open sky.

(Reminder that Mike Crew didn’t sacrifice anyone else to join the Vast; he threw himself into the sky, and only sort of ever came down. His apparent lack of distinct memory after Becoming but very clear memory of everything before reinforces this, even though Mike himself admits he was pretty messed up even before that.)

Jason Todd: 

Victimized by the Lonely. His fear that the people he loves don’t actually care about him at all, that he’ll be left behind & forgotten, that maybe he deserves it, that he was never good enough—

(Buried is a close second, in the most literal sense. I don’t know if Jason is officially claustrophobic, but I like the “clawed his way out of his own grave” resurrection and it’s hard to see how he wouldn’t be after that.)

Avatar of the Desolation. A controlled burn, sure, but he’ll raze it all to the ground to hurt the people who draw his ire. There is a very loud part of Jason that wants the people who hurt others to know the pain they’ve caused; he can justify it, but if their suffering wasn’t the point, he’d just wait for them to come out of hiding & snipe them in the head. The only thing holding him back is his refusal to let innocents be caught in the crossfire.

Tim Drake:

Victimized by the Slaughter. This is twofold, based half on the death of his parents & half on his role as a detective. Random, unmotivated violence is something you can’t predict, can’t protect people from, and he’s already witnessed the results. Also, is this not what Tim set out to save Bruce from by becoming Robin: the descent into excessive violence, whether or not it results in death? 

Avatar of the Eye. Yes, again. I get the feeling this one’s gonna come up a lot; we are working with a bunch of detectives, it’s hardly surprising. Solving puzzles, rooting out secrets, holding all the cards just to know what’s going on… Tim’s most comfortable in the solving phase of any given case, even if he is more capable of kicking ass than most Eye followers are. 

(Tim & Jon have a lot in common, and Tim’s Becoming would probably be much the same: chasing the wrong rabbit all the way down to Wonderland, not realizing the price his new powers came with until it was too late.)

Damian Wayne:

Victimized by the Vast. Again, not literal; obviously heights are not a problem for Damian. But I think he’s scared of his existential insignificance. That no matter how hard he works, no matter what he does, none of it will ever matter. That even the things he aspires to don’t matter. The multiverse is too big, and it does not care. 

(This choice was really hard, for the record, as it’s basically neck-and-neck with the Lonely. I went with the Vast because even Damian is in denial about his need for acceptance, making it slightly easier for him to theoretically bluster through it in the short term. The Vast tends to compliment the Lonely anyway; any chink in your self-worth gives the Vast a chance to make it all seem pointless, and the greater awareness of your smallness & distance from others just makes the Lonely stronger.)

Avatar of the Corruption. This isn’t just because of Damian’s love of any & all animals, though that certainly plays a factor. No, I think Damian would be drawn to the Corruption for how it lets you weaponize that love, to bind people, make them a part of you, so that they’ll never leave you behind. Hold someone close, make them yours. The Lonely might not have won the top Fear on my ranking, but it is up there, and it’s not like he had the healthiest role models for love growing up. (Even if Talia’s an awesome mom, that makes one in the entire League of Assassins.)

Alfred Pennyworth:

Victimized by the Flesh. Not for him personally, I just feel like being forced to face the fact there’s nothing special about his family, forced to see them reduced to meat, would be so much worse for him than the violence or death that lead to it would be. There’s not really any shock to the End, and the Slaughter is the act itself, and I think Alfred’s depressingly come to terms with the hollow echo of the Lonely. The Flesh is the aftermath, what’s left behind, visceral & messy & close, and dealing with that, the remains of people he loves… I think that would be hardest for him.

Avatar of the End. This took a lot of thought, because Alfred just seems so well-adjusted. He’s not impulsive, he’s capable of accepting & coming to terms with his own feelings without taking them out on others, even when shocked he’s very good at going with the flow, he doesn’t need to pull the strings, or know everything, and his rage tends to be very tightly controlled. He also hates to see suffering extended, hates when innocents are at risk, and quite frankly I couldn’t think of any circumstances under which he would accept or indulge any of the Entities. Fortunately, the End doesn’t offer a choice, and its dispassionate inevitability strikes me as the closest to Alfred’s own methods whenever he’s driven to action.

Bruce Wayne:

Arguably the hardest on this list (and probably the most controversial), as Bruce’s greatest fears & vices have changed so much over the years as Batman changed writers. Arguments could be made for most of the Entities to fall under both. This is based on my own interpretation of him, so please let me explain…

Victimized by the Dark. No, this isn’t just because of his backstory — honestly, I completely forgot about the cave until I was halfway through justifying this to myself. No, I think Bruce’s greatest fear is the unknown, the things hidden from sight, things he’s overlooked or can’t account for. It’s what drives his constant need for information, contingencies, and control. Speaking of which…

Avatar of the Web. Bruce doesn’t just need to know everything, he needs plans, he needs access to all the chess pieces on the board. Even if you don’t like all-knowing Batman (and personally, I’m not a fan,) you can’t deny that given the chance to hold all the strings, Bruce would desperately want to grasp it with both hands. He’s already capable of great feats of manipulation, this is just the inevitable conclusion of where that runs into his contingency plans.

(For the record, I was seriously considering the Lonely, Slaughter, & Desolation for the Victimized section, and both the Eye & Hunt were runners-up for the Avatar spot.)

BONUS!

Clark Kent:

Victimized by the Spiral. I don’t think this needs much explanation. The Spiral’s whole thing is making you question your sanity by warping time, space, memory, and sensory perceptions, making even interpreting reality around you near impossible. Clark’s fears of being controlled, manipulated, or being unable to trust his own perceptions/judgements comes up time & time again in basically every iteration of his character (when he stops being worried about that, it’s usually because he’s gone off the deep end.)

(The Lonely is in a very close second place. However, that is dependent partially on character interpretation, and Clark’s Spiral fears are pretty inter-universal.)

Avatar of the Vast. No, I’m not saying Clark would throw people into the sky; this time, we’re working with Avatars on a mostly metaphorical level. Superman already makes people afraid for what he represents, of the vastness of possibilities, of their own insignificance in comparison. And Clark’s fear of how much damage he can do would, I think, make embracing his own relative smallness a massive relief for him. Ironically, Clark’s almost an avatar of the Vast already — it’s his constant efforts to not scare people, to be as inoffensive & gentle as possible that keep him behind that line. The moment Clark snaps, starts inflicting fear intentionally? That’s the fear he’ll be instilling.

(Obviously this overlaps with the Slaughter, Desolation, and Extinction. Special shout out to the Stranger, though, for the fear of something alien hiding among us!)

[nat-20s]

fill of @jonmartinweek day 6 prompt- flirting AND jealousy, though much heavier on the jealousy than the flirting. Set in a classic “season 5 jmart time travel bac to season 1″ au

~*~

“Mr. Blackwood-Sims, if I didn’t know any better, I would assume you’re trying to proposition me.”

“Mr. Sims-Blackwood, I would never. For one, neither of us are inclined towards those sorts of activities, for second, we’re both married men. What would my husband say?”

“I believe your husband would say he never specified exactly what you were propositioning, and he would be more than amenable to kissing, preferably sometime in the next few seconds.”

“Mmm, suppose I’ll have to find him and take him up on that, then. If that’s really how he feels.”

“Trust me, it most certainly is.”

Christ, would those two shut up already? Granted, it’s late enough that they probably think they’re alone in the archives, but, still. This is, technically, a work place, and Jon would’ve preferred not to have accidentally gotten an eyeful as he made his way past the open door in the breakroom. Now, the image of (supposedly) a future version of himself sitting on the couch, with (supposedly) a future version of Martin straddling his legs, using one hand to cup his face, and the other to run his hands through that Jon’s longer hair, was seared into his mind, and he hated it. Look, contrary to what people who don’t know him very well seemed to believe, he’s hardly a prude. He’s more than fine with descriptions of physical intimacy, as well as public displays of affection. If he’s being honest with himself, deep down, he doesn’t even care all that much about professionalism, especially considering it is after hours.

But of course, he’s not being honest with himself, because then he’d have to admit that it bothers him that it’s them. He doesn’t know what to call the acrid burning in the pit of his stomach, the too tight ache in his chest, that’s present whenever the fun house mirror versions of himself and Martin are besotted with each other, but he knows it’s there. It doesn’t help that he’s the only one that seems to be bothered by it, the only one that frowns at the flash of wedding rings or the orbit those two always seem to occupy around each other.

Or, no, he’s not the only one. Occasionally, while witnessing the two of them being...the Two of Them, he can’t help glancing over to Martin. Lo and behold, Martin also doesn’t look thrilled about all of this, usually skewing more towards confusion or, oddly enough, resignation. At least, that’s what Jon thinks he sees there, it’s one of the few times where he can’t fully get a read on Martin.

Still, as much as Martin might share in being somewhat perturbed, as anyone who meets their “future selves” should be, Martin doesn’t seem nearly as upset as Jon is. That brings him back to his current predicament of feeling that level of upset, but not being able to determine the root cause of it.

It is not that he’s jealous. It’s not! He does not feel a pang of envy at seeing someone who looks extremely similar to himself loving openly, and being openly loved in return. He doesn’t find his thoughts drifting to the imagined feeling of lips pressed to his temple or arms around his waist or fingers running through his hair. He certainly hasn’t looked down at his left hand and been disappointed by the fact that its bare. He doesn’t even want those things, as he’s been telling himself for a number of many lonely years. One of these days he might even believe it.

Fine. Fine. Maybe, but only maybe, there’s a part of him that’s jealous. Maybe there’s even a part of him that despairs, because try as he might he can’t connect point A to point B, can’t see the steps he would have to take to be like that other version of himself, and he knows his Martin (well, not his Martin, but..) will never look at him like that, will never see him in that light. And, damn it all, it hurts, so if they could kindly stop ru-

Oh. Wait. He can’t hear them outside his office door anymore. Huh, perhaps they-

“Knock knock.”

Startled out of his...contemplation, Jon looks up to find himself looking back. Sims is leaning against the door-frame, with mussed hair, swollen lips, and pupils blown wide. Jon loathes him and wishes to be him in equal measure. In a move he usually would’ve thought more characteristic of Tim, Sims doesn’t wait for a response, instead sitting himself across from Jon and saying, “Figured you’d still be here.”

Trying not to sound too much like he’s speaking through gritted teeth, Jon asks, “Did you now?”

Sims gives a lackadaisical shrug. “With any luck, you’re not going to become me. I not sure you can become me, at this point, diverging paths and all that. However, we do share the first 28 years of our lives, and I certainly didn’t believe in the concept of a work life balance, so why would you?”

“Is there something you wanted?”

“Yes, actually. I want you to ask out Martin, your moping is getting insufferable, and considering how much of our misery has been entirely outside of our control, you shouldn’t put up with what is in your power to fix.”

Jon blinks. Jon processes. Jon stammers. “I-what?! I am not, you can’t just-. Martin doesn’t even like me, and if you really were the same person as me, you know I’m not all that keen on him either.”

“Uh-huh. Is that why you can’t stop thinking about his hands?”

“I do no-”

Sims puts a hand up in surrender, though the smirk doesn’t entirely drop. “Sorry, sorry, I know that’s rather unhelpful. What I mean is, you’re already loved, right now, as you are. No, that love is not coming from Martin, but it could be,t because he doesn’t dislike you.  He doesn’t know you, because you have done everything in your power to make sure he doesn’t. You also don’t know him, even though you’re interested in him, because you’ve been trying not to be. It’s stupid. Get to know each other. It’ll probably work out.”

“I...is that how you did it? Because this seems like an objectively terrible idea.”

Sims snorts. “God, no. It took a coma before I was able to untangle my own feelings. The whole point is that you won’t have to take the same looping, painful path that I did.”

Jon wants to reject it outright, almost does, and yet. “Fine.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yes, really. Why?’

“Nothing, just. We’re usually a more stubborn on these sorts of things. I was expecting more of a fight.”

“Mm. Normally, I would be, but I’ve been forced to watch two rather obvious proof of concepts waltzing around in front of me, and agreeing will hopefully get you the hell out of my office.”

Sims studies him for a moment, then a surprised smile spreads on his face. “All right then.”

Jon makes a dismissive hand wave, and Sims obliges, and he spends the rest of the night trying not to think about what he’s agreed to.

~*~

The next day, about half an hour before the end of the work day, Jon calls Martin into his office. From his tight shoulders and carefully blank expression, it’s clear Martin very much does not want to be there. Great. This is going to go so well.

Jon gestures for him to sit, Martin does, and he dives in. “As we both now know, I don’t have the ability to fire you. In all reality, even though I am, on paper, your boss, I truly don’t have any power or authority over you.”

Martin leans back in his seat, letting a heavy pause fall between them before saying a stilted, “Okay?”

“So, I want you to know that I am about to ask you a question, and you have complete freedom and choice over your response, without fear of any negative consequences. Alright?”

“Um. Sure.”

Jon takes a breath, slowly lets it out, and bites the bullet. “Would you like to get dinner sometime?”

Martin stares. Then he squints. Then he studies. “Oh. Jon, you...we’re not them, you know that, right?”

“I’m aware.”

“So..why?”

Jon lets out a sigh, and tries to gather his thoughts in a way that makes sense to either of them. “Well, though I myself have some trouble with the concept, they’re not..entirely removed from who we are, and there’s enough foundation there that I have reason to believe we might...get on? Maybe we don’t, maybe we end up being friends, maybe we end up like them. That’s already enough to pique my own curiosity, but, alternate future versions of us aside, I mostly would just like to get to know more about you, and I’m hoping you might like to get to know me better as well.”

Martin’s shoulders relax, and he chews on his bottom lip for a moment before replying, “Okay. Yeah, why not?”

“Oh. Oh! Great! Does this Saturday work for you?”

“Works perfectly. Let’s give a shot.”

The first date is..fine. A Bit of a mess, but fine. The second date, however, is the best Jon’s ever been on. It’s so wonderful, in fact, that he doesn’t even mind when he catches Blackwood passing a fiver to Sims the day he can’t stop smiling at work.

[softkuna]

Toji Fushiguro || Toy || Fic

The Sukuna one had me like ✨✨✨ Now I must ask, can you- a toji x fem reader and him seeing Gojo eyeing up what's his and her responding to it and then toji being like oh hell no and basically railing her as punishment (degrading kink please it makes me jello) you don't have to write it if your not comfortable btw take your time and stay safe.

Content   ║ Toji Fushiguro x Fem Insert. Toji’s shoulder pressed into the wall with such a force the damn thing could’ve dented. Arms crossed tensely against the broad puff of his chest. His teeth ground together, the sound of squeaking canines reverberating in his mind.  Toji was seething. For a man with the physical prowess of a god, his tolerance was about as thin as a wet napkin. A wet napkin this woman decided to poke a well-manicured finger into.

Count      ║ 1,311 words.

Consider ║ NSFW. Degradation Kink. Objectification. Female Insert (she/her). Alcohol. Grammar issues. Basic degeneracy.

Creator    ║ So this is the first NSFW thing I have done like this ;v;. I’m not sure if this hit the mark for ya Anon, but hopefully it’ll do until I can get some more practice. It took a little while since I wasn’t exactly sure what I was doing. Honestly this just feels subpar gomen. Enjoy jealous Toji, though -finger guns-.

The club was barely lit with black light and neon strewn about the solid concrete walls in seemingly random intervals. A particularly bright hot pink one cast across her collarbone, dowsing the tops of her breasts deliciously in contrast to the black latex dress. As much as Toji would like to shove her against that very wall, she had a job to do. For him. And he regretted it.

  She was pushing her luck when she approached the table with a certain sway to her hips. Gojou peered around the tinted sunglasses, brow piqued in interest. She flashed a smile, smoothly setting a large bottle of some random high percentage alcohol onto the table. Sliding into the booth next to Satoru, the woman leaned a hand on his leg, the other moving to playfully snap the strap of a birthday hat under his chin, “I hear it’s someone’s birthday?”

  His head tilted up along with the corners of his lips, “Guilty as charged. Are you my present, doll? Always heard the hostesses here were the best,” His voice purred against the thrum of the bass. She tucked hair behind her ear, eyes flickering back to the ravenette with a dangerous composition. The corner of her mouth twitched up at the obvious frustration resonating in the man. He couldn’t touch her. Couldn’t even dream of it if he wanted any semblance of information on this guy. It was the perfect opportunity to test a theory. Toji was the jealous type.

  Toji’s shoulder pressed into the wall with such a force the damn thing could’ve dented. Arms crossed tensely against the broad puff of his chest. His teeth ground together, the sound of squeaking canines reverberating in his mind.  Toji was seething. For a man with the physical prowess of a god, his tolerance was about as thin as a wet napkin. A wet napkin this woman decided to poke a well-manicured finger into.

  He slammed down a shot, the burn at the back of his throat accompanying the burn of his own gaze. She wasn’t anything to him aside from an in. Yet somehow, the not-so-shaman made it a point to speak with her at least once a week, which usually lead into fucking her like a play thing. The lay was just as good as the information she could pry out of loose mouths. Immaculate. This go around, he needed information on someone in particular. Someone who just so happened to be here with a group. Someone who decided it would be a good idea to get a little handsy with his toy.

  “Y’know,” Satoru murmured, “’s pretty sad to be alone in bed for my birthday.” Chilled pads of his fingers rested at the back of her neck. His gaze was hungry and she was a full course meal. Just his type. Perfect shape, perfect charm, perfect headrush. Her hand cupped his ear, whispering something his buzzing mind couldn’t fully piece together against the dense music.  

  She kept up the sweet act despite not getting a lick of information. The only dirt she dug up was that he could finish half a handle before getting buzzed. By the end of the night, Gojou’s hands squeezed at her thigh like he did her last string of patience.  

  The last thing Toji saw was the exchange of cards.

  -

  As the black-clad hostess passed by Toji, her hand trailed along the muscles of his chest, stiletto nails pressing just slightly into him. He followed close behind until they got to their regular spot. A private room tucked into the corner of the club. Commonly used for rich men thirsting to empty their wallets on a good lap dance. It was sound proofed, dimly lit, and somehow hot pink velvet was a prime design choice to set a steamy mood.

  She crossed her arms, gaze hard as the door shut, “So, I’ve got bad new. He didn’t let a word slip-“ The sentence stopped as soon as it began.

  “So doll’s got a sense of humor, huh?” His voice held an edge to match the snide smirk flashing over pointed canines. She knew exactly what was up and oh was it a dangerously delectable sight. One that made her cunt throb on nothing but adrenaline. The crease of his brow, the way his lips set into that hairpin curl, the tensing of each thick muscle along his arm – all of it leaving a sense of satisfaction in the pit of her stomach. Theory confirmed. He took a step closer; she didn’t shrink away. A lost challenge if he’d say so himself.

  A large calloused hand shoved her onto cushions of the booth, catching her open mouth in his own with a bruising force. The man wasted no time with his prodding tongue, tasting the sweetness of peppermint and lapping it up while fending off her own slick muscle.  A hand snaked into the roots of her perfectly done hair, white-knuckling just at the base of the skull. With a sharp yank, her head was yanked back, allowing break for air. Smug and breathless, she chimed, “Jealous?”

  Toji blew air out in a single blackened laugh, “I’m not one to share my toys.” Teeth connected to her lips, rolling the flesh then moving to her throat. Purple marked his territory trailing down. The heat of his breath tickled the space directly next to her ear, “Now, you’re going to beg for me to forgive you. Make myself clear, slut?” Toji’s grip on her tightened, “Or is doll better for something getting used?” A rough tug to the back of her hair triggered a low moan from her heaving chest. After so many sessions, she knew he didn’t really want an answer. He wanted a reason go harder.  

  The hand once in her hair now gripped her jaw, keeping her gaze on him, “Answer me, toy. Or do I need to pull a string to make that cock-obsessed mouth move?” On que, free digits wrapped around the gusset of her thong, second knuckle just grazing the entrance of her heat before he pulled the sodden fabric taught, letting it snap back to place. The impact triggered another empty clench and gasp. Her hips writhed, a sappy pout puffing the bitten lips. More.

  Toji maintained her heavy-lidded stare as he brought the knuckle to his lips. He watched as her own parted when his tongue swept up the sweetness collected at the joint. The way her hips rose to match the zipper’s height, the lock of her teeth on her finger, the desperation in her eyes – all of it made his stiffened cock twitch against her adorably hopeless grinding, “Looks like my toy is broken. Guess I’ll just fuck the apology out of it then.”

  A wicked grin whipped onto his handsome face. Her mouth opened in rebuttal, only to get interrupted, “This is to teach a lesson, toy. What did you do to deserve the prep?” The gravel in his tone grew slightly dark, “Couldn’t even get the dirt I paid for.” His long digits did work past the gusset, slipping over her entrance, gathering the arousal, “Look how wet you already are for me.” A heated coil pressed in her at the words. She knew what was coming now and every inch of her craved it.

  In what seemed to be a single motion, jeans and boxers were torn down. Her dress was hiked up with a satisfying peel, thong quite literally ripped off and thrown to the ground before she was flipped so that her back was pressed against his chest. Sturdy, veined arms wrapped at the backs of her thighs and under her knees. Truly, she was a doll for him to pleasure himself on and he made it a point to do so.

  Toji lowered her so that the thick tip of his length pressed against her heart-beating heart. Her walls fluttered around him as he slid in. “For a broken toy, you’re pretty damn tight for me - ready to be played with. Get used- fuck.” Amusement broke through as she bit back a breathless sigh. His cock filled her easily, slick sliding down his shaft and pooling at the base. As he fully sheathed himself, he craned his neck forward, lips pressing at the shell of her ear, “Now, I want to hear you beg, bitch.” With that, the man snaked back and up, setting a relentless pace from the beginning. The sound of skin slamming into wettened skin filling the room along with the aroma of arousal.

  She was stubborn. He was tireless. They’d both cum before the apology even had a chance to.

[yesimwriting]

playing vices

“A/n a blurb bc ive been working on my novel and ive missed writing for Kirigan :))

--

I am a fool that has played into her vices enough to make them addictions. That must have been Kirigan's plan. He knows that I don't agree with his methods. He is also much too aware of the fact that I am beyond attached to him. He plays into that fact often, lulling me to him whenever he feels that my conscious is in danger of driving a wedge between us.

Which is why I have become accustomed to falling asleep while running my fingers along his skin as he whispers things much sweeter than anything he would say while fully awake.

But now it's late and he's not here. I sit up, kicking the comforter off of me slightly. It seems Aleksander has been more and more absent these days. When he's not with me, the odds that he's doing something that hurts people are high. His absence is also starting to make me feel like he's losing interest in me. It would make sense considering the fact that he looked twice at me in any capacity has never seemed logical.

Maybe that's why we've never indicated commitment to each other. I don't know what commitment would be with him. He seems to grand to be considered a 'boyfriend', but there's something more than friendly about how he holds onto me. I've never cared for labels until I started feeling displaced.

"You're still awake."

I press my lips together, trying to seem a little calmer. "Couldn't sleep."

"Troubling thoughts?" The question is more weighted than it should be. Everything with him is. 

“Has anyone ever called you dramatic?” 

His lips quirk upwards, hinting at a smile. Warmth pools in my stomach, the way it always does when he lets me see the slight glimmer of light that’s still in him. Sometimes I think he only shows me this softness when he feels that I may pull away. It may be rooted in manipulative intent, but I know that it’s real. 

“Only you would have the gall,” he says, voice low yet not dark. 

Kirigan’s easiness coaxes a smile from my lips. A small one, but I can feel the way the crack in my tension feeds his confidence. He takes pride in slipping past the walls I only try to create when cautious or irritated. Today I’m both but I need to pretend like I’m neither. The more resistance he senses, the more forward and effective his advances become. 

I keep my expression neutral. I’m sure Alina could get away with calling him that. I wish she was more unlikable. It would be easier to hide my irritation if I could blame that displaced feeling in my chest on two people. But of course Alina is wonderful, beautiful, and his equal.

Whatever. It’s not like we’re really anything. Every time I see him I wait for his betrayal. There’s nothing worth using me for, and somehow that makes me feel worse. He should have never looked at me twice let alone encourage whatever strange relationship we’ve created. 

My silence seems to displease him because he approaches my bedside easily in quick yet patient strides. Now that he’s close enough to touch I feel some of the ice I managed to solidify melt. 

Kirigan lifts a hand and places it on my knee easily. I stiffen instinctually, he runs his thumb over my skin to fight my resistance. “Who’s upset you?” 

I breathe, forcing myself to ease. “No one has.” I don’t have to meet his gaze to know he doesn’t believe me. That’s the core source of our attachment, we can read each other with less than a look. “I’m just getting a headache,” not a full lie, “I’ll feel better after some sleep.” He squeezes my knee slightly, a soft way of asking me for more. “I don’t think I’ll be good company tonight.” 

His hand leaves my knee, fingertips barely grazing my thigh as he moves his hand to hold beneath my chin. I still as he turns my head so that I have no choice but to meet his gaze. “You don’t need to be good company when what I want is your presence.” 

I press my lips together to avoid melting into the promising pools of warmth that make up his irises. He spent all day with Alina, took Zoya’s side in an argument I had with her earlier this week, and now he comes to me late at night. He seems to only want to acknowledge me when we’re alone, and it’s not like I want more than that. I just don’t know how long my heart will be able to teeter the line between nothing and something. I’m a fool for having let it go on this long. 

The only problem is that his steady stare is chasing away all of my rationality. “I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone more in the mood to offer their presence.” 

My curtness leaves something behind his expression dull, the hint of a smile that was growing on him has now vanished. I am met with a stoic disposition I have never had directed at me. 

“They’re not you,” he counters, voice edged by something I don’t understand. 

That’s the point. They’re not me--I’m average. I can’t offer power and my relationship experience is basic at best. I don’t want to have this argument, not when I’m basically fighting for him to let me go when that’s not what I want. 

I’m making it easier. If it hurts this much when I was only on the cusp of something, imagine the pain I’l feel if I let it continue. I turn my head away so that he’s no longer holding my chin. “Not a bad thing.” 

“To me it is.” He doesn’t hesitate, my chest swells. His thumb brushes against my cheek, soft and comforting. “I’m tired,” he says this like it’s a confession. His admission hangs in the air for a long moment, as heavy and weighted as my heart. “If you’re angry, wait until morning.” 

Something in my heart cracks. “I’m not angry.” My gaze drops, my thoughts struggling to come together. “I’ll be nicer to deal with in the morning.” 

“Y/n,” his tone twists from distant to warning, “the last time you asked me to leave was when you discovered something you didn’t like.” 

I almost wince at the way he’s worded it. When I found out what his real plans were, I told myself I had to leave. He skirted past all of my reservations and walls, twisting my doubt away through coddling whispers and shy brushes of fingers.

“This isn’t like that.” Not a lie. 

He exhales slowly, the sound dangerously sharp. “Then what is it?” 

“Why did you come here so late?” The question leaves me too sharply. I’m exposing too much but I can’t help it. “If you don’t want to answer, that’s fine.” My voice is flat. “I’m sure Alina will be happy to fill me in.” I can’t bring myself to take in his reaction. “And if she can’t, I’m sure Zoya will be able to.” 

He’s silent for a long second. “Unwarranted jealousy doesn’t suit you.” 

His confidence sparks something angry within me.  “I am not jealous.” The most blatant lie of the night, but I don’t care. I turn my head to glare at him, “and don’t just tact on ‘unwarranted’ before something that’s true just because it’s easier for it not to be.” 

I watch his expression cautiously until the slightest tilt of his lips adds to my anger. He’s enjoying this or he did this intentionally or both. “Darling,” he hums, voice soft, “you are the only person that makes me feel peace.” 

My stomach flutters, the sensation threatening to break my weak resolve. “I am not particularly powerful,” I breathe, voice stiff, “or particularly...” How do I explain this all to him? “Anything.” He’s everything, and I am nothing but average. “I’m average at best, there’s no reason for you to want anything to do with me, and that’s fine--but don’t lie and pretend that that’s not true.” 

The sentence is barely out fo my mouth before I feel myself pulled towards him by the collar of my nightgown. His lips are on mine before I can question where this is going. I kiss him back too quickly, but any effort I expend is returned fervently.

He pushes me back slightly as quickly as he yanked me forward. He doesn’t explain. I don’t ask him to. I should demand an answer and shove him away from me or pull him back towards me. But I do nothing. I just stare at him as he stares at me. 

When the weight of the silence threatens to break something in me, I force myself to speak, “Kirigan--”

“Aleksander.” The name is soft and so fragile I worry it will shatter in the air before it can fully reach me. “You know there’s much I’m not ready to say, but that,” he exhales, the sound so sad I want to reach for him, “that is the one name I have not given to myself and I want you to have it.” Something conflicted crosses his features. “I would never give that to someone average.” 

Emotion swells in my chest, heavy yet not painful. “Aleksander.” I’m not sure if I’m trying to call to him or if I’m just trying to feel his name--his true name--on my lips. 

His eyes widen, something unbearable behind them. He moves the hand holding the collar of my nightgown to my cheek. I lean into the contact like a fool as his eyes flutter shut. “Say it again.” 

I don’t hesitate, “Aleksander.” I lift my hand, fingers hesitant to find their place on his cheek. “Aleksander.”

He sighs into both the contact and the name. “You’re the first thing I’ve allowed myself to want,” his eyes open, but I cannot bring myself to meet his gaze, “I should make you feel like it.”

Something about the way he says that is sad. “I think that if it’s fair to say you were a little distant, it’s just as fair to say that I was a little jealous.” 

Aleksander smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m tired,” he admits, “I’ll enjoy my victory in the morning.” 

I roll my eyes, but scoot over to give him a place by my side regardless. “I’m not sure you won, I think it was more of a draw.” 

He takes the space I offer quickly, never letting the contact between us disappear as he settles himself against my pillow. I let him pull me towards him. “This feels like a victory.” 

I try to ignore the warmth in my chest. “You’re lucky I’m tired enough to find that endearing.” 

I relax as his fingers trace shapes I’ll never know about onto my back. “I agree.” 

[whelvenwings]

Castiel's grace is missing, and Dean's frustrated - instead of looking for it, all Castiel wants to do is grow his flowers. Eventually, the two of them have to talk about it.

Read it below or here on AO3! Tags: Canon Divergent, Gardener!Cas, Cas' Grace

This fic was inspired by this wonderful art by saminzat, and written as part of the @spnreverse-promptchallenge!

It’s not Heaven. It’s not even close. It’s just a garden, where Castiel is growing things.

If it were Heaven, Castiel thinks, then Dean would be looking a lot happier, those wrinkles around his eyes all eased away. If it were Heaven, there would have been a break in the clouds overhead when Dean arrived.

If it were Heaven, the peach rose would be in bloom, not straggling all green and leggy and ungainly through the picket fence that Castiel had put up to help it grow.

Castiel puts down the secateurs he’s been using to prune the forsythia, and takes off his gardening gloves. He walks over to Dean, acutely aware of the fact that he’s wearing enough sunscreen to make his skin shine, the worn-thin, oversized blue t-shirt he found at a Goodwill that says Thyme to Garden, and a very large sunhat to protect the back of his neck.

Sunburn, he reminds himself, is more uncomfortable than the growing look of mixed amusement and judgement in Dean’s eyes. Even on a cloudy day, his skin will burn if he’s outside for a long time. Something he learned the hard way after becoming human.

“I thought you were researching a case,” Castiel says to Dean as he approaches.

“Done. Thought I’d come say hi.” Dean raises an eyebrow and a half-smile at him in greeting. “So, hi.”

Castiel stops a few feet from him and tips his hat a little further back on his head, so that Dean can clearly see his face.

“Hello,” he says. Dean takes in the hat, the t-shirt, the full gardening ensemble, with one sweeping gaze.

“Looking good,” Dean says.

Castiel looks down at himself, and then solemnly back to Dean.

“Thank you,” he says, with just enough irony in his tone to get Dean to smile. Or it would have been, usually, but today Dean’s expression is sinking back into hard lines. The greyish, muted light seems to lie heavy on him, putting a coldness in his eyes.

Castiel searches his face. Just as he’s about to say something more, Dean breaks their stare, glancing around at the plants nearest him as a light breeze ruffles at them.

“They’ve grown since last time you showed me,” Dean says. He’s holding himself strangely, his fists clenched. Castiel tilts his head to one side, and then looks around with Dean at the garden.

He feels the familiar spark of happiness as he surveys his handiwork. Once, the place had been a sad little patch of chalky, lump-filled earth. Now the flowers drip off their stems like dewdrops, and the soil smells rich, and the leaves tremble their creaky little paths to follow the sun each day. Even the blossomless peach rose has strong roots.

Castiel glances back to Dean, and feels the warmth in his chest sputter out. Dean’s eyeing the plantlife with an expression that doesn’t seem impressed.

“It’s been a while since last time,” Castiel says.

“Yeah. Well, you know.” Dean looks distracted, frowning down at a squat little succulent plant. There’s something bothering him, obviously, and Castiel isn’t sure whether Dean wants to be asked about it or have it be left alone.

“You’re always welcome,” Castiel tries quietly. Dean seems to catch himself, shifting his expression to something more neutral as he turns back to Castiel.

“Yeah,” he says, not as though he particularly believes it, and – in a way that almost manages to seem genuine – not as though he particularly cares.

“You can stay,” Castiel says. “If you want. There’s plenty to do. If you’re not busy.”

Dean puts his hands into his pockets and looks around the garden again, this time with his eyes a little less sharp.

“Nah,” he says. “Nah, I don’t wanna spoil the fun.”

Spoil the fun? Castiel gives Dean a look that he hopes is eloquent, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“I dunno, man,” he says. “Anyway, it’s not really me, is it.”

He looks tired, Castiel thinks.

“Didn’t think it was you, either,” Dean adds after a half-beat. He reaches up unselfconsciously, and then seems to realise what he’s doing at the last moment, and awkwardly flicks the brim of Castiel’s hat with the back of one finger before taking a step away. “Didn’t think you’d ever go in for… you know. Whatever this is.”

Castiel can easily read that expression on Dean’s face. He’s seen it before, in other times, other places. The mixture of bravado and hurt and confusion had made sense when lives had been at stake and grand lies had been unfolding, but this – here, today, in among his roses and sunflowers, Castiel hadn’t expected it. Dean looks betrayed.

And Castiel doesn’t know what to say. He reaches up to his hat, just brushing the brim with the tips of his fingers in the same place Dean touched it.

“I need the hat,” he says. “To keep the sun off my neck.”

“Right,” Dean says. “Yeah.” He looks up at the sky, which is still an overcast grey.

“Even through clouds,” Castiel offers.

“Uh huh. Okay.”

Castiel squints at him.

“You seem angry,” he says. No more dancing around it. Predictably, Dean makes a face, as though the suggestion were ridiculous.

“Nah.”

“Dean.” Castiel fixes him with a look, and Dean shrugs.

“Whatever, man.”

“If something is wrong…” Castiel says.

“Listen, if coming out here and growing your little flowers and everything helps, then that’s fine,” he says. “It’s fine.”

There’s a but coming, and Castiel knows enough to wait for it. Dean looks aimlessly around at the burgeoning plants. His eyes trace the tangle of a buddleia, until he glances back to Castiel, who raises an eyebrow.

Dean’s front drops, the stiffness going out of his shoulders, his hands unclenching.

“But your grace, man,” he says. Castiel looks down at the ground. He should have expected this, he knew. But somehow hearing the words still takes him by surprise.

“What about it,” he says, in a tone that doesn’t really want an answer, but knows it’s going to get one.

Dean’s hands come up, palms facing out, asking a question without words at first.

“Seriously,” he manages after a moment. “What about it? It’s your grace, Cas.”

“I know,” Castiel says.

“It’s gone,” Dean says.

“I know.”

“It’s been months.”

“I…” Castiel sighs. “Yes.”

“You told me it was just gone,” Dean says, ducking his chin slightly to catch Castiel’s eyes. “Like it was no big deal. And now all you do is spend time up here, planting flowers. Not even trying to look for it. I don’t get it, man. And whenever I try to bring it up, you just say –”

“It’s taken care of,” Castiel says, at the same time as Dean mouths the words along with him, his expression exasperated with a spiderweb of hurt threaded through.

“It’s your grace.”

“I know,” Castiel says. “I know it is. But it’s taken care of, Dean. I don’t want…”

He cuts himself off before he says too much, pressing his lips together.

Dean shakes his head. Castiel can see him battling with himself, trying to decide whether he wants to push harder. Castiel keeps his face neutral, hoping Dean will drop it.

“Don’t want what?” Dean says, though, and Castiel feels his heart sink. “You’re human, now. And you’re stuck that way until you get your grace back, but you won’t even…” Dean seems to run out of words. Castiel tries to think of something to say to divert the conversation, take them down a different track.

“I’m doing better at shaving,” he says. “And I’ve learned not to brush my teeth before drinking orange juice.”

Castiel can see the slight smile on Dean’s face, but it’s almost completely buried under the worry and the anger.

“Right,” Dean says.

“Dean…”

“I just don’t get it. The grace… if it’s lost, I can help with that. If it’s destroyed, I can try to help too, or… we’ll figure something out. Or if it’s safe, why won’t you tell me what happened with it?” The strain in Dean’s voice tells Castiel that they’re at the heart of it now, at the reason for the tight shoulders and the clipped answers and the judgemental eyes on his catmint and cosmos. “Why won’t you just tell me?”

Castiel stares at him helplessly. The answers are in the back of his throat, ready to be said, but he can’t open his mouth – can’t get them out. He feels his heart thudding, his human heart. He doesn’t know if he likes that feeling, if he wants it – perhaps not, no more than he wants sunburn, or the taste of orange juice after toothpaste, or blood on his palms when he catches himself on that peach rose’s thorns.

But there’s something he does want. And any chance at – at that – any chance at all, it’s worth the weight of being human. He made a choice and he knows he’d make it, the same one, over and over again.

He thinks it all, but he can’t say it. Dean watches him, angry and confused. Overhead, the clouds lumber their heavy bellies across the sky.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Dean says. Castiel looks away, and Dean takes a step closer. “Cas,” he says. “I swear to god.”

Castiel looks up at him, knowing his own tiredness is right there to be seen on his face – and his sadness, his hurt. Dean’s expression shifts, and he comes even closer.

“What did you do, man? Is it that bad?”

It’s easy to see Dean’s mind working, trying to piece everything together. He’s probably thinking demons, and deals, and treachery, all the things that they’ve been through before. Castiel doesn’t know how to explain to him that he’s wrong without telling him the whole truth. And he can’t tell the whole truth.

“Look,” Dean says, “we’ll figure it out. If you just tell me – tell me where it is, or what happened. Did someone do this? And what… what does all of this have to do with it…” He looks around again at the garden. Castiel closes his eyes for a second, lets the familiar feeling of being here fill him as much as he can let it – the warmth in his chest, the spark.

He knows he should try to talk about it, but he can’t. He can’t.

When he opens his eyes, Dean’s waiting, watching him. Castiel opens his mouth – but nothing comes out.

Dean’s face tightens again.

“Okay,” he says. “So it’s like that. Great, Cas.”

“Dean, it’s –”

“No, it’s fine,” Dean says, his tone taut with bitterness, but his face carefully unbothered. “That’s fine. Deal with it by yourself. That’s always gone so well. And meanwhile, me, I’ll just, what? Wait for you to give me the bad news, I guess. That’s great, Cas. Really. You know, you –”

“Stop,” Castiel asks.

And a little of the fight leaves Dean again. He looks as though he wants to say something else, but doesn’t know what. His face is half apology and half anger.

“It just…” he says. And then waves his hand, like it doesn’t matter anyway.

And it’s the simplicity of the hurt in that gesture that has Castiel throwing all his caution to the wind and saying,

“I don’t want it back.”

Dean stops moving. His eyes fix on Castiel.

“What?” Dean asks.

Castiel’s jaw is tight, but he manages to say again,

“I don’t want it back. My grace. I know where it is. But I don’t want it back.”

All of Dean’s carefully placed anger is gone, suddenly, in his shock. There’s no performance, no strategy, in the way that he steps closer and looks utterly bewildered.

“You don’t?” he says.

“No. I…” Castiel hesitates, and then says, “I took it out myself.”

“You what?”

Castiel lifts one shoulder, a little diffidently. It had been necessary, so he’d done it. As simple as that.

“Cas,” Dean says, and then seems to be at a loss. Castiel doesn’t say anything. There isn’t anything to say, so far as he can see.

He’s made his choice. And if he ever regrets it, if he ever wishes things could be different, all he has to do is look at Dean and it pales to nothing.

“Cas… why?” Dean manages eventually, and Castiel breathes out.

He looks at Dean.

Dean stares right back at him, not understanding.

“Did someone make you?” Dean demands. “We can go and look for them, we can –”

“No,” Castiel says. “No. I chose to do it.”

“But Cas…”

“It’s –” Castiel presses his lips together again, trying not to let the expression look pained, even though there’s a flash of hurt through his chest at the thought of trying to say any of it aloud. Saying it would push the two of them, Dean and Castiel, towards a tipping point. A no-takebacks, no room for misunderstanding point. Sharp as a thorn.

And it’s the last thing Castiel wants.

Until they talk about it, anything seems possible. It almost feels real enough. But if they talk, it’ll all be over. Dean will tell him to take back his grace, and Castiel will have to leave. It’ll be over.

“You took it out. What would you do that for,” Dean says. When Castiel doesn’t reply, he reaches out and puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Hey,” he says, the word harsh enough to compensate for the touch.

“It’s nothing,” Castiel says.

“Cas.”

“Really, it’s…” Castiel stops. The denial dies in his mouth. He swallows, his eyes on Dean, before he looked down. “I just want to be able to stay with you.”

The last two words are too much – all of it is too much – but they’re out his mouth before he can stop them. Castiel breathes out and waits to feel Dean’s hand loosen its grip, drop away in shock at the unwanted intensity. It’s too much. Castiel knows it’s too much.

But Dean’s hand is still on his shoulder.

“You want to be able to stay?” Dean says.

“Yes.” Castiel says it bluntly, to try to shave off the emotion, make it easier to talk about. Dean’s hand still doesn’t move. Castiel can feel each place Dean’s fingers are digging in slightly through the thin material of his t-shirt. His heart is pounding and he wants to be able to turn it off, quiet it down, hear Dean’s heart instead in the way he could when he had his grace. He wants it with a sudden acuteness, a pang of loss.

“But – you can,” Dean says. “Why would you think you needed to do this?”

Castiel can’t look back up at him.

“Cas,” Dean says.

There’s a band of pain squeezing tightly around Castiel’s chest. He can’t quite seem to get his breath, suddenly.

“I just thought I’d fit better this way,” he says.

“Fit better?” Now Dean moves his hand, pulls back, though he doesn’t go far. “What do you mean?”

“You’re human,” Castiel says. He looks up, meets Dean’s eyes. “Now I am too. I thought, maybe…”

He trails off. He can’t say more. He can’t talk about what he hopes for, what he wants. He can’t.

Dean’s hand is back on his shoulder and the touch is different, now, less insistent. Softer. Castiel can see the gentleness in Dean’s eyes, shy and uncertain, allowed to show just for a few moments.

“We don’t have to be the same,” Dean says.

Castiel doesn’t know how to answer.

“We’ve never been the same,” Dean says. “But we’re still good. Right?”

There are no words in Castiel’s mind, or none that make sense – or none that he can say aloud. He wishes he could give Dean the way that he feels, just drop it into Dean’s mind, show him without having to explain it. The feeling is yes, good, of course we’re good, but there’s more – there’s different things, things I want to be to you, ways I want to be with you. And not telling you feels more and more like lying with every passing day but I don’t know how to tell you without you being suddenly aware that I’ve been wanting you in a different way to how you want me for a very long time, and will you hate me for that? Will you think I’m a liar? Will you send me away? Could I bear that? Could I bear it? If you hated me, how could I bear it?

“I just,” Castiel says, “I just want to be able to stay.” It’s the only part of it that will come out of his mouth.

“You can,” Dean says. “You don’t need… damnit, Cas, you didn’t have to take your own grace out just to be able to stay.”

Castiel nods mutely. Dean’s hand squeezes Castiel’s shoulder.

“So you can put it back, right?” he says. “The grace. You can go get it and put it back?”

“I could.” It comes out more direct and harsh than Castiel intended, and Dean’s grip tightens.

“So…?” he says.

Castiel can’t meet his eyes. He looks to the side, around the garden that he’s created. The flowers that have unfurled for him, trusting, unfussy about what deep love and secrets he’s hiding. The leaves and shoots that grow steadily under the care of his hands, no matter who else those hands wish they could hold.

“Cas,” Dean says again, and gives another squeeze, and then lets go. “Your grace is you, man. All these months, it’s not like you’ve had a good time being human, is it?”

“It’s worth it.”

“Worth it?” Dean echoes.

“If it means we’re the same,” Castiel says. And his reasoning isn’t even clear to Castiel himself, now. It just feels as though if they’re both human, if they both are the same thing, there’s a chance they could both feel the same way, too – it makes no sense, and yet Castiel can’t imagine letting go of the thought.

“We don’t need to be the same,” Dean says, repeating himself with a look that’s crossed between confusion and concern.

“But I…”

Castiel stops talking, cuts himself off. Dean’s eyes search his face.

“You want to be?” Dean says, cautious, hazarding a guess. And when Castiel’s expression tells Dean he’s right, his face goes even more soft with surprise. “Why?”

There isn’t anything that Castiel can say in answer. No explanations he can give that will make sense outside his own mind. All he finds himself doing is looking at Dean – looking at him more openly than he has done in a long time, half tight-lipped and wanting the conversation to end, half hoping that Dean will finally piece it all together. He allows himself to stare, frankly and directly, pushing away the guilt and shame that push at him and tell him to look down, step away, move back, leave. He stares like he once used to all the time, letting down the walls.

There’s Dean, he thinks. There he is. Sometimes the feelings in Castiel grow so big and overwhelming that he forgets the shape of the man at the heart of them. The way Dean cares. The way Dean looks at him right back, matches him – when it comes down to it, never pretends it doesn’t matter to him when it does.

Dean’s mouth opens to form words, but he seems to stop himself. Castiel watches Dean swallow, and feels the familiar swoop and ache in his chest as all his crushing sky-sized love focuses into the smallness of the place on Dean’s throat that he wants to touch.

Dean goes to say something, and then stops.

Castiel looks down at Dean’s lips, and then back up again.

Is it wrong, how much he wants to kiss Dean? The feeling is pressing, immediate, alive. It’s in Castiel’s blood, in his bones. If Dean doesn’t want him too, in the same way, does that make the feeling wrong? Or would it just be acting on it, making Dean aware of it, that would be wrong? But the feeling is a background hum in everything Castiel does. He acts on it even when Dean isn’t with him. He acts on it all the time.

Every passing moment changes the gaze between them. Dean’s waiting for him to talk, not filling in the space with any words this time, but his face keeps sinking further into something that looks dangerously like realisation.

“I don’t know,” Castiel says. If how he feels, or what he’s doing, is wrong, then he should look away. He should go away, leave Dean alone, find somewhere else to be. But he couldn’t, he can’t, not until he knows for sure that Dean doesn’t feel even slightly the same way – and he can’t ask, because as soon as he knows Dean doesn’t feel the same way, he’ll have to leave. The thoughts chase their tails in Castiel’s head and he stares and he stares at Dean and he hurts so much that he wants to hit his own chest just for the distraction of a simpler pain.

“You don’t know what?”

“I just don’t know, Dean.”

Dean is watching him carefully, his mouth slightly open, as though trying to figure out how to phrase something he wants to say. There’s a slight tinge of colour to his cheeks, too, Castiel notices.

“Uh,” Dean says. His mouth shapes a ‘w’ like the start of a question, and then closes again, and he frowns – but he doesn’t look away.

He almost knows, Castiel thinks. He’s almost understood. And as soon as Dean understands, it’s over. Unless he feels the same way, which he doesn’t. He can’t. We’re not the same. No matter how hard I try and how much I change, we’re not ever the same.

He needs to cauterise this conversation like a wound, stop all this from happening, but he can’t find the words. Dean’s still watching him. Castiel’s heart is thunder in his head, drowning out his thoughts.

“You look like the whole world’s falling apart,” Dean says eventually. “Not an exaggeration. ‘Cause I’ve seen your face when the world was actually falling apart.” Dean points vaguely with one finger towards Castiel’s face. “And it looked like that.”

Castiel nods mutely, and Dean sighs and glances sharply away, and then back again.

“Come on, Cas, jesus. Something’s up, so whatever it is, just tell me.” He looks at Castiel for a long time, and then he says it again. In a different voice, quieter, with a little rise at the end as though of hope or something equally as stupid for Castiel to consider. “Tell me.”

It’s said in a way that makes Castiel want to believe he’s asking for all the things Castiel wants to give.

Dean’s eyes are wide, too. Like he can’t quite believe what he’s asking.

And Castiel’s human heart is pounding at that tone in his voice, that look on his face, because it feels as though – tentatively – they could be talking about the same thing. The longer Castiel watches Dean’s face, the more he sees it. There are the little flickers of denial, uncertainty, in the way Dean’s eyes narrow for a half-moment. And then there again is the rise of hope in the depth of Dean’s gaze, the openness.

It’s so small and barely-there that Castiel can’t trust it. He can’t know how this ends. It’s a rope thrown into down into his well, though, and with no idea what waits for him at the top, he still puts his hand on it and wonders if he’s strong enough to begin to climb.

“I, um.” He starts to speak, and his voice is low and rough. When he pauses almost immediately, Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other, licks his lips. Castiel searches for the words. “I tried staking that peach rose. But it didn’t do any good.”

Dean looks confused. He doesn’t even bother to look down at the rose, just keeps his eyes on Castiel.

“What…” he says.

“It just grew that way,” Castiel says. He can feel a lump in his throat. “Naturally. It wanted to grow that way.”

“Okay,” Dean says, as though slightly concerned for Castiel’s sanity.

“I think sometimes it’s just like that,” Castiel says. He meets Dean’s eyes. “You can try planting them in the place you want them. Cut them back. Put a stake through them.” He resists the sudden, unexpected urge to reach up and touch the place on his chest where, years ago, Dean buried a knife in his heart. He swallows. “But sometimes there are things you can’t control. And even if it’s not… not healthy, or pretty, or the way it’s supposed to go… that’s how they’ll grow. Just towards the place they want to be.”

Dean’s listening intently, but his eyes are clouded with confusion. He looks like he wants to say something, and then stops himself. Castiel can’t blame him for not understanding, when half the point is that he’s talking without getting to the point. He doesn’t want to get to that sharp-split point when his life takes one of two courses, when Dean says one of two things.

“Dean, I…” Castiel says, and his hand reaches out. Unconsciously, awkwardly, the straggling limb of a plant that has never grown the way it should have done. And Castiel goes to catch himself, to stop letting his fingers trail through the air reaching for a place they can’t go – but then Dean takes his hand.

Dean takes his hand, and holds onto it. Not sweetly, not softly. Hard. Like they’re at the top of a cliff and Dean’s afraid of losing his grip and having to watch Castiel fall alone.

Castiel can barely breathe. Against the odds his hand is being held by Dean. Against the way that his words desert him, against the thousands of reasons that the two of them shouldn’t have ever even met, let alone be standing here together in a garden. Against all of it, Castiel’s hand is squeezed tight in Dean’s.

There’s a part of Castiel that’s trying to pinch itself, that’s shaking its head in denial, but Dean’s grip is warm and real.

“Cas,” Dean says. “Do you…”

The question has no ending, but it’s Dean, so the answer is yes. Castiel nods.

Dean’s expression seems, with just the smallest of looks in his eyes, to break apart. He holds onto Castiel’s hand and says nothing, doesn’t move.

“And…” Castiel says, but his throat goes dry. He can do this. He has to do this. If he doesn’t now, he never will. He tries again. “And… you?”

Dean looks momentarily bewildered.

“Yeah, Cas,” he says.

Castiel feels himself go light, so suddenly his stomach flips.

Yeah, Cas, he hears in his head. Yeah, Cas.

On another day, when Castiel hadn’t just told Dean how he feels through a series of oblique angles – when Castiel’s hand wasn’t still being held in the rough warmth of Dean’s – Castiel might have been indignant at that tone in Dean’s voice. As though it had been obvious, when yes, half the time Dean was staring at him like he actually mattered, was ready to die for him – but the rest of the time Dean couldn’t look at him, was ready to die for anything.

Their hands swing a little between them. Just their arm muscles getting a little tired, and their hands moving together. Such a very little thing to happen, Castiel thinks. So very small. After all this time it’s just one hand in another, and it means absolutely crushingly everything, in the way that he’d known it would.

It’s happening, he thinks. It’s happening. We’re the same. We’re the same.

A little clutch of fear that he might change, one day. Wake up and be something else, unexpectedly. Grow again, in a direction Dean doesn’t –

Castiel breathes. It’s alright. He’s torn out his grace for this. He can be the person Dean needs. He can change himself again. Over and over, if needs be.

He holds Dean’s hand. Tight. He can always change again. He can make them the same again. Whatever it takes. For this, for the feeling of Dean's hand in his, it would be worth it, anything would be worth it. But –

Dean’s grip goes slack in his own.

“Wait,” Dean says. “Wait. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Castiel says. He holds tighter. “Nothing.”

Dean’s hand drops Castiel’s. The loosening of his grip is a slow-motion whip crack across Castiel’s chest.

“No?” Dean says, looking at Castiel, asking with the single word whether Castiel doesn’t want anything that just happened. He puts his hands up just a little way, maybe a surrender, maybe just a gesture to show he isn’t touching.

“Wait,” Castiel says, his hand still in place, still reaching. It shows, then, he thinks to himself. That sickle-curve sharpness in his chest, the fear in him that he won’t always be able to fit himself to what Dean wants, it must show. Dean can see it. Castiel lifts his chin, tries to look as though he’s feeling incredibly happy, instead of just incredibly much. “Dean, why are you –”

“Cas…” Dean’s eyes are searching his face, looking for the place where something is wrong. Castiel wants to cut in, insist that nothing is wrong. Take Dean’s hand again, reach for more – he could reach for more, he thinks, and his heart twists, and his head feels light. He could reach for more. Dean might let him. Dean was holding his hand for a moment, there, by choice, as though it really meant something. Castiel’s mouth is dry.

“What’s wrong?” Castiel tries. But his stomach is sinking, even as he’s aching with the terrifying joy of the sudden opening of all the doors he’d always thought were closed for him.

Dean can see that he’s scared. Dean is going to figure it all out. And then those doors will close again.

“I mean…” Dean says. He blinks, shakes his head just slightly. Seems to remember where exactly he is, glancing around at Castiel’s garden. It’s all slipping out of Castiel’s grasp. They’re going to pretend as though the last two minutes never happened, Castiel can feel it.

It’s unbearable. It’s unbearable. The idea of having had it for barely a few seconds, and then losing it. Castiel reaches for words, for anything – something that will show Dean how much it all means to him, how far he’ll go to make it work.

“We’re both human,” he says, almost blurts. “I took out my grace. So we can be… so I can stay.”

Took out, he thinks to himself. What a clinical way to talk about the tearing, the self-destruction, the loss.

Dean just looks at him, mouth slightly open.

This is supposed to be the part where Dean argues, Castiel realises only when it doesn’t come. This is the part where Dean asks me what the hell I was thinking. Tells me to put the grace damn well back where it came from, and to stop making terrible decisions. And then I argue back, and tell him I’ll do what I want to do with my own grace, and I made this choice for him, and I’d do it again.

But Dean isn’t saying anything. He’s just staring. And Castiel stares, too. He can’t argue back when Dean hasn’t started the fight. He can’t push back if Dean never pushed forward. So they stand in silence. The clouds overhead roll on, oblivious to the hearts frantically pounding so far beneath them.

“Cas,” Dean says, and he says it differently to how he’s supposed to – quietly, carefully, handling the name like it’s made of something delicate. “I don’t know what you want me to say, man.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Castiel says.

“But you… you did that…”

Castiel watches him mutely.

“Why?” Dean asks.

So many answers. To be like you. To be near you. To show you I can change for you. Castiel opens his mouth and tries not to say too much.

“For – this,” Castiel says, managing to stop himself saying, for you.

“This?”

“This,” Castiel says, holding Dean’s gaze.

Dean holds his gaze.

“But it – ah. Jesus, Cas, this is hard to talk about.”

Castiel nods. He doesn’t want to let it go – feels sick at the idea of Dean just dropping the subject, and heading back inside, leaving the garden and forgetting all about what they’d said to each other. Chalking it up as somewhere he’d never go again. Too much baggage, too heavy, not worth it.

Dean puffs out his cheeks, though, and breathes out sharply, and says,

“It’s just that, hell, man, you never had to take the grace out to have… you know… anything you wanted out of me.” Dean looks uncertain as he says the last part, as though a little disbelieving that Castiel could want anything from him in particular. “You know that. Right?”

His voice is so different. So gentle in a way that Castiel only barely recognises from the most private of moments they’ve shared. Castiel is suddenly so intensely aware that they’re the only two in the garden, alone with each other. No one else to see them or hear them or judge what they say to each other. It’s a thought that gives him courage.

“I’ve changed for you since the beginning,” Castiel says. Dean opens his mouth, and then closes it, his eyes troubled. Castiel watches him, thinking. “Or –” he starts, as a new thought occurs to him. “Or, changed because of you, at least.”

Dean still looks confused, as though he doesn’t really see the difference. To Castiel, though, it feels clear as day. He changed because he met Dean – without that meeting, he would still be the angel he’d always been. But when he thought about it, the person he changed for was himself. Because it had felt right. Because it felt, period, and that was what he’d wanted.

It loops round and round perfectly in Castiel’s mind. Meeting Dean, the push Castiel needed to start running. And knowing Dean, now, the pull Castiel needs to keep changing, stay with him, stay together.

“I just thought,” Castiel says, when Dean stays silent, “if I could be human like you, then maybe you’d… maybe we could be the same. And stay that way.”

“And you want that,” Dean says.

“Yes.”

“Because…”

“Because,” Castiel says, a little taken aback, “I want… this.”

“But why’d we have to be the same for that? I mean – this?” Dean frowns, as though almost losing track of what he’s trying to say. They’re trying to talk all around it without using any words that are too big.

“Why…” Castiel trails off as he considers the question.

Dean shrugs, in a way that battles to look uncaring and ends up looking heartfelt.

“But… we need to be the same,” Castiel says. He wants them to be close like two leaves on a tree. Closer, two petals on a flower. No, closer still, not even two things. Just one, one plant, growing strong. He wants them that close, that inseparable, after so long being forced apart by fate and circumstance. No would-be gods or divine powers could set them apart if they were one thing. The same.

“But we aren’t the same, Cas,” Dean says, so quietly that Castiel only just hears it over the little burst of breeze that briefly ruffles over them.

Castiel feels his chest clench.

“I’m trying…” he says.

“No, I mean – I mean we can’t be,” Dean says. “I mean, we aren’t, ‘cause we’re… you know… two different people. There it is, you know? Different people. We can’t be exactly the same.”

“But…” Castiel starts, and the word comes out sounding almost angry, so he checks himself and looks down. “But,” he starts again, “if I can just…”

“C’mon,” Dean says, the smallest of smiles softening one side of his mouth. “You wouldn’t really want two of me running around the place, would you?”

“That’s not how I meant it,” Castiel answers, his voice serious, but with a lightness in his eyes to acknowledge Dean’s brush with humour.

“Come to think of it, though,” Dean says, “I’d get a lot more work done on the car if there were two of me. And we could harmonise on Zepp tracks. Maybe you are onto something.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, though he can feel his heart lifting just seeing Dean reaching out for him, trying to make him smile.

“I wouldn’t let you share my toothbrush, though, no way.” Dean looks around the garden. “And this would have to go. Hate to break it to you, but no way are you digging around in the dirt for hours if you’re me. Not unless there’s something to salt and burn at the end of it.”

“I know,” Castiel says, and the words sound little and obstinate, but his hands relax. Dean is looking at him like he gets it – like he sees that curling fear inside Castiel, the one that can’t let them be two different and separate things that just happen by the grace of luck to be next to each other. Because luck runs out, and they both know it. The only way to be sure of staying together, the fear says, is to be so much the same as to be one thing.

But it’s impossible. Castiel can’t be Dean. And Dean’s right, too, because Castiel doesn’t really want to be. He doesn’t want to give up gardening. He doesn’t want to work on Dean’s car. He doesn’t want to share a toothbrush.

He wants to spend time growing things. He wants his own hands in the dirt. He wants – he wants Dean, in the way that he has done since meeting Dean. And he wants to keep wanting.

Even if he didn’t want it, it’s what is. They’re two plants next to each other. Hoping not to be uprooted, hoping for sun, hoping for kind hands that stake them upright and water them even when they won’t flower. Always at the mercy of whatever storms might come, however hard Castiel tries to tangle himself together with Dean, camouflage with him, become just the same.

There are plants that do that, Castiel remembers. Plants that tangle and blend with other plants. They’re weeds. They choke out the first plant, cut off all its light and food until it dies. Two things can’t become one thing without loss. And Castiel doesn’t want to lose Dean – and, he realises quite suddenly, he also doesn’t want to lose himself. There’s so much he wants to do.

Things he might be able to do.

He looks at Dean, who’s watching him piece it all together, giving him time in silence, or maybe just struggling to find more words. But either way, Dean is still here. Dean is in front of him. A moment ago, they were hand in hand.

They could be again.

“You good?” Dean asks, seeming to sense Castiel come to a conclusion.

“Yes,” Castiel says. Dean visibly relaxes, shoulders easing under his coat. Castiel wants to put his hands on those shoulders. He wants to reach out. He wants to touch. He wants, wants, wants, and it feels like still growing, it feels like still changing, it feels like being alive. Like being himself.

He wants to hear Dean’s heartbeat. He wants his grace back. With a sudden absolute certainty, Castiel feels how much he wants his grace back.

He meets Dean’s eyes, and says simply,

“It’s here.”

Dean cocks an eyebrow, catching Castiel’s mood without his meaning.

“It’s here?”

“My grace,” Castiel says. “You were asking where it was. It’s here.”

“Here?” Dean looks confused.

Castiel can feel his mood unfurling, the parts of himself that he’s pushed away and hidden – the parts that have known all along he wants his grace back – finally allowed to breathe, finally being given what they need. He turns his attention to his garden, bending down next to the peach rose that has been so wilfully refusing to blossom.

“I didn’t expect anything to grow when I buried it here,” Castiel says to Dean, over his shoulder. “But then the first flowers came, and so I bought more, and then I put in the fence, and – it helped, being able to come here.” He puts out his hand towards the peach rose, speaking meditatively, almost not quite to Dean at all.

His fingertips brush the tightly closed buds, the sharpness of the thorns. Castiel lets that want for his grace rise up in him, unafraid of the feeling now that he knows it can be acted on. He closes his eyes, and feels for his grace.

It’s right there, waiting for him.

Brilliant and electric. Fast, so fast, and all colours, colours so bright they hiss and spit as they rocket up the stem of the peach rose and through Castiel’s fingers, filling his body with a fierce familiar hum. Castiel breathes in and smells every flower in the garden at once and the breeze and the tang of sap and the rich wetness of the soil and there, behind him, Dean. He breathes out ozone, heady.

He can feel the hat on his head, the way it rests on each hair. He can feel Dean’s closeness, the way the atoms of air jumble between them.

He can feel the sunshine on his face when it finally breaks through the clouds overhead.

The world is turning beneath his feet as it should. The plants around him are creaking as they grow. Dean is breathing a little quicker than usual, and Dean’s heartbeat – there it is. That sound Castiel has missed since the day he tore out his grace. Thud thud, thud thud, thud thud. Castiel closes his eyes more tightly and focuses in on it, loses himself briefly in its rhythm.

“Cas?” Dean says. His voice has all the layers Castiel can hear as an angel. Richer, deeper. He can hear the roughness that comes from the light scarring in Dean’s throat after years of hunting, calling out warnings and yelling in shock. He can hear the exact pitch at which Dean ends the single word, the note that means it’s a question and it’s shy and it’s hopeful and Dean is trying to hide all of it.

The sun is bright when Castiel opens his eyes. There on the peach rose, at the tip of the stem through which he drew out his grace from the earth, is a full-blossom flower. Blushing petals unfurled, just waiting to be looked at, to be touched. Castiel reaches up a finger, and presses it to the velvet centre.

He stands up, and turns to Dean, who’s looking at him with something in his eyes that’s just the same. Newly unfurled, wanting touch.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, and Dean’s face relaxes.

“Here all along, huh.” Dean says. “Damn it, Cas. And there was me, worrying where to find it for no goddamn reason.” The words are irritable but Dean’s tone is a betrayal of them, because it’s so gentle, so serious. Serious enough that Castiel doesn’t feel silly when he takes a step forward, closer to Dean.

He meets Dean’s eyes silently, asking a question.

“You still…?” Dean says.

Still what exactly, Castiel wonders. Still want this? Still want you? Still look at you and think about how anything else I’ve tried to care about felt like trying to follow a script written for a part I was never meant to play, but with you caring grows up without me even trying like a wild rose in good earth?

The answer to all of it is yes. It’s Dean, after all. The answer is yes.

Castiel doesn’t use words to say it. Dean barely used them to ask the question, it was all in his eyes and the way he’s still holding his arms slightly out to the sides as though hoping to have a reason to put them around someone, and so Castiel gives him a reason.

The closeness – Castiel has always thought it might be jarring, if it ever happened, to be in Dean’s space like this. Something he’s wanted for so long and imagined so many times that the reality would be strange. But it’s not strange, it’s – it’s just a little slow, and hushed. It’s so quiet in the garden as they come together. Hand touching hand. Then arms reaching up. Castiel’s eyes tracing the lines of Dean’s face, finally having time to do it in as much time as he chooses, because Dean’s going a pleased shade of red under his gaze.

“I, uh,” Dean says, his voice a little hoarse. Castiel tilts his head at a slight angle. “I, uh. I don’t know how to do this. When it’s you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I – I don’t know if you want me to…” Dean’s eyes drop to Castiel’s lips. Through angel’s eyes, Castiel can see the slight tremor in him, the way he leans in just a little and then pulls back, the way his muscles are tightening in uncertainty.

“Yes,” says Castiel simply. He reaches up, and tilts his hat back.

“But you… it’s…” Dean looks at him helplessly.

And Castiel thinks perhaps he understands. This thing between them, the way that Castiel feels, it’s – it’s alive, it’s wider and deeper than the sky. It’s everything. And they’re supposed to, what, kiss about it? As though it were the end of a fairy tale? The end of a second date?

But then, they’ve done all the rest of it before. They’ve done blood and big choices. They’ve done hands grasping for each other against every rule, against all the smart money. And now there’s just this.

There’s just Castiel leaning forwards, and seeing relief and happiness break through on Dean’s face like sunshine for a second, before they kiss.

Castiel feels his wings unfurl.

It’s still not Heaven. It’s not even close. But – Castiel pulls back, and sees the expression on Dean’s face, the way his eyes are wide and unbelieving and so, so happy. But it’s a place, where Castiel is growing things.

[professorspork]

superhell fic prompt: JAUNE RUNS INTO PYRRHA

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5]

It doesn’t occur to that she’s allowed to talk to them until Torchwick reveals himself to Neo. And even then, well-- Roman Torchwick isn’t exactly a shining paragon when it comes to setting a good example of what’s allowed.

But the idea refuses to stop hounding her footsteps, once it’s come. Once she’s seen it’s possible, without consequences. Still, she waits, and keeps her distance. There’s no sunset, here on the island, no night, but there are shady places beneath the towering roots of the Tree; eventually, they all bed down, and Jaune-- as she’d known he would-- volunteers to take first watch. It’s a heartening display: Yang and Blake twined together like ivy on a wrought iron gate, but each clinging to the hands of their teammates, chained together by grasping fingers. Otters in a stream, unwilling to be separated.

She doesn’t know why she’s surprised to hear her own voice when she approaches.

...I know this can be frustrating, and it can feel like so much effort to progress such a small amount, but I want you to know that I'm proud of you. I've never met someone so determined to better themselves...

“You’ll drain your battery,” she cautions, reaching out with her mind to press the off button on his scroll. His head whips up, expression aghast, and she smiles at him softly. “I’d have thought you’d have it memorized by now anyhow; you haven’t seemed to need it in some time.”

She expects disbelief, perhaps, or shock. Joy would have been nice, but she’d have understood anger. So she’s surprised and---bizarrely proud, actually-- when instead his eyes narrow in suspicion and the first thing he says is, “Your Semblance works.”

“Well, yes.”

“Why does your Semblance work?”

“Because I’m where I’m supposed to be. A soul knows when it’s in the right place. Or the wrong one, as the case may be.”

“Or I’m dreaming.”

“Or you’re dreaming,” she agrees, keeping her voice mild, but feeling it like a punch to the stomach when his shoulders relax at the idea. Does he... not want her here? Goodness, but she’s out of practice. She’d forgotten it was like this; how talking to him had been both the easiest and the hardest thing in the world. “Would you-- prefer that? If I weren’t really here?”

“The real Pyrrha would know better than to ask me that.”

Despite herself, she laughs. “Oh, I wish that were true. I asked myself that every day. Every class, every glance, every study session on the roof. I’m afraid I was never as confident as I should have been.” It’s an embarrassing admission, but an effective one; the walled-up caution behind his eyes dissipates... only for tears to well up in its stead.

“Are you-- can I touch you?”

“I hope so.” (She’d left Torchwick and Neo behind before they’d gotten that far, for obvious reasons.)

“I--” He scrambles to his feet and crosses the distance between them, enveloping her in a crushing hug. It doesn’t feel like she remembers, but then, that’s no surprise-- he’s taller than he used to be, and her body isn’t exactly a body, per se. She’s grateful, even so. Happy just to have the chance to hold him up. She keeps quiet at first, letting him get it all out as he sobs incoherent apologies into her shoulder--

(IloveyouImissyouIloveyouImissyouI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry)

--and contents herself with playing with the short hair at the nape of his neck. Eventually, he calms.

“I like the haircut,” she says, when he pulls away. “It’s handsome. You look so grown up.”

“You look so young,” he croaks in response, and-- she supposes she must, to his eyes. It’s strange to think that she’s the same age as Ruby now; that they’ve kept going on without her, and they’ll continue to do so, once she’s led them out. “Are you--? Have you--?” He wipes at his eyes, laughing at himself a little. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know where to start. I just-- I can't believe you're here with me.”

“I'm always with you,” she assures him, unable to suppress the urge to thumb away a tear he’s missed. She keeps her hand there, at his cheek, as she she speaks: “Even when you can’t sense me, I... oh, Jaune. I’m so proud of you. You’ve come so far.”

He sighs and steps out of the circle of her arms, hanging his head to stare at Crocea Mors where it rests in its sheath. You’d never know it to be broken, just by looking. The scabbard hides the damage-- giving him the appearance of being armed and ready though all he carries is a shattered hilt. “Yeah, maybe. I-- I thought I had, but...” He swallows, face filled with shame.

She starts to reach for him again, unwilling to waste even a moment of their time not touching him, but forces herself to relax and drop her hands to her sides. It has to be his choice, doesn’t it? “Tell me. You can tell me anything; you know that.”

His voice falters terribly when he finally speaks: 

“I mean, I feel like you already know. For the longest time, I wanted to be this... I dunno. This warrior, or whatever. And it never fit, no matter what I did, or how hard I worked, and I just-- I resented it so much. Being...” He shakes his head. “I just felt useless. But when I unlocked my Semblance, I had to let that go. And it was hard at first, it took time, but for a second there it finally started to feel like... like I knew my place. Where I belonged; what everyone needed from me. I was good at it. But then Penny needed--” He chokes on a sob, and has to stop and take several deep breaths before he can continue. “Nothing’s changed. I’m still useless. The idiot stuck on the wrong side of the glass, out of his league and forced to watch because someone else has to be the Maiden now and there’s nothing he can do about it. Only this time it’s worse, because this time I actually-- I--”

Unable to hold herself back anymore, she reaches for his hands; he squeezes her fingers tight, like a lifeline. “I understand,” she soothes, voice heavy like a vow. “Did you think I wouldn’t? I don’t think I have to remind you that I’m the only other person who knows what that feels like. To have been the one who killed her.”

He lets out an awful, cynical noise; a parody of a laugh. “Depends on who you ask,” he says in explanation, looking askance towards Ruby. Pyrrha sadly follows his gaze. Ruby’s shifted in her sleep, curled under her cape to be as small as possible with her head nestled in the crooks of Yang’s bent knees. Her arms are wrapped around Yang’s shins in a death grip, as though she fears her sister might fly away at any moment. Pyrrha’s heart aches for her; for the responsibility she carries. Weight Pyrrha could have helped shoulder... if only she’d been a little faster, a little more clever.

She shakes off the feeling; now’s not the time for regret. “But things have changed,” she says, bringing Jaune’s hands up to her mouth and kissing the knuckles. It will be a long time, she knows, before he believes there isn’t blood on them; maybe this small act can help. And if it doesn’t... she has other options. Maybe even a little levity, for once. “You’re not useless. You’re amazing. You’re a licensed Huntsman now; you’re accomplishing things you’d only dreamed of. All the mothers of Mantle adore you. You even got to go on a date with Weiss!”

He boggles at her, wrenching his hands away. “What?! That wasn’t a date, we were just hanging out with Oscar, we--” His jaw falls open, suddenly, and his eyes narrow once more. “Wait a minute. Are you teasing me?”

She grins, sheepish and caught. “I figured it was now or never to give it a go; I didn’t want to waste my last chance to try it. Nora always said it would be good for me.”

“To make fun of me?” he squawks, indignant.

She laughs. “To remind myself it’s okay to be a novice sometimes; that there are things I won’t instantly be good at.” She bites her lip, unable to stop her grin. “...And also to make fun of you, yes.”

He surges forward, then-- wrapping a hand around the back of her neck and pulling her closer, pressing a fierce, grateful kiss to her forehead. Then he does it again; then once more, at the bridge of her nose. And then a final time, against her lips. Quick; intense. Filled with meaning.

She’s got not breath in her, and still she’s breathless.

“I miss you so much,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut and resting his forehead against hers. His fingers thread themselves into the hair at the back of her skull, tangled into the base of her ponytail. “So much. I think about you all the time. Every day. Wondering how different things would be, if only...”

“I know,” she says, because she does. There’s more that she should say, probably-- that it’s good that he’s started to move on; that none of them can hold onto her forever. But she can’t quite bring herself to voice the words.

“It’s not fair,” he mutters, then sighs at the sound of it. “I mean, none of it is fair, but-- I feel like a jerk, I guess. That I’m the one who gets to see you, of all of us.”

“You’ll tell them I love them, won’t you? Ren and Nora. They...” They’re doing things she never did, is the thing. Maturing in ways she’ll never have the chance to. Learning that responsibility doesn’t mean putting it all on your own shoulders; that love doesn’t mean giving all of yourself away. It’s overwhelming, how proud she is of them for that. “They were on the right path, in Atlas. Don’t let them convince themselves otherwise.”

He nods, the movement of it levering her own head in shared agreement. “Anything else? Anyone else you’d like me to...?”

So many; too many. But one rises above the rest. “Tell my mother to stop leaving flowers,” she murmurs, wishing she had more to offer than that. “Tell her they belong in the garden; that I like to watch them grow. That’s-- the way it should be.”

“Okay,” he says, and relief rushes through her. “Okay. I will.”

Slowly, they both become aware once more of the gaggle of Huntresses sleeping just a few yards off. Pyrrha could leave dozens of messages with Jaune, if she wanted, but the people she most needs to speak to are right here, within arm’s reach. They need her guidance; it’s selfish not to provide it. She’s taken so long already. And yet...

Jaune beats her to voicing the thought: “I know we should probably wake them, but-- can it be just the two of us, for just a little longer? Please?”

She smiles, and brings a hand up to caress his cheek. “I thought you’d never ask.”