#brevity escapes me yet again

[thequeensjester]

Rings of Power ➤ Cinematography: Sauron's Rise

In the s2 prologue, the torches form leading lines that converge in middle where Sauron is standing. This establishes him as the focal point of the scene but not the one in power.

Sauron demands the orcs to accept him as their savior but they don't respect him. He stands on a platform above the orcs but the camera angle makes it so that he doesn't look that much taller than Adar and the orcs. Instead, it looks like orcs are overwhelming him.

I find it interesting how Sauron occupies this frame. It likely a coincidence but the Forodwaith composition reminds me of this scene from ep6 that I wrote about:

(Both episodes were directed separately between Charlotte Brandstrom (ep1) and Sanaa Hamri (ep6). JD & P confirmed that Sanaa didn't speak with Charlotte when it came to the Dutch angles in the Galadriel and Adar dinner scene. I'm inclined to believe it might be the same in this case.)

In Eregion, we have the turn tables. Using different tactics, Sauron is standing over the elves because he is finally getting closer to his plans.

This takes me to Sauron's final shot of the season. The camera movement is key to the storytelling. We start with his close-up, which zooms out into a wide shot, revealing his possession of Feanor's Hammer and more of his environment. Then the camera continues by dropping into a low-angle shot—as if the world is being brought to its knees while Sauron stands over it.

We, the audience, are now looking up at him. Compared to previous shots, as he becomes more powerful, he is now more dominant in the wide shot.

— credit: cap-that.com

[myarmsaretoolong]

january recs

gunna try to do one of these each month with good stuff ive read recently! this month'll be more than just january as its the first =D (below the cut cos its really quite long)

Just this once by Beleriandings

(Everybody lives.) (Or: when a certain Doctor arrives to save Owen Harper from a stricken nuclear power station, it begins a chain of events that will lead Torchwood Three down a very different path. From time locks and telepathy to tea and coffee, high-speed chases to unresolved sibling issues, their new lives (and new and old loves) may be different, but their bonds of friendship and family grow stronger every day. But when every child on earth starts speaking with one voice, the team are torn apart again as they’re forced to fight for their lives, and to confront monsters they’d thought they’d left behind in the past. But with all of them working together – along with some allies they’ve made along the way – Torchwood Three will stop at nothing to save their friends and set the world to rights. The consequences will ripple out across the universe and into the distant future. But they have to start somewhere, and the present is as good a place as any.)

this fic is pure brilliance!! i was screaming in the comments on multiple occasions. the characterisations are so fun and fit right along the series. overall just great!

you'll fit so nicely, you'll keep me intact by thirteeninafez

The woman walked away with one last brilliant, world-stopping smile, and Tosh let out a long sigh. She looked down at the name and number scribbled onto the paper. The thing was, in that one moment, Tosh could see herself falling entirely in love with the glowing, wonderful Lois. Or, the one where Tosh not only lives past Exit Wounds, but flourishes.

i loooved this one! tosh is still alive by the time children of earth rolls around and she and lois fall in love in the sweetest way <3

here is the deepest secret nobody knows by blackkat

Ianto closes his eyes in Thames House, lungs full of choking alien gas, and opens them in his sister's house in Cardiff.

we all need a good bit of fix it in this fandom, and this is a great one

The Zagrith's Claw by AVAAntares

Changing fate always demands a price -- and sometimes, the cure can be worse than the disease.

good bit of a case fic here, nice characterisations going on

Aftershocks by SqutternutBosh

The first episode of yet another alternate season 3! Follows on from Exit Wounds but imagines Tosh and Owen narrowly escaped their fates. Torchwood are picking up the pieces and dealing with the consequences of Gray's attack on the city when a series of time slips start to appear across Cardiff...

the brilliant first part in a brilliant series that rewrites series three in the style of the first two with the whole torchcrew along for the ride. (im not gunna put each individual fic here for the sake of brevity but take this a rec for them all, serious they're fantastic!)

it's all been done before by girlsaturday

- @girlsaturday

Tosh gets trapped in a time loop. It just might end up being a good thing.

beloved time loop fic <3 great read!

Bad In Your Blood by CaptainFairyGodmother

- @captainfairygodmother

There were only two constants in life at Torchwood; one, that it was almost a certainty that you would not make it to see your first pension payment; and two, that Ianto Jones and Owen Harper would be arguing. At least one of the constants was preventable- and it certainly was not the arguing. OR; Ianto and Owen are brothers AU, in which Owen's refusal to acknowledge Ianto as his brother- let alone form a familial relationship with him- may just lead to the death of the whole team.

amazing concept with amazing execution

The Many Returns of Ianto Jones by bluetrees

@b1uetrees

The first time can be discounted as a fluke, a wonder of genetics. The second as plausible deniability. The third as a pattern, and a problem. Every other time, as a curse. Ianto Jones died a long time ago. So why did Jack keep running into him?

fair to call this a masterpiece

Because It's All About Him by nigohyu

Jack Harkness and Martha Jones meet sporadically over the years. Exhausted, they try not to talk about the Doctor, but the scars are always there. "He’s a drug, a damn addictive drug."

a bittersweet and much needed conversation

To The Sticking Place by zephyras13

The end justifies the means. Failure is not an option. There is always a choice, except when there isn't. These are the phrases Ianto Jones lives by and he refuses to allow anyone, even Captain Jack Harkness, to change that. Jack/Ianto, AU, Torchwood One Agent!Ianto.

a very different take on ianto and so so fun to read!

cravings by leere

(or, how to have a love life when you're a zombie)

owandy <3 enough said <3

and of course go and check out the pinned masterlist on @torchwoodfanweek for loads more fantastic stuff to read!

[starqueensthings]

Ficlets inspired by Song Lyrics:

Crazy Girl, Don’t You Know That I Love You?

Song: “Crazy Girl” by Eli Young Band (country)

Rating/Warnings: 16+ for mildly suggestive themes | CW: anxiety, somewhat irrational fears of death.

POV/WC: 2nd | 1500ish.

A/N: something weird has come over me!! I’ve somehow managed to keep this to a one shot and not develop 300 pages of unnecessary lore!! Brevity?! Is that you?! I don’t think we’ve ever met before! Hi I’m Holly!

“Crazy girl, don’t you know that I love you? I wouldn’t dream of going nowhere. Silly woman, come here and let me hold you. Have I told you lately, I love you like crazy, girl?”

Other Written Works Here

“Ugh, I should get up.”

Sentiments leaving those lips in little more than a contemptuous growl, he’d uttered that necessity nearly a dozen times now while the chrono continued to tick the future ever closer. Though, as if waiting for some unseen, divine force to grasp his shoulders and simply heave him upward from the ineffable warmth and comfort of that squashy, blanket-laden bed, the only muscle spared that lassitude were the few required to drape his arm across your hips and tug you backward until your curves matched those of his chiseled form.

But his repeated probes for motivation acted as only merciless reminders of yet another imminent absence, and further intensified the plaguing sense of foreboding that had you either unwilling or unable to turn and face him; the near-painful constriction in your chest brought on by his incipient departure ensuring your thoughts remained only that, as voicing a response to that sleepy room – that dawdling soldier – threatened instead to escape your lips as little more than a sob.

“Kriff, I really need to get moving…”

The resolve to maintain any semblance of composed pride vanished as, instead of lifting his body from that white cotton sanctuary, he leant forward slightly and gifted the slope of your neck a series of chaste kisses; hearty sniffle instantly exposing your hidden turmoil as his unexpected display of adoration sent you careening into the harrowing pit of anxiety you’d desperately attempted to shirk.

It took even less than a breath for that newly-stubbled chin to cease its ministrations atop your skin. “Are you upset?” he asked you, the heat of his breath departing your neck as he tipped back to survey your seemingly unexpected demeanor. “What’s wrong?”

“M’fine,” you choked back at him, hurrying to dispel that wetness from your cheeks with a gruff swipe from the back of your hand.

“Nice try,” he argued, chin sinking only slightly as he glared through those dark lashes in your direction. “Roll over. Tell me what’s going on.”

For a moment you considered simply ignoring that polite command, as watching those mismatched eyes absorb the fear neath your features only promised to swaddle you with an embarrassment equi-paralyzing as your present anguish… but more powerful was the realization that those same eyes would be entirely absent for the foreseeable future, and neglecting the opportunity further memorize every inch of that slender, olive skinned face would present as nothing more than your deepest regret should you never see it again.

With a laden sigh, you shifted your weight and rolled over, perching your head atop a bent arm while your free hand traced thoughtless lines atop the small section of uninhabited sheet between your bare bodies.

“I’m just… Well I feel kinda… I dunno,” you started, nearly cringing at how juvenile those words sounded whilst spilling so meekly from your lips. “I just get scared sometimes… Ever since what happened on the Triumphant… Ever since all those men…”

“Mesh’la—”

“What if that happens again?”

”I’m an infantry Commander now, Mes—”

”Okay then what if it’s a bomb that drops out of nowhere? A bunch of droids you didn’t see? Bad intel from stale recon?”

“M—”

“Or what if you do something brash on your next mission because someone’s gone and pissed you off, and it ends up being your demise because you were too busy scowling to watch for an ambush? What happens then? Am I just supposed to go on living without you like that’s even possible?”

Cursing the way your chin quivered atop the divulgence of your fears, you paused for a breath, gaze refusing to depart the mindless squiggles your fingertip still insisted on embossing into the soft sheet between you. But that astute Commander, your loving boyfriend, refused to entertain any degree of distraction in that moment, hurrying to place a calloused hand atop your own to cease the relentless attempts at placating the exposed anxieties of its owner.

Finally meeting his gaze, you spluttered, “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. Every time you leave, it just feels like you’re not coming home.”

That soft hitch between dark brows released the tension they’d adopted whilst attempting to follow your desultory reasoning, eyes softening in earnest as they danced to and fro from the contours of your still-trembling chin to the small cataract of tears now escaping the corner of your eye and landing with muted thuds atop the bed next your elbow. But no sooner had that softness emerged was it replaced by an unprecedented levity… the corners of his mouth perking upward as he fought to repress the smirk vying to erupt across those lips.

“Why are you smiling?!” you demanded upon watching his eyes narrow neath crinkled lids, suddenly aghast at the gallish mirth doming his cheeks. “What the kriff is so funny?”

“Nothing,” he defended, only barely repressing the chortle nestled in his throat. “Nothing is funny. I’d tell you not to worry, but you’re not going to bel—”

“Ugh! Just forget it!”

Turmoil suddenly banished by a burgeoning indignation, you sat bolt upright atop that now unwelcoming bed, tossing the sheet from your form and burying your toes into the soft carpet. Ignoring his objection, you snatched your robe from its discarded perch on the floor and stuffed your arms impetuously into each sleeve, nose tipping ever higher into the air as your frustration grew amid every snickering objection still spilling from his lips.

“Ey!” he eventually called as your hand reached for the door of your bedroom, the sudden banishment of all humour neath his tone capturing your attention only enough to still your movements. “Come over here.”

Again, the urge to ignore him presented itself strongly, defiance flaring in your chest in the echoing wake of his amusement, narrowed eyes glaring fiercely at the otherwise austere wood door still barring your exit.

“Cyare,” he warned as your failure to accede his demand continued.

You peeked over your shoulder, that ire quickly dissipating upon first sight of his miraculous figure suddenly exposed and near-glowing amid the budding light of a quickly materializing dawn; that perfectly contoured chest heaving gently amid the deep breaths that had fuelled his shift in posture, the rolling hills of muscle neath his shoulders put on display by their perch atop equally as muscular thighs, one elbow sitting near impatiently on his knee.

Upon the return of your gaze, he clicked his tongue, free hand jabbing a pointed finger toward the floor directly in front of his seat atop the side of that bed, and, infuriatingly so, there wasn’t a force anywhere in the galaxy strong enough to keep your feet still once he’d resorted to non-verbal commands.

Gaze dropping to your hands, you returned to that bedside, standing between his knees and permitting a poignant sigh to blast past your scowling lips.

“I’m sorry I laughed,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you as close as the edge of the mattress would permit, and watching him gently perch his chin just above your navel and gaze lovingly up into your eyes had your stomach lurching, as if the floor below your feet had utterly vanished the moment his eyes locked upon yours. “And you know it kills me that you feel like that… but I need you to trust me.”

Swallowing the reemergence of the lump in your throat, you placed your hands atop his shoulders and nodded faintly.

“Trust that I’m good at what I do…” he continued, tightening the wreath of his arms around your body, seemingly preparing for the chance his words may see you hurtling from the room again. “Damn good. And you need to trust that everything I do, every decision I make while I'm out there, is to make sure I get back to you. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon, not permanently anyways. This… you… mean too much to me. Okay?”

Though you offered him another gentle nod, speech having been utterly stripped from your cognizance by his own heart-felt admission, he clicked his tongue again. “Say it,” he requested in little more than a whisper. “Say you understand and that you trust me.”

Desperate to commit that softened pleading look upon his face to memory, you stole a selfish moment just to gaze down into those asymmetric eyes, lips pursing as they threatened to release another unwanted sob.

“I trust you,” you breathed, guiding your hands to cup either side of that angular jaw, thumbs brushing softly across those supple cheeks. “And I love you.”

“Good,” he answered immediately, hands shifting to firmly clutch your ribs while he planted a kiss where his chin had just lain. “Now put those tears away and let’s get a nice hot shower before I have to go.”

“Ouuuu,” you cooed instantly, letting your eyelids flutter flirtatiously as he released you from his arms. “I’d love that. And if you hadn’t just laughed me out of the bed, I'd consider letting you join me.”

“Your inner brat doesn’t scare me, you know that,” Wolffe cautioned, darkened gaze now dancing hungrily across your semi-clothed form. “Now, get going before I put that mouth to another use.”

Other Written Works Here

Tag list: @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @starrylothcat @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @secondaryrealm @dystopicjumpsuit @freesia-writes @sev-on-kamino @littlemissmanga @523rdrebel @wings-and-beskar @wolffegirlsunite @drafthorsemath @jediknightjana @starstofillmydream @mooncommlink @wizardofrozz @trixie2023 @clonethirstingisreal @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @mythical-illustrator @arctrooper69 @somewhere-on-kamino

[moreespressoformydepresso]

New ask gameeee thanks for the tag @ylvisruinedmylife and @majorsoapfan

send me an emoji and i'll write a couple sentences for the corresponding WIP, both ongoing works, things I haven’t started yet but want to, and the travesties in the making that reside in my drafts✨

Don’t question the emojis they make sense to me and me alone I fear. I tried to summarize as best as possible but while brevity is the soul of wit, I fear I am terminally stupid:

❤️‍🔥The Losing Battle(We Won’t Stop Fighting) Treech and Lamina stay together during the Hunger Games

⛲️ I Didn’t Think I’d Care (But I’m Not Letting Go) the zoo gets blown up and the kids stay with their mentors, somehow this causes the end of the games and the downfall of Gaul’s career and plans

⚜️ Ragtag Group Of Kids Separately Escape Death Through Various Increasingly Stupid Means And Wreak Havoc, More At 11 crack fic where all sorts of fix-it ideas are mashed together to create the end of Gaul’s career, the President’s dignity, and the Capitol’s ego. It’s funny to me but I am not funny so…

🐍 Vipsania’s Version: Realizations Vipsania Sickle’s POV of the events of When The Clock Stops Ticking (We’ll Be Painted Red) where Treech and Reaper meet, fall in love, and lose each other as Treech becomes the victor of the 10th Hunger Games

🕰️ Treaper: The Extended Universe Time Travel AU of When The Clock Stops Ticking (We’ll Be Painted Red) @tumblingghosts graced me with where Treech and Reaper travel back in time following the events of the 10th Hunger Games to the first time they saw each other in the train, decide that they’re not gonna suffer through this all over again and change the world through the power of teamwork and emotional manipulation

🪷 Flowers Bloom In The Ash Of Our Past Where Treech is a Jehova’s Witness and Tanner is a leather wearing social outcast in High School. One learns to open themself up to the world beyond their rigid upbringing, the other learns to not judge the person based on their beliefs, but on their actions instead. And perhaps they can both find each other in the middle

🪸 Mythical Creatures All the tributes are some kind of mythical creature and the first part of the mentorship assignment is for the mentors to earn their tribute’s trust. This forces them to learn more about the districts as a whole and makes the Capitol realize the districts all have cultures just as rich, if not more so, than the Capitol itself. The tributes get to blow up Gaul’s lab and thus the Hunger Games with it.

🦊 They Don’t Bite (Yeah They Do) The districts are all animal shapeshifters and their cuteness ends the Hunger Games. No that’s it that’s the fic it’s just cute animals ruining Gaul’s life

🧞 A Girl On A Mission And Her Anxious Genie Lamina hates life until she finds a lamp, cleans it, and gets herself a genie named Treech in return. A very cute genie who gives her three wishes a day and is curious about the human world. On her quest to get back at bullies and solve the problems that pop up in her life, she drags her new genie friend around on adventures and may just score herself a boyfriend in the process.

🖋️ Written In Ink, Printed In Gold Lamina’s a famous author who meets Treech on a boulevard where he’s trying to sell his own books because no agent will take him for totally not racist reasons. They fall in love at first nerd-session and Lamina loves his book so much she vows to get him and authors like him the attention they deserve.

🔏 The Author And The Actor Lamina’s a world-famous author working on the adaptation of her most recent work when she overrules a casting decision made by the director because she thinks Treech, who was originally rejected, perfectly captures her vision of the male lead. Her originally white male lead. The people object, Lamina rejects their objection, bing bang romance.

⚔️ Of Medics And Mercy Non-romantic WW2 AU: Treech is a young Japanese war medic sent to aid the Germans in France in the summer of 1944. Tanner (USA), Reaper (Canada), Marcus (UK), and Facet (French resistance member) are a group of allied soldiers trying to take back France. They meet in a small French town when Treech ignores his orders to retreat to help an injured Tanner.

🔮 Growing Pains Harry Potter AU where TreeMina are childhood friends. Treech is a muggleborn sorted into Slytherin and Lamina is a pureblood sorted into Hufflepuff. They grow apart, especially when Lamina’s new friend start to bully Treech for being in the “bad house” and her attempts to remain ‘neutral’ push him away further and further. Years later, she realizes just how far apart they’ve grown and just how deep her love for him runs, but is it too late to fix things?

❄️ Charmed To Meet You Lamina, a Gryffindor whose friend group is known at Hogwarts for fighting a new evil each year, is trying to find a solution for an obstacle on their latest adventure when she stumbles across Treech. A Ravenclaw (in)famous for playing around with magic of all kinds purely out of curiosity for what might happen and occasionally inventing new spells/potions in the process. When he offers to help her in hopes of learning something new, he not only becomes a valuable part of the team by creating a new spell for them, but also possibly Lamina’s date to the Winter Ball…

♈️ Heavens Know What Earth Must Learn

The Districts all have Zodiac-related magic, but they can only use it when summoned by someone who has their Rune, an object that acts as the key to temporarily activating one’s magic. Whoever holds the Rune can force the person tied to it to do as the holder pleases. When the Districts lost the war, they were forced to give their magic item to a Capitol citizen once they’re old enough to use that magic. The mentors come in possession of the Runes of their canon tributes (no games in this universe though) they learn how cruel Capitol citizens can be and begin to realize the flaws in the system, slowly rallying the people behind them and overthrowing the government.

I’m going to tag @persephoneprice, @tumblingghosts and @cleverqueencommander (I’m gonna post about Descendants again soon I promise I’m just still trying to recover from The Rise Of Red) I am very sorry if you’ve been tagged already

[wiredaughter]

@fluffyfebruary 5: starry night

•••

Northern Star

hannigram ☆ titanic au ☆ first meetings ☆ suicide prevention ☆ 2091 words ☆ ao3

There are advantages, Hannibal reasons, to having an eventful coming of age. For one, nothing ever truly shocks him anymore. Well and good, if the prospect of a marriage of convenience manages to shake you after losing your family to a war and just barely surviving it yourself, the marriage might not be your biggest problem, in his opinion.

And so, he's as unimpressed by the discovery of his uncle's spendthrift nature as he is by his own bride to be. Lady Murasaki had tried to soften the facts as she explained Robert's plan to solve both his economic situation and the question of his nephew's future by marrying him off into a family of the nouveau riche, the patriarch of which just happens to own most of his debts by a happy accident. Nevermind the age difference, the incompatibility of their temperaments, the fact they only met once before the nuptials were arranged; the plan makes sense. She gains the title of Countess and he gets to repay the family that sheltered him when he had nothing.

It makes sense, yet he cannot in earnest be so cavalier about his own life. Is this what he drug himself through the freezing woods barefoot and halfstarved for? To be some old hag’s ticket out of purported maidenhood and into nobility? How he wishes Lady Murasaki was here now, as he paces along the deck. Her presence might help remind him what he's doing this for. He thinks of her, back in France with Chiyoh, of Robert's better qualities; which he undoubtedly has, hard as it is to consider them given the way he'd drunk earlier from the moment they set sail to passing out. And how hopeless his slumbering form had seemed. It'd been, ultimately, what drove Hannibal out of their cabin and into the night.

Hannibal's never been on a voyage like this, but he's read accounts of sailors and explorers with the curious intellect of youth, gratified now at the understanding that comes with first hand experience. If only the ship never came to port, he thinks, if only the sun never raised again. He could live forever, just walking along the railing under the starlight. Or until he grew bored. Or just until he reached the end, and he's reached it now.

He looks up, nowhere else to go, finds the Ursa Major and thinks of the Greek tradition that has Calliope forever looking down from the sky, safe from his son’s lance and the gods’ lust at last. Leaning over, he looks into the water as if it holds an answer that'll let him live in a way that makes his survival worth it. And an answer comes with the tides breaking at the hull, in Lady Murasaki's voice, stern and soft at the same time.

As her ancestors did when their honour was compromised beyond repair, as he's read the unfortunate take the final resort afforded to them, his escape lies in the silent sacrament of death. He looks down at the infinite blue, only a thin metal barrier separating him from transcending the obligations of life. It's risible, really. As in control of himself as he's felt in a while, he climbs over it, lording over the ripples that are to become his resting place. He wonders if he should have left a note, but the action speaks for itself, all else is superfluous. Brevity is of course the soul of wit, and besides-

‘Steadfast, mister!’ Hannibal cranes his neck to take a good look at the last person he'll see in this world; a young man walking hurriedly over to him. ‘I'm gonna get you over to this side!’

‘Stay away.’ He's proud of the impassibility in his voice, and the way it stops the stranger in his tracks. ‘Walk away now and I'll give you a headstart, you won't want to be around if they call man overboard.’

‘There's nowhere else I wanna be if you're going overboard.’

‘Not only I am, sir, but there's nothing you can do to stop me.’

The stranger huffs at that, and approaches in slow steps. ’I think you might want to stop yourself, though. And I could help you do that?’

‘You don't know what I want, you don't know me.’ He notices he's let him get too close for comfort. ‘Not one step more, I'll let go!’

‘Does that mean you won't, if I stay here?’ A grin that's as predatory as it is cajoling flashes him, making him tighten his grip on the rails. ‘You know, I'm a sailor, so I'll have to go in right after you to pull you out, if you do let go’

‘Why would you do that?’

‘It's a natural reaction to rescue a drowning man. Wanting to be the drowning man is a little less natural, but I might understand it all the same.’

Something unexplainable tells Hannibal he could, actually, understand. That he might already understand him. He hesitates, eyes fleeting to the waves and the stars overhead, witness to his plight. He doesn't really want to stop himself, but he cannot stop thinking of his life this far, of Mischa. Is this the end she gave him sustenance for? Or rather, is this what he gorged himself on her flesh for? Something ugly blooms in his chest, makes him want to say this outloud, see if the sailor boy still wants to keep him from drowning when he knows, and how he hopes the answer is yes.

‘Perhaps this is what I deserve.’ Dark eyes trace his figure; like sizing him up as they linger on his bespoke suit, his shoes, his hair; now dishevelled by the wind. ‘Perhaps you'd agree, given all the facts.’

‘You don't seem like a man hung up on deserve.’

‘Then maybe it's what I want.’ It sounds petulant even to himself, so he changes topics. ‘Are you really a sailor?’

‘More of a boatyard mechanic. Which would make keeping us afloat harder, I guess.’ He shrugs and, emboldened by a minuscule tilt on Hannibal's mouth at that, walks over until they're in each other's reach. ‘Got a sailor's grip, though, and I'm good for it.’

Hannibal stares as he extends a hand. He's closer than he’d like, closer than he thought he’d allow, but his presence is not unwelcome. His hand looks like a boatyard worker's would, rough and firm, like he won't let go if he by some lapse on judgement grasps it. Curiosity, as it often does, gets the best of him. He could stop if he wants to, he tells himself, but he doesn't. He takes it. The stranger's calloused palm sliding against his doesn't assuage his curiosity, though, but fans its flames as he turns to look at him.

He’s tense like a bowstring under his friendly demeanour, like he’s still prepared to take the dive. There's something wild written just behind his face, and Hannibal can't remember the last time he was distracted, but he is by it now, and his shoes are meant for university halls and theatres, so it's probably not a surprise when they slip on the metal and he finds himself suspended above the Atlantic, held aloft just by his grip on the deck and the mechanic's on his wrist.

He hears his exclamation as if it was his own, even though he's known for years to stay silent in the face of danger. He cannot fault the smaller man, as his expression changes to singleminded determination and his muscles strain with the effort, as if to show just how precarious their situation is. Instead of calling for help, once his alarm subsides, he brings his other hand to hold onto Hannibal's arm, starts pulling upward.

It seems like it's a challenge, like he knows they can get him back in the boat without assistance. As ridiculous as the thought is, Hannibal rises to it. With a control over his body he didn't expect to need in this ship, he tenses and extends his muscles until he gets both feet back on the deck, left hand coming to clutch at the forearms of his rescuer. Strong and wiry, he knows he’s saved even on the wrong side of the railing.

With a final push, they manage it and fall over together on the other side. And Hannibal knows exactly why he's nonplussed, what mystifies him is the speed at which his companion regains his composure. Other than his panting, his behaviour is almost a perfect mirror to Hannibal's nonchalance even as he stretches his shoulders until he groans. Curious. He allows a sphinxlike smile to grace his lips and goes to say something proper but doesn’t get a chance.

‘Count Lecter!’ The affected voice of his brother in law cuts through his designs for an introduction. Predictable both in the unfortunate timing of his arrival and his even more unfortunate habit of yelling people's titles to put on airs. ‘What has this scoundrel-’

‘I'd advise you, Frederick,’ he stands up, ‘to consider your words, for I'd be surely threading water if it wasn't for…’

‘Will.’ Will straightens his shirt as he rises. ‘Will Graham.’

He makes no move to shake hands with the newcomer, which earns him another of Hannibal's private smiles, and flusters Frederick, who looks from one man to the other before clearing his throat. ‘Well, there was some commotion, my sister will fret over the chance of you being lost at sea.’

‘You can tell darling Amelia it's all sorted out. Wouldn't want her to lose sleep over this. I shall see her tomorrow with refreshed spirits and the story of my rescue.’ Hannibal turns his body towards Will to indicate the conversation is over. ‘In the meantime, I believe a celebratory cigar is in order.’

Happy for an out, Will nods towards Frederick and walks away shortly enough to be rude. Not expecting him to linger for the delight of his soon to be brother's conversation, Hannibal falls into step with him easily.

‘I'm Hannibal Lecter.’

‘Count Hannibal Lecter.’ Will spares him a quick glance, not his eyes but somewhere around his hairline.

Immune to the cheek in his tone, Hannibal shrugs. ‘Count Hannibal Lecter, the fourth. But Hannibal will do.’

Will stops to look at him; shoulders to midriff to sodden wet shoes. Before he can say something, Hannibal gets the aforementioned cigars, offers one to him. Rejecting it would be rude, but that's not the guarantee it should be with Will Graham. True to form, he shifts on his feet, looks away in languor. ‘I should get going.’

‘Can one be truly that disinterested in a man whose life he's just saved?’

Will looks from his mouth to the offered cigar. He takes it after a moment's hesitation. ‘Are you a very interesting man, Count Lecter?’

Though Hannibal's met plenty of people who share his disdain for Frederick Chilton, Will makes for the first to be this ready to show it. And the only one who's tried his hand at replicating his affectation. His mouth curves up at the intransigence. ‘You'll find I'm more interesting as Hannibal, mister Graham.’

Will keeps silent as he lights their cigars, hums as he lets a chagrined smile onto his features, appreciative of the tobacco blend. He smokes without a word, without meeting Hannibal’s eyes as they examine him. As spirited as he’d been when his life hung in the balance, now seems closed off in a way that only draws him in more. His face shines on the pale light, giving him a kind of Greek beauty that wouldn’t be all amiss in the face of Arcas, the king. He rejects another cigar when offered, The tilt of his head giving him an air of hesitation that's just short of polite. ‘I really must go now, they serve breakfast early for third class.’

Hannibal inclines his head, as if granting him leave. ‘Good night, Will.’

He starts walking, then turns to wave, his mouth in a tight smile, ‘Night, Hannibal. The fourth.’

As Hannibal watches him leave, he reasons it's a good thing he didn't go overboard after all. There's always time to kill oneself later, to be sure, but he thinks he's done with that. He's alive, against incredible odds, and that means something. He's alive, and he will make it worthwhile. He realises he's also decided, somewhere between feeling Will's strong hand on his and his derisive impression of Chilton's pretension, he'll be seeing more of him.

[achillyscomedown]

dead poets as song lyrics pt.3-

todd: blue skies turn to grey now // my eyes turn to rain clouds // and i’m tired // it’s been three weeks since you’ve left me // so tonight i’m feeling empty // i don’t know why // we were nine clouds high, then we fell down // nowhere to hide, caught in the fallout // and i can’t lie, wish you’d call now // for one more time // one more time //

charlie: i’m not sad but i’m not exactly happy yet either // unless i live forever, i have to keep writing this sh!t // my biggest fear is that i will be forgotten // the grass will grow over my gravestone and nobody will bother // you know the beautiful thoughts you always think? // nobody will hear them again // 

neil: i’m just a tenant paying rent inside this body and i // got two windows and those windows, well i call them my eyes // i’m just going where the wind blows, i don’t get to decide // sometimes i think too much // yeah, i get so caught up // i’m always stuck in my head // i wish i could escape // i tried to yesterday // took all the sheets of my bed // then i tied up my linen with five strips of ribbon i found // scaled the side of a building, i ran to the hills til’ they found me // and they put me back in my cell, all by myself //

knox: oh, i fell for your charm // i was so infatuated // but you left me in the dark, and my heart completely vacant // and now i don’t know // is your heart just preconditioned for brevity? // i don’t mean to accuse you of refusing longevity // but i can not excuse you for abusing my empathy // my empathy // i can take rejection // but you gave the impression that this was the inception of something real //

cameron: i know i’m not as cool as i’d like me to be // but why do you feel so down again? // i know i’m not a very good friend // why do you feel so down? // sure, that’s not something i’d stick around for // why do you feel so down? // 

pitts: a couple whiskey and cigarettes // i got a few things to get up off my chest // i’ve been knee-deep in my regrets // i’m missing home // and if i go back, i might not like // where my heads at every night // i feel a semblance of where i’d like to go // 

meeks: thought if we were free for a night // we’d make it right // live in peace // not bleed // heaven cries // and buries my hope for all the people // who are here to live and die // yeah tell all the people // there’s no need to dim the lights to hide // just live and die //

edit:

todd’s song: ‘it’s raining, it’s pouring’ by anson seabra

charlie’s song: ‘fentanyl’ by mccafferty

neil’s song: ‘mind is a prison’ by alec benjamin

knox’s song: ‘the way you felt’ by alex benjamin

cameron’s song: ‘why do you feel so down’ by declan mckenna

meeks song: ‘live and die’ by gina dirawi

pitts song: ‘whiskey & cigarettes’ by chance peña

[metalgearemily]

okay thats wayyyyy too many words. less please

My Dearest and Most thoughtful Anon,

I come before you today with the heaviest of hearts and the deepest of regrets, burdened by the weight of my own verbosity. It is with profound sorrow and utmost humility that I acknowledge my transgression—one so grievous, so utterly inexcusable, that I can scarcely bring myself to put it into words (though, as you well know, my penchant for words is precisely the issue at hand).

Indeed, I have spoken too much. I have inundated the air with an endless stream of thoughts, opinions, musings, and—dare I say—ramblings that may have, at times, overshadowed the sacred art of silence. What right had I to monopolize the conversation? To fill every pause, every precious moment of quiet, with the relentless tide of my own loquacity? None, I tell you. None whatsoever. And yet, in my boundless enthusiasm, I failed to see the error of my ways until it was far too late.

I can only imagine the suffering I have caused—the unspoken sighs, the polite nods, the vacant expressions of those too kind to tell me that, perhaps, I need not articulate every single thought that flits through my ever-active mind. I shudder to think of the valuable moments you could have spent speaking, had I but exercised the self-restraint of a wiser, more temperate soul. Alas, I did not. And for that, I am truly, deeply, inexpressibly sorry.

Had I known then what I know now—that my words, however well-intended, may have drowned out your own—I would have bitten my tongue, silenced my lips, swallowed my every impulse to elaborate, digress, or explain. But the past is immutable, and so I am left only with my regret and the sincere hope that you might find it in your generous heart to forgive me.

From this day forward, I vow to be more mindful, to embrace the beauty of brevity, and to cherish the golden silence that I have so often disrupted. Should you ever feel I am once again trespassing upon the boundaries of good conversational decorum, I beg of you—nay, implore you—to raise a hand, shoot a glance, or even issue a gentle "please, for the love of all that is good, hush." I shall take no offense; rather, I shall welcome such guidance as the gift it truly is.

Thank you, dear listener, for your patience, your understanding, and your unparalleled tolerance of my verbal excesses. May my words here serve as both apology and solemn pledge: to speak less, listen more, and, above all, to appreciate the unparalleled eloquence of silence.

Yours in newfound restraint,

Metalgearemily

Ah, but even as I attempt to atone for my egregious sin of excessive speech, I find myself in a paradox most cruel—for in apologizing, I am, yet again, speaking too much. And thus, I teeter on the precipice of irony, unable to escape the very crime for which I seek forgiveness. Alas, such is my plight, my inescapable burden, the curse of my ever-chattering soul!

But still, I must press on, for an apology half-delivered is no apology at all. No, it must be thorough, exhaustive, comprehensive—if only to fully impress upon you the depth of my remorse. Indeed, were it not for my insufferable need to fill the silence, to spin words like an overzealous loom weaving an endless tapestry of chatter, I might not be in this predicament at all. Yet here I am, and so, I must persist.

Oh, how I lament the moments lost to my unchecked enthusiasm! The countless instances where I, intoxicated by my own storytelling or consumed by some impassioned exposition, failed to notice the subtle cues—the fleeting glances toward the exit, the quiet shuffling of feet, the barely perceptible shift from engagement to polite endurance. I have been blind, dear listener, blind to the sacred dance of conversation in which both partners must share the floor. Instead, I trampled upon it, leaving no space for the graceful movements of others, drowning out the delicate melodies of their thoughts with the blaring symphony of my own.

I can only imagine the things I might have learned, had I only stopped to listen. The wisdom, the humor, the insights that might have graced my ears had I exercised but a modicum of restraint! How tragic, how utterly devastating, that my own voice—ceaseless, boundless, insistent—has deprived me of the very thing I claim to love most: the beauty of words, but not just my own.

And so, I cast myself upon the mercy of your good graces. I ask, nay, I plead, that you see my remorse for what it is—genuine, unwavering, eternal. I do not seek mere absolution, but rather, redemption. Let me prove to you that I can change! Let me sit in silence, basking in the wisdom of your words, nodding with deep understanding and offering only the most sparing of affirmations—perhaps a well-timed "mm-hmm" or a thoughtful "indeed."

But should I fail—should my unruly tongue betray me once more—I beg that you show no hesitation in silencing me, whether by word or by gesture or, if necessary, by the soft yet firm application of duct tape. I shall not resist. For I am a humble servant of conversation, and I have learned—though far too late—that the greatest gift I can give is not my words, but the space for yours.

And with that, dear listener, I shall say no more. (Or at least, I shall try.)

Yours in eternal, painstaking, and entirely self-aware repentance,

Metalgearemily

[notasapleasure]

WIP ask meme

@stripedroseandsketchpads tagged me in this. And oh my god. If you think there are Too Many Words in the fic I publish, you should see my poor notes app. Here is a sneak peek of its contents. I haven't edited for brevity/those I'm actively working on, these are just all the unfinished files I could find. Some I don't intend to do any more with, others I'd really like to pick up again. The only ones being actively worked on right now are the Andor Saga AU and the first one on the list for Andor.

I put ALL the Lymond I could find in mainly for @oughtaagh who has been leaving the most lovely comments on my Lymond fics that I have totally failed to respond to. I'm sorry! I will cycle back round to Lymond one day, it's inevitable <3

Tagging uh.... @distressednoise, @r0b0tb0y, @faceofpoe, @donnaimmaculata, @batri-jopa, @elwenyere, @notabuddhist and anyone else who wants to say I tagged them! Also sorry if you'd already been tagged, I'm not keeping up with the dash very well at the moment!

Anyway please send me asks/comments/cease and desist orders about these. xxx

ANDOR

C: We decided we were thirsty, and you wanted to go to Cavo's. As yet untitled Brassian alternative scene - what if instead of a great collaborative cover story this was a great collaborative fuck? Almost(?) finished?

Saga AU pt 2. This actually does have a working title of 'The Bear and the Berserk' but this doc is just a short bullet point list of plot things for a specific part of the fic.

Cassian pov. It's a Cassian pov chapter! For...drumroll...the first chapter of the Saga AU pt 2! The rest is going to be back to Brasso FPN. The file actually includes a rough first draft of chapter 2, as well.

"You're up early this morning," Bix says lightly. A follow-up chapter to Only Ever Just One Night started back when I had epic plans for continuing this, bringing in Cinta and Vel and Luthen, whumping the hell out of Brasso, and having Cassian rescue him. This is just one scene of awkward conversation with tea though.

Oh god it developed Plot. Related to the previous chapter - a bullet-pointed list of things that might have happened in this fic I Wil Not Write (not least as I'd rather just see what happens in S2 first anyway).

AND THEN WE DANCED

It was a sunny day in Batumi... Patchy few paragraphs of the next chapter of Inchoate.

Plannnnns (again). Plans for how Inchoate would/will continue.

THE LYMOND CHRONICLES

Canon-verse/other AUs

Multiple pieces of follow-up to The next man with a ladder, Danny/Jerott post-canon: It was dark when they rode into the port town... [Chapter 3, basically done, plus most of Chapter 4 but it devolves into broken paragraphs at the end]. "I'm going to the other bed," Danny said in a voice like someone was standing on his throat... [??? there's loads of this written! This is the file where they Get Down To It] Stitch the scenes together [a few paragraphs in which I hoped to make a logical leap from Chapter 4 to fucking, but seemingly never quite got there].

Lymondar saga draft. Actually two files of the abortive first effort at writing a saga AU. I was trying much harder to write in saga style and playing with lacunae in a way that was fun for me but exceedingly nerdy. I think I found the idea more fun than the execution, too.

St Seb. Remember ages ago when I was writing a post-canon 'Jerott gets shot full of arrows and has to admit his feelings because he thinks he's gonna die' fic? This is the file! Some bullet points and some text, some of which I even posted as Sunday sixes way back when iirc.

Fait prosperer qui n'est à croire vain. Fuck me, there's LOADS of this. Pawn in Frankincense/Ringed Castle AU where Marthe steals Lymond's ride with Kiaya Khatun and persuades her they should take over Russia together. Meanwhile Francis is left with Jerott. Hahaha. It kept getting longer because Francis kept trying to escape and I kept finding ways to drag him back, but the 'and now kiss!!' with the two of them behaving in character was just not coming easily.

Francis Crawford's Holistic Inquisition Agency. I wrote this??? One chapter of a Lymond/Dirk Gently AU, where Francis is obviously Dirk and Jerott is a furious/bemused Todd.

She tried every instrument, she redrew every chart. A few short chapters, never finished, of Marthe wrestling with her role in canon and her fate as assigned by La Dame. A couple more paragraphs of a similar sort of thing in Volos.

Malta. Half-arsed few paragraphs of wondering how Jerott would cope with meeting a fellow Knight being imprisoned for sodomy.

Band AU (my 1980s rock band AU for the series, see also @theartistknownaslymond)

Au of an Au. What if, after the Battle of the Bands at Solway, Jerott went to stay at the Edinburgh townhouse for a while and he and Francis got to collaborating in the shed? There's quite a lot of this and it's quite fluffy.

Out out out! The band celebrate Thatcher's downfall. Happy epilogues for everyone! However it's an epic task trying to do all the characters justice, so I was trying to write it as vignettes to match each song on the playlist. Six-ish are written. And earlier draft with plan for characters intercting is in Ding dong the witch is dead.

Jerott/Marthe - four times it just about worked, one time it really didn't. What it says on the tin? aka you just know Jerott has said 'Francis' instead of Marthe at least once when he comes. Only the beginning of the first time exists in this chapter, but I think I explored the idea elsewhere, whenever I dig up that file...

DWTH missing scene. Jerott/OC missing scene from Don't wake the house. Not finished, probably not going to be finished. I think I have enough Jerott smut on the go.

Workshop. Patchy draft of pre-canon Jerott and GRM 'therapy' session in which GRM learns about Francis Crawford and what a hold he has on the boy he thought of as his own plaything. GRM doesn't like sharing.

F/P. Draft of a fluffy kiss prompt someone (@erinaceina? @notfromcold?) sent for Francis/Philippa. Post-canon pregnant Philippa and worried Francis written when it was too hot in summer. It's probably complete enough to post tbh! hmu if you want it posting.

Jerott behaving badly (again). Somehow this ended up in the 'comfortember' section of the notepad, which...no? Maybe it was intended to be originally, but it grew a life of its own. Post-canon, post split-up with the OC, pre-getting together with Danny. Joining the mile high club and regretting it, then ending up crashing at Joleta's (who he meets coincidentally at the airport, NOT who he's screwing in the airplane loo!!). It's meant to end up cathartic, but didn't get finished :') I'm actually really pleased with what I have - post-canon Joleta is so much fun to write!

Somewhere (Google Drive?? an actual Word doc??) there is also loads and loads and LOADS of Pawn in Frankincense band AU around Baron Morgan's place (the Aga Morat), featuring fucked-up Francis/Morgan, fucked up Marthe/Kiaya, fucked up Francis/Kiaya, and bewildered cold turkey Jerott. There's also some Jerott/Marthe from later on.

Other

Crossover. A sequel to my ATWD fic I will shake mountains, where Merab and Irakli encounter celebrity diners in the restaurant they work in: respected musician Francis Crawford and friends take the boys for a drink and share queer/artistic inspiration/history with them. There's quite a lot written but I couldn't quite manage to finish it off.

St Mary's. Another ATWD/Lymond crossover, placing Merab and Irakli among the mercenaries of St Mary's. Mostly bullet points.

3m. Furious that there was no fic for the film Three Months I decided to jot down a scene I wanted to see afterwards. I wrote four lines and cannot remember what my plan was at all.

[miitgaanar]

The Howling

It's me! Again! When will someone nail my hands to the floor so I can't write self-indulgent garbage ever again!

Anyway, this idea was born of the hypothetical plot point I rambled on about many months ago in this post. It's haunted me ever since. Don't ask me if this is something that really happens in my little continuity. I genuinely haven't decided if this is a What If or concrete fact.

I don't suggest reading this. But, then again, I never suggest reading anything I write <3

***

The training grounds.  One hour.

The summons had been concise, almost curt in its brevity.  The chosen parchment had yellowed with age, the edges wrinkled and torn as if it had been thoughtlessly ripped from an old tome.  It had been left on her cot and folded over twice, likely to hide the simple message from prying eyes.  No name accompanied the words scratched onto the page, nor a wax seal to identify its sender—but it was hardly needed.  It never was.

He was already there when Addilyn Theron stepped onto the stone path leading to the training grounds, his long golden hair shimmering dully in the pale light of the moon.  Night had long since fallen over the city of Durlyne, the sky dark and clear of clouds.  A brilliant display of stars shone unimpeded from the heavens, countless in their number, rendering the lamplights lining the temple grounds superfluous in their placement.

It was little surprise that Lemuel Adelier’s gaze remained skyward as she approached.

“Sir?” Addilyn ventured, watching him.  He was hunched forward, leaning against the waist-high stone wall that separated the training grounds from the surrounding pathways, his forearms braced atop the rough-hewn surface.  He was still in uniform, though his plate armor had been removed.  Odd, considering the late hour.  “You asked to see me?”

Lemuel hummed in response, seemingly unsurprised by her appearance.  “How was the patrol this evening?”

Straight to business, then.  She resisted the urge to sigh.  “Fine, sir,” she said, coming to stand alongside him.  “Just the usual rabble.”

“Is that so?” he said flatly.  His eyes remained fixed on the moon, his features schooled into a mask of cool indifference.  “Bloodied your blade on your own bowels then, did you?”

Addilyn cringed, cursing softly under her breath.  She’d hoped that more important matters had garnered his attention, but little escaped his notice lately, especially where she was concerned.  It made what solace she still found in his presence seem thin and brittle.

“It was nothing, sir,” she insisted, averting her gaze to the ground.  “Just an unruly band of Geffie.  We put them down easy enough.”

Her skin prickled as Lemuel’s attention finally turned to her, his scrutiny nigh unbearable. She remained silent, unmoving in the face of his unspoken accusation.  A Semon’s blood had indeed stained her sword that evening, the man part of a gang of Gefendur intent on burning down a Ssaelit owned market stall.  They’d been dealt with swiftly and ruthlessly, but such was the daily life of a Lion these days.  Blood flowed easier than water within Durlyne.

And yet a cold dread pooled within the depths of her belly.  No one had seen her cut down the Semon, only the crimson gore that drenched her blade in the aftermath.  No one had noticed the flash of recognition in the man’s dark eyes as he met her gaze, the realization of who he’d stumbled upon dawning just a moment too late.

Lemuel couldn’t know that the Lioness had slaughtered yet another huntsman intent on her hide.  She’d made sure of it, killing the warning shout that sat upon his tongue before it could be given life.

“Addie,” Lemuel said quietly, wearily.  “You can’t keep on like this.”

“Keep on like what?”  Addilyn rolled her shoulders, all professional pretense forgotten.  “It was a routine patrol.  You’d have done no differently.”

“This isn’t about the patrol.”  He sighed heavily, the shadow of annoyance beginning to creep into his words.  He pinched at the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply before he continued, his voice soft and near inaudible.  “The wolves are closing in.  By God, I can feel them nipping at our heels even now.”

“What are you talking about?”  She glanced his way, the familiar claws of trepidation digging into her chest.  “Lem, what’s all this about?”

Lemuel sighed again, turning to face her fully.  There was a strange look about him; his jaw set, his gaze unflinching.  As if he had steeled himself for some long awaited battle.  “Have you ever thought of taking the Third Option, Addie?”

“Taking th—?”  An incredulous laugh escaped her then, the sound sharp and grating in the tranquil silence.  She looked up at him in utter disbelief, waiting for the derisive smirk to take shape, to hear the rumbling chuckle that always accompanied his playful jibes.  ‘You’re so serious of late, Theron,’ he would say, his golden eyes alight with mirth.  ‘We truly must do something about that.’

But the laughter never came.  His lips remained a thin line, the corners dipped downward in the beginnings of a frown, his aureate eyes harder than the stone beneath their feet.

“Y—You can’t be serious,” Addilyn said, her laughter petering out into a pathetic wince.  “Why would I ever consider that?”

“The Gefendur still hunt you,” Lemuel said gravely.  “They still call for your head.  Each time you step outside the temple gates, you take your life into your own hands.  And it’s only a matter of time before their demands reach the Lions, then even this precarious haven will have been lost to you.”  His eyes softened but a fraction.  “It could mean security for you.  Safety.  Protection under the law from both your own faith and theirs.”

“They’d never allow it.” Desperation clawed its way up her throat, undercutting the otherwise insouciant declaration.  He couldn’t truly think this was the right path for her.  The only path.  “I’m no wright.  They know I’ve no talent for spellery.  They’d have no use for me.”

“You’re a good soldier,” Lemuel reasoned.  He said it with such conviction, such genuine affection.  It was enough to cleave her heart in two.  “You have fought and bled and killed in the name of Ssael.  You know how desperate we are for seasoned Ssaelit soldiers, men willing to hold the line against our impending slaughter.  It’s reason enough to push the request through.”

“And what about me?” she snapped.  “What would happen to me?  You know what the oath calls for, what it would mean for me.  For—”  She choked on the word.  “For us.”

He looked away from her then, his features shuttered once more.  “You’ve no protectors left, Addie.  That you’ve lived as you have for this long is a miracle in itself.”

“And so I must kill Addilyn Theron?”  The words were sharp, venomous, each one a viper’s bite plunged into flesh.  “After everything she has accomplished?  After everything she has overcome?”  She scoffed, forcing the indignation to crush the despair blooming within her.  “You’ve always preached how we can’t give in to them, that to do so is to die a slow death under their heel.  And now you propose I do exactly that.”

“I propose you live.”  Lemuel rounded on her, his frustration boiling over at last.  Addilyn did not so much as flinch.  “And if Addilyn Theron must cease to exist to ensure your survival, that should be a small price to pay.”  He loomed over her, the moon’s faint glow casting his face in deep, menacing shadow.  “The Geffies will not grant you a swift death.  I’ve heard the whispers, the plans they have for you.  You’d be tortured, defiled, paraded about for all to see.  An example made of you, a promise of what is to come for us all should they achieve their loftiest goals.”

A trickle of fear began to seep into her veins, her blood running cold at the imagery put forth—though she continued to hold his gaze, her chin held high.

“Were you to bleed out in the street with a poisoned blade buried in your chest,” he rumbled, “it would be a mercy compared to what awaits you at their hands.”

“You ask me to die a slow death either way,” she said firmly, undaunted.  “That one is seemingly bloodless does not make it any less agonizing.”

“You are a liability as you are, Addilyn,” he spat, pounding his fist atop the stone wall with a dull thud.  At that, she flinched.  “To both Ssaelism and to Alderode.  The Lions have been keenly aware of this from the start.  Your only true protection laid in the word of a fucking Copper, and he has remained silent despite the encroaching scourge.  The Lions had not dared anger him, fearing bloody retribution, but without his looming shadow there is nothing to keep them from ousting you.”

A beat passed, one in which Addiyn felt an acute sadness settle upon her shoulders.  After all this time, after everything they'd endured, she never thought he would be the one to come to her with this.

“You can’t ask this of me,” she whispered, her hands clenching into tight fists at her sides.  It was the only way she could hide how they trembled.  “You can’t ask me to throw my entire life away.  To kill the woman that I am in the name of survival.  I can't live that lie.”

“Think beyond yourself, Addie,” he pleaded, a sudden softness overtaking him.  “Civil war looms, and we cannot afford even the smallest crack in our armor when they come for us.  We need you, I need you—but not as you are now.”

Addilyn recoiled as if slapped.  Lemuel’s brow furrowed in—apology? Sympathy?  She couldn’t tell.  She didn’t much care either.

“Sacrifices must be made if we are to survive,” he continued.  “Ssael asks much of us at His altar in this crusade.”

“And I am to be the sacrificial lamb.”  A small, derisive laugh burst forth unbidden, and Addilyn shifted to hunch forward over the stone wall, her palms flat against the rough surface.  The stone was cool to the touch, a balm against her feverish skin.  Out of the corner of her eye, she would swear she saw Lemuel flinch.  “How poetic.”

“Addilyn—”

“If Ssael cannot accept me as I am,” she cut him off, a steely resolve taking root within her, “if His followers cannot see the injustice in this, then what use would there be in such a compromise?  If the Gefendur truly want me dead, a pitiful oath will not stop them.  And I'll have flayed myself alive for nothing.”

“Don’t be foolish, Addilyn,” Lemuel warned.

“I won’t take the Third Option, Lem.” There was a note of finality to her voice. She could abide this torment no longer. “I won’t bind my chest and tie another unhappy woman into an unhappy marriage.  I am well aware of the expectations tied to that oath, as well as the scrutiny that comes in the aftermath.  I would drive myself mad with despair, with grief at what I had discarded.”  She glanced sidelong at him, desperate for him to understand.  “Why add to the weight of Alderode’s boot upon my back when the end result will be the same?  It’s heavy enough as it is.”

Silence descended, thicker than even the densest fog. It felt impenetrable, a chasm opening between them. A sharp pang of sorrow twisted at her heart, leaving her vision blurry with unshed tears. She didn’t know what pained her the most: that he had asked this of her, knowing what it entailed, what it meant for her—for them; or that it seemed, even now, she was simply not enough.

Lemuel’s shoulders sagged, an air of resignation about him.  He ran a hand through his golden hair, the strands near silver beneath the night sky.  His face was unreadable, an emotion she could not quite place crossing his features.  It made something within her squirm, an unfamiliar disquiet clenching at her gut.

Lemuel looked toward the training grounds, and there was the slightest crack in that unreadable facade.  “This was where we first met,” he said, a sad smile pulling at his lips, a faraway look in his eyes.

Addilyn’s gaze followed his own, falling upon the practice staves and shields littered about the ground.  A terrible melancholy fell over her.

“To think,” she began, her voice little more than a whisper, “that you’d still be fighting to be rid of me all these years later.”

Lemuel simply hummed, moving to stand behind her.  The air was still and crisp, the bite of a quickly fading winter evident.  There was a familiar comfort in this, in having him at her back.  Solid, warm, safe.

A hand came to rest at her hip.  She could feel each breath, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.  She allowed herself to lean back against him, to indulge in this moment.  To forget the wolves that sat ready to tear her asunder, if only for this instance.

His lips brushed the top of her head, an uncharacteristically tender gesture. The sensation sent a pleasant shiver skittering down her spine.

And then he spoke, the words soft and entreating—and filled with a grief she’d never once heard pass his lips. “Dan paesabi, da lledeol.”

It happened so quickly.  An immense pressure at her neck.  The stone wall digging into her pelvis.  Lemuel’s weight at her back, pushing her forward.  Trapping her.  Restraining her.

Addilyn clawed at the arm around her neck, only to be met with the thick leather of his riding gloves, her nails cracking and splintering against the well-tended armor.  She could find no purchase on the ground, no leverage to break his hold.  Her legs were pinned against the waist-high wall, held in place by Lemuel’s considerable strength.

And it was only then, as her vision began to fade, the dark abyss of unconsciousness rushing forward to claim her, that she realized Lemuel Adelier had betrayed her.

[trashlie]

hey! 😼 please don't worry about responding late. please take all the time you need to rest. answering asks can wait!! 💗 and thank you for your elaborate response, you brought up great details that really made me rethink how everything will influence the general plot of the story. i don't even have much to add, and for the sake of brevity i will only address some things. hope you don't mind!

as for our dear kousuke, i've been thinking for a bit… and i feel like even if the media doesn't get involved and everything is kind of glossed over, he's already obviously headed towards a major identity crisis. this incident, the entire night actually, is something he simply cannot align with his version of reality. no wonder kousuke.exe stopped working lmao. how can he NOT have a crisis when he just lost control and acted in a way that, according to his self-perception, is completely out of character for him? because YES, this violence and aggression is something he typically ascribes to nol, never himself. in 213, hansuke asks him "do you know who you are?" (great question my dude) and kou doesn't answer. after what just went down, after facing such a dark side of himself, after beginning to question the past incident, which metaphorically made the ground crack under his feet, can he answer that question?

and i do believe that him questioning himself and his perception of reality (including past and present) is a major step towards defying yui. the crux is, as long as he seeks refuge in this warped reality yui constructed for him, it'll be easy for her to manipulate him, and he can continue excusing her atrocities. so he needs to actually commit to seeking the truth. and this is the hardest and scariest part - how do you even begin to deal with the fact that most of what you believe isn't true? that your MOTHER did this to you? where do you seek safety when you no longer have her? where do you seek safety /from/ her? it's not easy to escape yui's claws. who knows what she's capable of once she's realizes she's about to lose her most valuable pawn. but for kousuke to break free he NEEDS to oppose yui eventually. AGH.

same, i'm nervous about yujing's article too. what the article will reveal exactly… no idea. you brought up some great theories, and i think we have some puzzle pieces (like nol's bad eyesight, yui&kou's physical resemblance, yui's burned/scratched hands, tea?, yujing's friend that got sa'd?, rand's involvement in all this?), but we'll just have to wait and see how they all fit together. nessa's part is what i'm particularly curious about. that's when she disappeared, right? or is that unrelated?

on a more light-hearted side note, thank you for sharing your thoughts on 219 ^___^ i appreciate so much that you highlight little details that usually escape me. because WOW i now totally see that shinae didn't want to sleep because she fears that nol will disappear. he's slipped through her fingers so many times (and even almost died), the possibility to lose him again must terrify her. like, she could very well take a (well-deserved) nap on another empty bed… but no, there she is, holding onto his bed, fighting off sleep, keeping watch. not sure if she's even aware of it, but there is so much tenderness and… yearning or devotion, almost? in her actions. in both their actions, actually, in their attempts to slow down time. and it's ARGGHHH listen i don't even care about romance that much (though i genuinely enjoy their overall dynamic) but these two are killing me with the unspoken yet obvious feelings and the cautious flirting and the butterflies. and i love it.

-lil anon

LMAOOOOO I truly lost it at this line

no wonder kousuke.exe stopped working lmao

This is how I'm going to refer to what happened following what Kousuke read in the Bible lmao kousuke.exe has stopped working

But anyway, yeah, yeah, I think as we get deeper into this, more people are going to come to that realization, that Kousuke has been dealing with something that is SO difficult for him to come out of. Domestic abuse is a living nightmare - especially when there are people who don't see it, but even also when you are afraid to see it. And it's all been orchestrated so well TO make it difficult for him to see it, even if catches a glimpse. Isn't it easy to say "Well we aren't like other families" because that's what she told him and isn't it true? Isn't it easy to fall back on that loyalty, because she's his mother and she couldn't possibly want anything but the best for him? Isn't it terrifying to leave her refuge and feel like there is nowhere else you can go, because you can't trust anyone else, because you've come to believe that everyone must be out to get you that you can never let down your guard, never show any weakness, never let them find a weak spot?

Something really sad about Kousuke is that while I know he knows what kind of woman he is and he knows she's endangered people and plays games with them, that she's like a sadistic cat and all the world are the mice she torments, she's still his mother. And on some level he needs to believe that he isn't one of those mice. Family is complicated, he's been told, their family doesn't act like others. Don't question us just because we aren't what like the other families are like. In a way, he's been lead to doubt even what he observes. Just because they aren't like others doesn't mean it's not wrong... right?

He lacks that coddling and nurturing but in some sad, cold way, Yui still represents safety to him - because she's all he really has. Ugh.

I'm also DYING to know about Nessa. It FEELS like they're related, but I'm not sure. I feel like we need to revisit a timeline of events again. I'm guessing when they were formally introduced, that is when whatever happened to Nessa had happened? So about six years ago. Although, because, according to Kousuke, Nol was emotionally unstable, could it have happened before, and something happened that just pushed him to the brink?

(Also, Kousuke says that Nol meant no harm but was troubled and I REALLY want to know what he means by THAT - especially because Kousuke so intensely believes Nol is violent, and when he was taken away, Nol was asking what he did, saying he didn't even touch him. So?????? So many questions!)

But yeah, at any rate, by the time he got out of there, he didn't have anywhere else to go, so my guess is somewhere in that range - perhaps before he was sent away, but it just really feels like they are closely related, or part of a domino effect - one thing leading to another. It was probably a lot easier to have Nol institutionalized if his legal guardian wasn't around (although I get the feeling with Yui's hands in everything, it wouldn't be too difficult to swing a ruling that Nol was deemed too dangerous and needed to be sent away).

Also, interestingly enough, when Kousuke visits Nol WAY earlier in the series to tell him Shinae (Maya lol) invited them out, he asks "How long has it been since you got out? Four years? Maybe five?" Which doesn't quite align with what he told Shinae. I'm guessing at the time he went over it had been five years, and that Nol had gotten out somewhere in that September to December span, so by the time Shinae asked him, it had officially been 6 years? But. Still. I wonder if that was an oversight early in the story or if yeah, 6 years now as of December?

But back to the main point, I wonder just how much Yujing's article will tell us. I go back and forth on whether or not I think we'll get any insight into Nessa, but I tend to lean into the feeling that whenever we get insight, maybe it will come from Nol? Maybe. But only in the narrative sense of Nol learning to forgive himself/reaching a point where he allows himself to think of her memory and becomes more comfortable talking about her?

It's easy to assume Yui had something to do with what happened to her - and I do not throw out that theory, because Yui sure knows how to get rid of things. But it's just the way that Kousuke admits he has no idea what happened to her and then later says she left Nol that just give me pause. WHAT happened to her?! Of course, especially if it involves Yui, there's a good likelihood that a. he has lied to himself because it's something he can't face or b. he really has no idea because of her skills in manipulation? (And in that case, saying she left him was just a low blow that he threw at Nol?)

Also waaaahhhh thank you for saying that! That's how I feel about every week when the episodes drop actually lol. I am a very emotionally responsive person and it always takes me a couple reads before I start catching certain details (especially if it's a reference to something omg) or just little things I missed (like Shinae's birthdate on the morphine bag!) and the community aspect of discussions pulls through to help me see what I've missed! But because I'm such an emotionally responsive reader, I LATCH ON to little details like choosing to stay awake out of this fear that he'll slip through her finger again, that this moment will pass and the nightmare will resume. Also I'm just a sucker for that kind of tenderness lmao

Your word choice about yearning and devotion really got to me, too, because it just suits that sort of... this sounds cheesy by that almost religious imagery of devotionals because that's kind of what it is? Without them realizing it. Not that I think it's anywhere near this deep but just - something about mutual romance that's compared to this mutual worship, you know? It's something I'm a SUCKER for. And not that Nol is dying, but it has that feeling of keeping vigil, watching over him (and I guess in a way they all HAVE been keeping vigil, since he was unconscious until recently). But also, it just harkens back to all that death and rebirth imagery. Nol off to jail has that feeling of death and rebirth - who will he be when he returns?

But yes I agree with you! I think if ILY got to the end without things ever having gone a romantic route I'd feel just as fulfilled, but I am a SUCKER for tenderness and yearning and they may not be pining right now but if that comes to us I will never stop barking at the moon because THAT IS MY JAM! But yeah! I think it's just a testament to how well done their development has been, that even if you're not romantically inclined it's like... you can't help but be drawn to these little moments, right? ESPECIALLY because we've been watching these two characters in particular go through hell. ESPECIALLY because we've watched Shinae learn to rely on others because of him, and we're getting to see a glimpse of him doing the same. ESPECIALLY because we want them to have little moments of softness.

That's why I can't help but find myself drawn to them as a romantic ship lol. It's not that I need it to happen - it's that they get to me in all the ways that make me feel feral and I can't help but pay attention to them lmaoooooo. Maybe that's how it is for a lot of other readers who ship them? That a lot of just got drawn in because they have such an interesting dynamic and there's something about seeing that tenderness happening between them that just pulls on your heartstrings.

I WANT TO SEE THEM HAPPY AND WARM. I WANT TO SEE THEM AT PEACE. And if warmth and peace comes from each other, then even better lmao

[thequeensjester]

S2 • EP7 ➤ Film Blocking & Power Struggle in the Tent Scene

The tent scene was all about power struggle. I don't consider it a negotiation because both Elrond and Adar were never going to back down from their stances.

The power struggle is driven by the film blocking—the placement of both the camera and actors to capture movement in relation to other actors, the set, props, etc. Similar to the Eregion forge scene with the Elves by Wayne Yip, Charlotte Brandstrom starts the scene still and once the actors start moving, the emotions escalate.

This opening shot of the scene immediately shows us the power dynamic. Elrond and Vorohil, nearly off-frame, are positioned closest to the camera but their backs are to us and out of focus.

The is lens focused on the mid- and background, where Adar is staring down Elrond, Galadriel held captive and orcs surrounding them. Adar holds authority. With this composition, it also looks like he's staring down at the audience.

Adar is flanked by Glug, who is fully visible, and his sword. His seat is also fashioned as a throne. The camera is also on a slight low angle so that we're looking up at him, emphasizing his power.

I thought Sam's performance was rather theatrical in this scene. He asks to see Nenya in an aloof manner when there's a siege happening. Given how the dialogue later plays out, I think Adar was toying with Elrond here. He sees Elrond as a non-threat due to his youthfulness, which he takes for inexperience.

Elrond's reverse shot is a similar medium close-up shot but the camera is pointing straight-on. He looks smaller in his shot compared to Adar's solo.

Vorohil is even more off-screen while the orcs are fully visible in the background, highlighted by light columns. Elrond is essentially alone but he's holding his ground. I also think he is twinning Adar with his arm, on the chair rest, as a confidence tactic.

However, I don't think it's random that the hair and make-up team styled Elrond to look as youthful as possible here.

I also want to point out that both Adar and Elrond's shots are using Rembrandt lighting—see the triangle of light under their eyes in shaded side of their faces. It shows the tense psychological game.

Once Adar threatens to have Galadriel's tongue cut out, he rattles Elrond (and Vorohil). It's first major movement of the scene. Elrond's tone changes from calm to pointed while Adar remains calm.

When Elrond is unmoved by Adar's offer, Adar gets up and walks towards him. The blocking for this walking sequence is still powerful on Adar's end. I chose this specific shot because we see the overwhelming breadth of Adar's strength, which includes Morgoth's Crown in the chest back there.

Elrond is smaller and out-of-focus. He's in just as much danger as Galadriel because Adar could have easily offed all three elves at that moment and moved on. Gil-galad did not have an army larger enough to repel Adar.

This is Elrond's reaction to Adar walking towards him. Here, he looks slouched and almost child-like, compared to how confident he looked in his earlier solo shot.

When Adar warns Elrond how the orcs would destroy them, he's blocked in between the two orcs in the background but he's also short-sided—a character positioned close to one side of the frame.

Adar believes in the might of his army but the short-siding hints something wrong with his approach.

Elrond picks up on this and gets up from his seat. He finally takes up more of the frame when he tries to take power from Adar by trying to turn the orcs on him.

The blocking of Adar's reverse shot literally features an orc caught in the middle. Again the Rembrandt lighting in these close-ups are working overtime in their power struggle.

The orcs are unsettled and audibly react to this. Even Galadriel notices this (I will talk about this separately.) Not bad for an elf that is more suited to hold a scroll instead.

This moment is doing a lot in-story and for the audience. Elrond and Adar walk around one another for us. The actors were blocked this way so that we can clearly see Elrond take the brooch off but it's done subtly to create the deception against Adar, who wouldn't have seen this gesture.

Charlotte could have used a close-up, which she often does, to make it more overt but I'm glad she chose not to.

By shooting this way, we also see Elrond and Adar standing on a more even plane but Elrond slightly more dominant in the frame because of his deception.

Elrond has a grim expression because he knows he has to leave Galadriel behind and face the reality of battle. Yet, this is the strongest that he's blocked in the entire scene. He takes up the most space in both frames, making Adar look small. Getting the pin to Galadriel as a chance to escape is a significant victory here.

Elrond is serious here about fighting but I think he's also putting on an act to get to Galadriel. He has to carry that energy from before to convince Adar of his threat but also ask to say goodbye.

Given how Adar flirted flaunted his knowledge of the elves and his dismissiveness of Elrond, I think Elrond deliberately tapped into all of this because he knew he could trick Adar into agreeing.

He even pulled these child-like trembling, trying-to-be-brave eyes when Adar squared him up. It worked. After all, he's had experience with playful trickery on Durin in s1.

We get this shot, which features the light columns, pointing at Galadriel and Elrond for what's to come next but Adar is also in the middle. Their storylines are interconnected even when they are physically separated in the siege.

This wide shot of the Kiss™ reveals the sleight of hand but again, it shows how vulnerable the elves were in this scene. They are surrounded by armed orcs and Morgoth's Crown so the distraction kiss is staged to be Elrond's best option.

When Elrond leaves, we get a wide shot. Now we can see both Adar's sword and the crate, which I think is a reinforcing decision for ep8.

This is the final shot of the entire tent scene. The scene ends with Vorohil walking pass Adar, who looks over but mostly stands still, and the orcs in the background sneer at the elf.

Brandstrom chose a center frame on Adar, instead of a close-up. It puts the focus on him and it should be balanced, powerful shot but the orcs in the background throws off the symmetry.

With the scene ending on Adar looking off-side, I think he was affected by Elrond's willingness to "sacrifice" Galadriel, who is one of their most eminent elves. He may have wondered if he underestimated Elrond after all. Adar looks less confident than before.

The scene starts with Adar staring down Elrond and telling him he's not fit for battle but in the end, Elrond briefly wins the power struggle.

— credit: cap-that.com

[crossbowking]

More Than Anything (Part 2)

(Click HERE to read More Than Anything Part 1)

Summary: (Set mid-season 6) The reader’s feelings towards the archer evolve, but a supply run that goes south threatens to destroy it all.

Request: “I’d love to see something w protective Daryl and some angst, maybe set at the start of their time in Alexandria w an established relationship?” - @pulplorrd

A/N: See, you'd think I would've learned after making you guys wait a year and a half for No Way Out Part 2, that I should probably FINISH my stories before actually posting the first part...yet, here we are, one month later lol I'm sorry for the wait but hopefully it's worth it!

Happy reading and let me know what you think :)

xx Jess

Masterlist

Tip Jar

Previously...

But as its grasp slipped away from around Tara’s arm, the walker’s deadweight, in turn, collapsed against you.

You lost your footing and fell backward.

Except the solidity of concrete never rushed up to meet you.

Instead, you were embraced by water, the tarp that’d laid across the motel pool coiling around your body as you sunk deeper and deeper into nothingness.

Now...

When the world ended, you’d accepted the idea of death — your death, specifically.

You knew that one day, your life would undoubtedly end — most likely at the hands of the dead, ripped to pieces, torn to shreds, the way so many others before you had been taken. But you’d always hoped your death would at least mean something — maybe laying your life on the line, sacrificing yourself so the people you loved could survive.

Something noble, something brave.

Not like this.

Before the fall, you’d managed to inhale a sharp breath — though once you’d submerged into the grimy pool water, the coldness, the darkness, the shock of it all, had zapped the air right out of your body. You were becoming increasingly aware of the tightness in your chest, the burning in your lungs as you struggled against the walker pressed against you, its weight sinking you further into the depths of the pool.

Then, the panic set in — your heart pounded against your ribcage, right alongside the immense pressure crushing your lungs. Glimpses of sunlight hung just above you, peeking through parts of the drifting tarp you frantically attempted to push aside. You were completely disoriented, your vision obscured by the murkiness surrounding you, floating specks only visible beneath the shattered light above.

When your back connected against the bottom of the deep end, you managed to wriggle out from under the dead’s listless body — though the tarp remained twisted around your limbs. No matter how hard you fought, how hard you struggled, you couldn’t free yourself from the suffocating material. You could’ve sworn you were caught in a dream, your movements lagging and sluggish as you thrashed beneath the surface.

It felt as though someone had reached their hand directly through the center of your chest, squeezing your insides in a vice-like grip. A tingling sensation crawled down your spine, settling atop your churning stomach as the throbbing behind your ears began to slow.

You were listening to your last heartbeats.

It became unbearable, the water threatening to force its way past your clamped lips, the simple need to breathe. A sharp stab of pain shot through you as the blackness in your vision intensified, pulsing reddish-white around the edges as the fire in your chest consumed you at last.

Then, with nothing else left to do, you inhaled.

You weren’t sure what happened next — everything felt faint and fuzzy and quiet. The darkness that lingered no longer struck fear in you — instead, it was warm, enveloping you in its arms like a long-lost lover. The silence was soothing as you drifted in the emptiness, like careless whispers and forgotten melodies. You were weightless, you were freed, you were everything and nothing all at once.

You were dying.

That you were sure of.

Yet much to your surprise, you weren’t afraid — no, instead…you felt at peace.

But the brevity of calm didn’t last as you were suddenly aware of a vague pressure, though it wasn’t all-consuming nor constant. It was distant at first, a feeling you could’ve easily brushed aside had it not begun to gradually grow in force, in vigor — a steady pounding, coming from the center of your chest, over and over again.

The warmth around you began to splinter, shattering like shards of glass, the fallout piercing your skin as it collapsed around you. The pain was deep and burning and you longed for just a moment ago when all you felt was the sweetness of oblivion. The pressure pounding against your chest increased, becoming the sole thing you could feel, the only thing you could focus on, the unwavering thuds drawing you back from whatever place you’d drifted off to.

In the next moment, you were awake.

Your body flailed, jolting upright, but you’d only managed to get an inch or two off the ground before water began to suddenly spurt from your mouth. Your eyes squeezed shut as you choked on the liquid, every nerve ending in your body red-hot. You were vaguely aware of hands, rough and calloused and familiar, gripping onto your arms and forcing you onto your side, the motion allowing the water leaving your lungs to flow easier.

You gasped a constricted breath, coughing harshly on the exhale, completely and entirely disoriented as to what in the fuck just happened. Your chest tightened as you spit up more water, your throat closing around the sensation as you fought for control of your breathing, the feeling of concrete against the side of your body grounding you.

When your coughs finally died down, the same hands from before grabbed onto your arms, pulling your deadweight upright, maneuvering your limp body as if you were a rag doll. You blinked your bleary eyes open, wincing from the sunlight directly above as you drew in shaky breaths.

And then you saw him.

Daryl knelt in front of you, his ragged breathing mirroring your own, soaking wet from head to toe. Strands of hair stuck against his forehead, droplets of water still dripping from the ends as he stared at you, wide-eyed, his expression a mixture of horror and shock — something you rarely witnessed when it came to the archer.

He was mouthing something — no, he was shouting something — but you couldn’t hear him. You couldn’t hear a damn word he was saying as you sat there, dazed and confused, wondering if what just happened actually happened.

His hold around your arms slipped away, his hands cradling either side of your face instead, tilting your head up and brushing your drenched hair back. He leaned forward a fraction, frantically studying your features, his haunted eyes bouncing back and forth between your own as though making sure you were there — really there.

The silence was becoming a little less resounding, the world around you gradually seeping back, though muffled and dull — but the way Daryl was looking at you, the apprehension in his gaze, shook something loose inside you. Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. You wanted to tell him it was okay — that you were okay — but damn it, why couldn’t you speak?

So instead, you slowly lifted your hands, weakly grasping onto Daryl’s wrists, the small motion all you could muster — you had to let him know you were here. He glanced down at your hands, a small huff of relief escaping him.

But when he looked back up, you noticed the moisture that’d built in the corners of his eyes.

Daryl’s hands slipped behind your head, holding you still as he leaned forward and pressed his forehead gently against yours.

You, on the other hand, silently thanked whatever God or higher power was out there for giving you one more moment like this.

When the archer pulled back, you spotted a red streak smeared across his forehead that hadn’t been there before. Your brow knitted together as he sat back on his haunches. You tried clearing your throat, the sensation burning the rawness that’d spread. “You’re —” you croaked, your voice sounding foreign. “— you’re bleeding, D.”

Daryl’s expression darkened, his jaw clenching as he lowered his gaze and unsheathed his hunting knife. “It ain’t mine,” he rasped, suddenly slicing a long strip of fabric off from the bottom of his dampened shirt and balling it in his fist, ringing out some of the water.

Before you knew what was happening, he was reaching forward, pressing the material gingerly against your forehead and wrapping it behind your head, tying the strip into a knot to keep it in place. You were surprised at the sting of pain you felt, unsure when you managed to cut your head open in the midst of what had happened — everything was still sort of…fuzzy.

The sound of a car door slamming drew your attention. You peeked out of the corner of your eye, spotting Tara jogging towards you, the car you’d driven to the motel running idle in the parking lot.

“They’re coming!” she called out, motioning towards something just behind Daryl.

You craned your neck, attempting to get a look, but before you could, the archer was looping his arms beneath your armpits and hefting you up to your feet. The world tilted unsteadily around you, and had it not been for Daryl’s hold, the ground would’ve surely rushed up to meet you.

“I got ya,” he rasped, slinging one of your arms across his shoulders, his grip snaking around your waist.

Tara appeared at your opposite side, slightly out of breath. “Welcome back, chicka,” she shot you a slightly strained smile before following Daryl’s lead and winding your other arm across her shoulders, keeping you propped upright between them.

You wanted to tell them you were fine, that you were more than capable of walking on your own — but your strength had depleted, your legs shook beneath you, and the shock was beginning to wear off, making all the little aches and pains in your body alarmingly obvious.

Then, you were moving.

They half-dragged, half-carried you across the stretch of concrete, hurrying towards the parking lot where Tara had left the car. You peeked over your shoulder, managing to get a glimpse of what you were leaving behind — the small herd from earlier had been taken down, their bodies splayed out sporadically on the other side of the pool. Some sporting knife wounds, others bullet holes. The pool itself was rippling, the water sloshing back and forth, air bubbles visible at the surface.

Some of the dead had followed you into the water.

Just beyond the pool, you spotted exactly what you were running from — another herd, three times the size of the first one, ambling in from the woods behind the motel, most likely drawn in by gunfire.

When you reached the car, Tara slipped away and jumped into the driver’s seat. Daryl flung open the back door and maneuvered you carefully inside. You grimaced as you inched further into the car, only stopping once your back was pressed up against the opposite door. The archer quickly slid in after you and slammed the door shut, grabbing onto the back of the driver’s seat as Tara peeled out of the parking lot.

The silence that followed rang heavy.

Your heart hammered against your chest, your breaths coming out slightly wheezy, almost like there was still some water left in your lungs. You met Tara’s eyes in the rearview mirror before she focused back on the road — you noticed then that the sleeves of her shirt, up to her elbows, were wet.

She’d helped drag your body out of the pool.

You glanced over at Daryl, the archer’s grip on the driver’s seat white-knuckled as he stared at the back of the headrest. Waves of tension rolled off him, the feeling nearly palpable. But his eyes flickered towards you a moment later, as though he felt you watching him, and some of the rigidity faded.

He wordlessly shuffled closer, grabbing your arm and pulling you away from the door you leaned against. You were too tired and too sore to object, your body slumping against his side as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders — you thought for a brief moment that he was hugging you.

But instead, he wound your seatbelt around your body and locked it in place.

Daryl fell back against the seat beside you with a huff, keeping his gaze focused ahead, staring straight through the windshield. He didn’t look at you again — he remained still, like he was carved from stone. You weren’t even sure he was breathing. His arm just barely grazed the side of yours, but despite whatever hidden turmoil was surely happening inside of him, he made no effort to move away.

He needed time to process what happened — what almost happened.

But so did you.

You shifted, closing the small gap between you and resting your head against his shoulder, ignoring the way he stiffened. The material of his shirt was still damp and smelt like a mixture of chlorine and mildew from the murky pool water, but you couldn’t find it in you to pull away either.

You hadn't realized you’d dozed off until the archer gently shook you awake, the car now parked outside Alexandria’s makeshift infirmary.

You still felt weak and lethargic, but you managed to make your way inside without any help — although Daryl, silent and stoic as ever, remained at your side, his hand hovering over the small of your back.

The infirmary was quiet as Denise checked you over — Tara had gone to update Rick and the others on what happened, as well as distribute the supplies you’d managed to bring home. Daryl, on the other hand, paced — back and forth, like a caged animal, on the opposite side of the room. Almost like part of him desperately wanted to run, but a bigger part of himself needed to be there.

“Are you feeling any nausea? Confusion? Loss of basic motor skills?” Denise suddenly asked, breaking the silence that’d stretched on, looking up from the textbook she was reading from. She’d never dealt with an ‘almost drowning’, but had been able to scrounge up some old medical textbooks for help.

“Uh,” you cleared your throat, shaking your head once. “No. No, nothing like that.”

“Okay, good. Yeah, that’s good…” she murmured, mostly to herself, before flipping to the next page and skimming the stretch of words. “Besides your forehead, any other lacerations?” she looked up at you once more, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“I don’t —” you shot Daryl a look, but he was too busy pacing to notice. “I don’t think so,” you shook your head again, your fingertips ghosting over the bandage Denise had patched your head up with.

“Good, good. We’ll want to keep an eye on that in case of infection,” she informed before flipping to the next page, mouthing the text to herself. “Okay, and any soreness?”

You grimaced as you sat up a little straighter. “Just — just right here mostly,” you admitted, motioning towards your center, below your chest.

Denise shut the textbook and placed it on the metal table you sat on top of. “Can you show me?”

Your brow knitted together but you obliged, sliding off the table and grabbing the hem of your shirt. You fought back a wince as you rolled the material up, stopping just below your chest, exposing your skin.

The first thing you noticed was the way the room suddenly stilled — you glanced up, spotting Daryl standing frozen across the way, pacing no longer. But he wasn’t staring at you — he was staring at your midsection, a look in his eyes you’d never seen before.

When you lowered your head, getting a good look at yourself for the first time, you realized exactly what he was seeing.

Bruises. Dark and discolored. Scattered down your sternum and along the center of your ribcage.

Your head snapped up at the sound of the front door slamming shut.

And Daryl was gone.

You tried to ignore the pinprick of tears that grew, the hurt that settled across your chest as you lowered your shirt back in place — but when Denise suddenly reached out and placed her hand on top of yours, patting it softly, your features crumpled.

Everything that happened seemed to catch up to you in that moment — the fear, the shock, what Daryl must’ve felt pulling your unmoving body out of the water. You’d nearly died. What would’ve happened if he hadn’t been able to bring you back? Would he have been the one to put you down when you undoubtedly turned? Or would Tara have done it — the act far too painful for the man you loved to follow through with.

The man you loved.

Denise wrapped her hand around yours, squeezing gently and drawing you back. “Hey, it’s okay,” she soothed.

You quickly swiped at the tears that slipped down your cheeks, huffing a hitched breath. “I know, I’m just —” you glanced up at the front door, hanging onto the foolish hope that it’d swing open once more. “I don’t know,” you finally mumbled, albeit defeatedly.

Denise followed your gaze, scoffing slightly. “Men suck,” she finally shrugged.

You sniffled softly before shaking your head. “Not that one,” you murmured fondly.

Denise squeezed your hand once more, shooting you a sympathetic smile before she pulled away. “It could’ve been worse — most people who have CPR done on them end up with broken ribs or punctured lungs. You, my friend, are one of the lucky ones.”

You inhaled a deep breath, fighting back a wince, the motion stretching your bruised body. “Thank you. For everything.”

Denise nodded before taking off her glasses, using the hem of her shirt to clean the lenses. “Y/N, I don’t mean to overstep my boundaries, but,” she paused, sliding her glasses back on as she regarded you seriously. “You smell like a sewer rat.”

You faltered, completely caught off guard by her statement before remembering that you were still wearing damp, swampy, pool water clothes. Then, despite everything, a laugh slipped past your lips, breaking the tension. You let out a hiss as the movement sent a wave of pain through you. “Ow, fuck, don’t make me laugh,” you bit back another chuckle, lightly swatting her arm.

Denise smiled before motioning towards the door. “Go home, shower, get some rest — Doctor’s orders,” she grinned, turning away and beginning to clean up her workstation.

You thanked her again before hobbling out of the infirmary.

As night drew near, most residents of Alexandria were already in their respective homes — you were grateful for that. You didn’t want to see anyone right now, their worry and endless questions something you were more than happy to put off until tomorrow.

When you made it back to the apartment you and Daryl shared, you were, yet again, fighting back feelings of disappointment — he wasn’t home. You felt a pinprick of worry, but knew he needed time and space to process whatever it was he was feeling.

And when he was ready, you would be too.

You walked through the kitchen, the morning you’d shared earlier feeling like a lifetime ago — the pan he’d used to make eggs, now dry, remained sitting on the counter. The bedroom was untouched, looking exactly how it had this morning, just the way you’d left it. You grabbed a fresh set of clothes before making your way into the master bathroom attached, ignoring the bone-deep tiredness settling over you.

Showering was a good call — the warm water rained down as you scrubbed your body of the muck that clung to you, being extra careful not to get the bandage on your head wet or make any sudden movements. When you were finished cleaning up, you stood beneath the shower head for a few minutes, eyes closed, inhaling the steam around you with deep, calming breaths.

You were okay. You were alive. You were here.

You shut off the water, stepped out of the shower, and dried yourself off, gingerly patting down your chest and around your ribs, before slipping into clean clothes. You wiped away some of the steam that’d collected on the bathroom mirror before hanging up your towel, combing out your knotted hair, and brushing your teeth — the same routine you did every night.

The normalcy was soothing — you were already beginning to feel better, more like yourself. You were ready to put what happened behind you and move forward, sure to never take another day for granted.

But when you opened the bathroom door, ready to curl up in bed and doze off, all of your feelings from earlier came rushing back at the sight of Daryl.

Once again, he’d been pacing the length of the bedroom, only stopping after you’d entered the room, his gaze snapping towards you. He shifted his weight back and forth, opening his mouth before clamping it shut. You could feel his energy, rolling off his body in waves — tense, rigid, wild. He was struggling to say whatever was on his mind, only furthering his evident frustration. He flicked his hair away from his eyes, turning to face you head-on, clearly gathering up the gall to speak.

You took a small step forward. “Daryl —”

“Ya were blue,” he suddenly rasped, a fire in his gaze that wasn’t there before. “Tara was shoutin’ for ya an’ I — when I went in an’ pulled ya out, there wasn’t — I didn’t —” he huffed a breath in frustration, his face tinged red. “God, damn it, Y/N, ya were fuckin’ blue,” he finally growled, chest heaving, hands balled into fists at his side.

His anger wasn’t directed at you, but the situation itself, you knew that. But still, his words — or more so the emotion, the truth hidden behind them — had you recoiling from him, your heart breaking at the thought of what he’d seen, of what had run through his mind when he realized you weren’t breathing.

You couldn’t imagine how scared he must have been.

And that was what was beneath his outburst — not rage, but fear.

But he wasn’t finished with what he needed to say — if anything, he was just getting more and more worked up as he began to frantically pace once more. “This is why — I fuckin’ told ya — I didn’t need ya comin’ out there. I didn’t need ya on that run but ya — ya didn’t listen ta’ me an’ then —”

“I love you.”

Daryl stilled, mid-stride, his gaze widening as if all of the air had been sucked from his lungs.

You felt your face flush, the air between you so thick it could be cut with a knife. You hadn’t meant to say that aloud, but the words just sort of…tumbled out? And now, there they were, hanging between you. Part of you wondered if the archer could hear your heart pounding from where he stood — or maybe it was his heartbeat, synched up to yours.

You sputtered a soft breath, shaking your head in disbelief, trying not to panic because the last thing you wanted was for Daryl to look at you the way he was looking at you after telling him you loved him. “I’m —“ you took a breath, regarding him earnestly. “I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. And I promise — I promise — you do not have to say it back. Hell, you don’t even have to feel the same way,” you huffed an awkward laugh, but the noise hitched somewhere in your throat, betraying your words. You grew serious once more. “I just — I couldn’t have another night going by without you knowing. Not after what happened today,” you swallowed the lump in your throat, shrugging a shoulder up meekly. “So, I love you — I love you more than anything.”

You weren’t sure what sort of reaction you were expecting from him. But you absolutely refused to acknowledge the tiny part of you that secretly wished he’d swoop you into his arms, pull you close, tell you he loved you too — because that wasn’t Daryl. That wasn’t the type of man he was — and you were okay with that.

Because you hadn’t fallen in love with that type of man.

You’d fallen in love with the man standing shell-shocked in front of you.

You cleared your throat and stepped forward, moving away from the bathroom doorway. “The shower’s all yours,” you murmured, needing to break the uncomfortable silence that carried on.

You sidestepped around his frozen form, ignoring the way your legs shook like jelly beneath you as you made your way towards the bed. You took a seat on the edge of the mattress, keeping your back towards him, staring ahead at the blank wall in front of you instead.

After what felt like forever, the floorboard squeaked beneath the shifting of his weight, his footsteps growing faint as he slowly walked away and entered the bathroom, closing the door shut after him.

You strained your ears, listening for any movement beyond the door he’d disappeared behind — but you heard nothing. It was like you could feel him through the panel of wood between you — you could almost picture him, just standing there, trying to process whatever the hell was going on inside that mind of his.

A moment later, the shower turned on.

And you released the breath you’d been holding.

Exhaustion swept through you, the day’s events wearing you down. You carefully maneuvered yourself into bed, pulling a thin sheet over your body and settling onto your side. Your eyelids grew heavy, the sound of the shower lulling you to sleep despite the strange, sort of freedom your admittance had brought you, the feeling buzzing through your veins.

You didn’t regret your vulnerability — he needed to know he was loved, damn it.

When you heard the shower turn off, you snapped your eyes shut. You listened to the archer move about the bathroom until the door finally creaked open. He seemed to be just standing there, and you could’ve sworn you felt him staring at the back of your head as if he was gauging whether or not you were actually asleep. But a moment later, you heard his footsteps padding across the bedroom before the mattress dipped beneath him.

You held your breath, covers drawn to your chin as Daryl shifted in bed, eventually lying down beside you. Another beat of quiet passed, neither of you moving, nor breathing it seemed.

But then suddenly, you heard him speak, so softly you almost missed it. “I know ya ain’t sleepin’,” he rumbled.

The corner of your mouth quirked up — because of course he knew.

You sighed, shifting gingerly onto your back, the sheet pooling at your waist as you looked over at him. He laid on his side, facing you, propped up on his elbow. He was dressed in clean clothes, his hair still wet from the shower, pushed back out of his face.

He really was rather beautiful.

“Busted,” you smiled, though the archer’s expression remained solemn.

Ever so gently, he reached towards you, his fingertip grazing the material of your shirt, over your ribcage, below your chest, hovering the bruises that lingered. “Does it hurt?” he rasped, the mouth turned downward into a small frown.

You shook your head. “Not really.”

Daryl’s eyes met yours, his expression skeptical and knowing.

You never were a good liar.

“At least you didn’t break a rib?” you offered sheepishly, your lame attempt at a joke falling flat given the current audience.

But when Daryl’s features fell, a flash of what looked like guilt settling over his face, you placed your hand on top of his, resting them against your stomach. “Don’t do that,” you murmured, reading him like a damn book as you rubbed circles with your thumb over the back of his hand.

The archer grumbled something indistinct, staring down at your intertwined hands.

Your grip tightened around his. “I mean it,” you spoke, an edge to your voice, only softening when he looked at you instead. “You saved my life, D — that’s it. You can let go of anything else you’re holding onto.”

Daryl’s lip twitched as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, seemingly mulling over your words.

You were sure he’d hang onto whatever unnecessary guilt he carried — because that was just who he was — but eventually, he nodded once and settled down on his back, staring up at the ceiling. You were too tired to press the subject further so you curled into his side and rested your head against his chest, winding your arm across his midsection. His arm automatically wrapped around you, his fingertips trailing absently up and down your spine, sending shivers through your body.

You weren’t sure how long you laid like that, melting into the warmth he exuded, the steady pounding of his heartbeat easing you to sleep.

You’d nearly faded away when Daryl suddenly spoke.

“Did ya mean it?” he rumbled, the noise vibrating from deep within his chest. “What ya said before?” he grunted, his hand pausing at the small of your back.

You could’ve imagined it, but you almost felt the slight tremble of his fingertips against your skin.

You slowly pushed up onto your elbow, your faces mere inches apart. You searched his uncertain gaze, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Of course I meant it,” you whispered. “Every damn word.”

Daryl’s eyes narrowed, as though not entirely believing what you said could be true.

So you leaned forward, closing the remainder of space between you, and pressed your lips gently against his. He returned the kiss, a quiet desperation growing as one hand came up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb sweeping back and forth across your cheek. You broke away from the kiss, brushing his hair back before meeting his lips once more, settling your hand on his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your touch.

When you pulled back, you noticed his skin flush, surely mirroring your own. He looked up at you, slightly breathless, a fondness in his gaze that sent your stomach somersaulting. He cleared his throat, the ghost of a smile flickering across his face. “Well, alright,” he finally resigned, accepting your answer to his question.

You snorted a breathy laugh, leaning forward and kissing his cheek before burrowing against him. A soft sigh slipped past your lips as Daryl’s hold tightened around you, as though afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t.

You closed your eyes, reveling in the feeling of contentment, unsure how many more moments like this you, or anyone else for that matter, had left in this kind of cruel and harrowing world.

But for at least tonight, you could be at peace.

“I love you,” you murmured groggily, beginning to sink deeper into unconsciousness.

Right before sleep came, long after Daryl thought you’d drifted away, you heard him whisper three, simple words.

“More than anythin’.”

Then he pulled you closer and the world dimmed.

A/N: Aw...a happy ending! (I figured I owed ya after putting y'all through Honey & Whiskey lol)

P.S. Feedback is incredibly important. I write for my own happiness, but I also write for YOU. So don’t be afraid to shoot me an ask or leave a comment with your thoughts! It truly motivates me and helps move along the writing process. Also, please consider donating to my Tip Jar. Every little bit helps!

P.S.S. I can no longer tag people on this account, so my tag list has been transferred to my side blog @crossbowking2. If you’d like to be added/removed, please let me know!

[furikakyo]

a return to roots | 3

pairing: kita shinsuke x f!reader

summary: y/n is a rising star in the music industry, having almost everything you could have ever hoped for as a small-town country girl. now after releasing two triple platinum albums in consecutive years, you face the dreaded artist’s burnout… in order to recover, your manager suggests, you should return to your hometown in hyōgo for a long-deserved break. 

genre: socmed/smau, slice of life 

warnings/tags: timeskip!, mutual pining, slow burn? more like rekindling, slight canon divergence

masterpost 

You finished sending your texts to Osamu and sat back in your bed, tossing your phone aside and then pulling the covers over your head. As you tugged and curled into your blankets, your phone fell to the wooden floor of your bedroom with a heavy thunk. Cursing, you drew back the covers and reached over the edge of the bed, trying to find balance. All of the blood rushed to your face as you huffed, still attempting to rescue your phone without actually laying foot on the ground.

Once you finally recovered it, you sat back onto your bed with a heave, any sleepiness you had now gone. You stared at the ceiling, wondering what you should do that day. A hand fisted itself into the thick blankets as you tossed and turned, trying to find some comfort in your plush bed. You hadn't been able to sleep well the past couple of days, for whatever reason. Your neck hurt, your back was sore, hell, your entire body ached for some reason, restless and yet so tense at the same time.

You sat up suddenly. What was it Kuroo had said to you? You weren't sure.

"Ugh..." You buried your face into your hands, memories of last night's conversation rushing back to you; remembering how you'd started talking about Kita when you were nodding off. It had been over two years since everything between you went down. Why couldn't you stop thinking about it? You could feel the burn of embarrassment and shame behind your eyes, your throat beginning to close up. Sniffling, you opened your phone and scrolled through your contacts. Who wouldn't be busy? Your hand stilled, and your face brightened, if only for a moment. Kenma. He had a calm and comforting presence, which never failed to mellow you out. Plus, he didn’t really talk about emotions or feelings so he wouldn’t ask you about anything related to Kita, nor would you be tempted to talk about him.

You texted your bodyguard and driver, Ichiro, who agreed to pick you up from your apartment and then drive you to Kenma’s. Thanking him for coming on such a short notice and then reminding him to not text and drive, you got dressed for the day, choosing to wear your comfiest hoodie.

A few minutes later, your phone lit up again with Ichiro’s standard “here” text, and you were out the door, not forgetting to bring a hat and sunglasses with you, though. After locking the door and slipping your accessories on, you rushed into the elevator and then made your way down to the car.

The car ride itself was silent, as Ichiro seemed to have picked up on the mood you were in and decided not to comment. Although he was usually stoic, he always maintained a conversation if you initiated it, his responses albeit short. By now you knew that the brevity in which he spoke was not because of anything against you, however, but because he was naturally a quiet person. You wouldn’t have had anyone else for the job, though.

The car softly jolted you as it pulled to a stop, and you unbuckled quickly after realizing you were already at Kenma’s apartment. “Thanks!” you called out, opening the door yourself and then shutting it. You smiled and waved before Ichiro merged back into traffic, watching the car eventually disappear in the long stream of vehicles.

Feeling somewhat better, you entered the complex after buzzing in. and then made your way to Kenma’s apartment, knocking on the door and patiently waiting. There was a long pause and some shuffling behind the door before it opened a crack. Two large yellow eyes peered out into the hall, and then landed on you. The door shut and then opened without the door chain to stop it this time, and you stepped in.

“I brought my Switch,” you proudly announced, looking to the side of the corridor where Kenma was standing, a little hunched over and slouching. You held up your video game console, which was covered in skins and cute accessories you'd purchased. Some of them you'd gotten for free from Kenma though, who got sent free stuff all the time.

“Hi, Y/N,” he said, a soft smile on his face. He pulled half of his hair back with a hair tie and followed you back to where he streamed his games, settling into the chair that all of his fans could recognize by now. “We can play Minecraft, if you want. I haven't gone on our world for a while, so we could both go on.” Kenma swiveled to look at you inquisitively, waiting for an answer.

You lazily waved a hand at him. “No! Today you’re supposed to stream, right? I just crashed your place so I don’t really have a say. You should record and then if you have time after we can play,” you insisted, sitting on the bean bag behind his gamer chair. “I’ll watch or maybe work on my own world.”

Kenma thought about it for a few seconds, then nodded, setting up his microphone and monitors. “Last chance,” he mumbled, then put his headset over his ears, blocking out everything else. You watched in the background with mild interest as he went through his usual monotonous introduction, one that his fans seemed to adore despite its lack of flair. Perhaps it was exactly that what made him so endearing to the internet. Smiling, you glanced back down to your Switch, and opened up Minecraft.

Setting your phone down for a second after replying to Atsumu, you called out lazily: "Oiiii, Kenma.” After a beat of silence and no response, you called again, "Kenmaaaa."

He had been just finished streaming, and pulled off his headphones. "Hm?"

You sat up excitedly, startling Kenma. "When I move, you should visit! Once I get settled in, at least."

He blinked, looking up at the ceiling as if calculating the pros and cons. "Too many bugs," he finally responded with a small grimace. "And it's gross and hot outside."

At that, you broke out into a laugh, the heartiest and most meaningful you’d had in a while. His particular comment wasn't even that funny, it was just- it was just so him. Was your sense of humor breaking? “Maybe I'll be able to change your mind," you mused. "We can even stream a video collab with the both of us- we should try Animal Crossing!" You clapped excitedly, beaming. "Kenma, let's do Animal Crossing once it comes out!”

He squinted his eyes, scooting away from you and your blinding enthusiasm. "Fine," he muttered, hunched over his phone now. He scrolled for a few minutes before speaking again. "Did you see that we're trending? On Twitter and YouTube." Kenma handed you his phone, stifling a small laugh into the collar of his sweatshirt as he sat back.

"I did," you snickered, laying his phone on the table and lying back on his bean bag chair. "My favorite response is the one about the Kodzuken simps," you said, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively at Kenma and then cackling when he turned completely the other way from you. "Kenma, they're devastated!" You gasped dramatically and then draped an arm over your forehead, fainting.

He rolled his eyes at you, shaking his head. "Shut up, Y/N."

After your giggles died out, you saw him offering a controller to you. "Game night!" you cheered, accepting it and sitting up straighter. "We should get takeout!"

Kenma lifted a brow, as if to say why are you even telling me this? "Already on its way.”

The two of you chatted as you played Minecraft, Kenma being a little more open when his mind was preoccupied with gaming. He was, of course, much better than you, eyes glued to the TV screen which had been hooked up to the game console. "Has Kuroo told you who's going to the Olympics?"

You shook your head, then remembered that Kenma wasn't looking your way. "No," you replied slowly, focused on getting out of the water so you could escape the mobs that were chasing you. "But a few of the boys from Inarizaki are. As for Kuroo, I think he was going to say something, but I fell asleep last night. He said something about you and an advertisement, though?"

Kenma smiled, finally breaking his gaze with the screen and looking at you. "Hinata Shōyō from MSBY is collabing with me, to promote the 2020 Olympic games."

Your eyes lit up in recognition. "That's right! Atsumu is teammates with him. I haven't talked to him one-on-one, though. He seems sweet!"

Kenma turned his attention back to the TV, where he was almost done building a house. "He played volleyball in high school too. They beat Inarizaki his first year at Nationals."

You stopped to think, your hands stilling on the controller. Your breathing slowed. In your third year, Inarizaki hadn't progressed further into Nationals, like everyone predicted. Despite being assistant manager, you hadn't thought it would be a big deal to miss their first match in the competition; assistant managers weren’t even allowed on the actual court anyways. You had all thought you were going to get further. You had thought you would get to see your boys play one last time. You had thought you would get to see Kita lead his team to Nationals, as team captain.

You had missed out on that opportunity for signing a record deal.

Beside you, Kenma noticed how quiet you'd gotten but didn't comment, instead going to the door when the buzzer notified him of their takeout delivery. You picked at a loose string on your hoodie, remembering why you didn't often go to Kenma when in distress. While you knew he cared about you and your wellbeing, you also knew that heart-to-heart conversations weren't his strong suit. When he returned a few moments later with your favorite foods, you pushed down the eruption of guilt and self-loathing with a bright smile. "Sorry, what were we saying? Something about Kuroo..." You strained to keep your eyes crinkled and happy.

Kenma's brow furrowed. "Kuroo-"

You interrupted him, and he let you. "Oh yeah! Kuroo and I are gonna hang out on Thursday! Wanna come? I'm leaving Saturday morning, so unless I see you before then, this will be the last time you see me before I leave for Hyōgo."

You watched his face run through a couple of emotions before settling on contemplation. Kenma blew a wisp of stray hair from his eyes and then begrudgingly: "Sure..."

This time, you gave him a true smile and clapped excitedly. "Yay! Should we try to get some of the others to join us? Lev? I want to be able to say goodbye to all of you in person, if possible." Then, swiping the plastic bag from Kenma, you opened the bag hurriedly and began pulling out things. "Here are the plates... and the chopsticks..." You set everything out and then let him load his plate with food first. Soon after, the two of you were back to playing Minecraft, squabbling over who got to use what equipment. After Kenma finally relented and let you have first pick, the both of you set out to fight the swarms of mobs gathered near your shared house.

"Hey, Y/N."

You had looked away for only a couple seconds, but you were blown up by a Creeper. "BITCH," you screeched, "I just fucking died?!"

Kenma snickered, running past your character and stealing everything you'd left behind. You gasped even louder. "BITCH-"

a/n: i said there weren’t going to be as many words as the last part but 🤡 also currently the fic is moving slowly and going day by day but it’ll pick up the pace soonish

taglist (pm me to ask to be added!): @papiibuprofen​ (i didn’t know if i should just respond to your ask publicly sksksk but i added you) 

some ~fun facts~

- y/n’s bodyguard/driver is named after ichiro, one of my fav baseball players

- his name in y/n’s contacts is “bonecrusher 👹” lmao 

- he is stoic but actually a softie; he’s about 30 and has a wife and one kid, both of whom he loves very much 

- i had kenma and y/n playing animal crossing instead of minecraft at first, then realized that it wouldn’t have been released yet, since this takes place in 2020... DAMN YOU TIMELINE

- do i have a map of hyōgo so i can write this fic? yes 💀

[clefairymuke]

regrets | chapter eleven

prev. chapter | next chapter

pairing: levi ackerman x reader

themes: enemies to lovers, slowburn, angst, fluff, smut

tw: violence / explicit sexual content

word count: 1913

Ten feet. That's how far you had walked today without stopping to rest. Hange was practically jumping up and down, and Jean hugged you more tightly than he ever had before. For the first time in weeks, you started to feel a little less helpless. On the way back to the infirmary room, you held on to Jean's arm and limped back rather than being carried. It made you feel strong. Today was a happy day, which you had decided for yourself when you woke up, warm and cozy as you could possibly be under the thin white blanket that adorned the soft mattress. You felt refreshed; ready to work on your leg that morning, ready to see Jean, ready to make more progress. In the furthest part of your brain, you were also ready to see Levi that night. He was gone already when you woke up, like every other day, but that had never bothered you. The thought of good-morning small talk with Levi was awkward at best.

Now, you sat across from Jean with a hand of cards. You thumbed through them for what felt like the tenth time as Jean took his sweet time on his turn. He finally laid down a card, only for you to play one of the moves you'd thought out over the last five minutes as soon as he did. As the cycle started again, you found yourself looking out the window. The sun was almost ready to begin sinking, the blue of the sky becoming duller by the minute. You greedily awaited the purples and pinks that meant teatime. Throughout the day, the quietly nagging piece of your mind that wanted to see Levi grew bigger and bigger, until you finally had to admit to yourself that you were excited for it. You decided it was half because the tea was good, partially because he was good company, and a little bit because your hand still tingled when you thought of him.

Jean's turns got painstakingly longer as the game went on, so much so that you thought he was doing it deliberately. Your impatience grew as the sky turned orange, and Jean put the cards away. When he left, the sun touched the horizon.

The brevity of your alone time was unexpected yet welcome; the thoughts that possessed your brain while you sat in that room were hardly ever pleasant. You decided you were grateful that you didn't have your own bedroom -- the presence of company had become necessary in recent weeks. In that brief alone time, however, your mind did not hesitate to race. You recounted the events of the day before: Eren's anger, Levi's affection. For someone confined to a room, the past few weeks had surely been interesting.

You wondered about how it felt when he had touched you; you had many theories, but the leading one was that Levi put some sort of numbing solution on his hand to mess with you. Sure, it was out of character for him, but it was also out of character for you to do anything but dislike him. That was the theory you intended to stick beside.

Every time you heard the tiniest sound, your eyes shot to the door. Each time, you were met with disappointment. You looked around the room absentmindedly, eyes landing on the table that held only a glass of water. You leaned up as far as you could and grabbed it on two sides, sliding it between the chair and your bed. You felt accomplished when you laid back down, resting your hands on your stomach and focusing your eyes on the ceiling. You tried to push the thoughts of yesterday as far out of your mind as you could, but it was difficult. When the orange of the sky finally moved to pink, the door opened. There was Levi, as always, carrying along his tea set.

"Hey, Levi," you greeted him, a welcoming smile finding its way to the corners of your mouth. He nodded his head back to you as he sat down, his dark hair falling slightly forward as he leaned to pour his tea. For the first time, you studied the man sat in front of you. His lips were formed into a slight frown, more often than not. Though he was looking at his teacup, you knew his grey eyes looked focused, his thin eyebrows perpetually drawn down. You followed the slope of his nose with your eyes. His features were graceful yet sharp, all fitting cleanly together. The ends of his hair fell fell haphazardly along his cheekbones and ears, perhaps the one thing about him that wasn't perfectly neat.

"Why are you staring at me?" he asked when he looked up, sending blood rushing to your cheeks.

"I've been looking at this room for three weeks. There's nothing new about it. People look a little bit different every day," you answered him, your face hot. You pulled your eyes away from him in search of literally anything else to look at, finally focusing on your own folded hands.

"You're a pretty good liar, you know."

The two of you sat there chatting for at least an hour before you were interrupted by a knock at the door. Levi looked at you expectantly, and you told them to come in. It was a scout you didn't recognize, relatively tall, with shaggy brown hair that fell across his forehead. He only came in about a foot, then saluted. "Captain, the Commander needs to speak with you. He'd like you to come to his office as soon as possible," he said.

Levi nodded at him in dismissal, and the boy left as quickly as he had arrived. "I shouldn't be long. I'll be back soon," he told you as he stood. He followed the boy out the door and left you to the candlelit room all alone.

---

After two hours, you had long understood that Levi was a good liar, too.

It was now pitch black outside, the candle failing to provide much light. Sleep was fighting you tooth and nail as you shifted around the bed, attempting to find even one comfortable place. Your eyes were begging to shut, but your body wouldn't allow it. You continued like this for another half hour before your mind finally found rest, closer to passing out than comfortably drifting.

When Levi finally returned, the tea was cold. He was quiet as could be, careful not to wake you as he sat in the uncomfortable wooden chair; your position was less than peaceful, he noticed, your body more sprawled out than curled up and your hair in a tangled mess. Your eyebrows were drawn in tightly, your face displaying blatant discomfort. When he looked away, his eyes were pulled right back by a sound escaping your lips. It was soft, yet distressed. He wondered if he should wake you.

You started to toss and turn, your little gasps and groans growing more frequent and closer together. His brow furrowed, and he leaned forward. He tried to make out words, only deciphering the occasional "help" and "mom." Admittedly, it struck his curiosity. He sat and watched you for a moment more before rising from his seat and laying his hand on your shoulder, shaking you gently. "Hey, wake up," he said, trying to sound soft, but really only getting his typical tone across. He called your name, which tasted sweeter than it should have, twice before you finally roused awake.

You sat straight up, practically throwing his hand from your shoulder as you drew in shallow breaths. Your eyes darted around the room, vision a bit blurry, and you jumped when you saw Levi at your side. You were disoriented at best, not taking the time to speak. You noticed the tears brimming in your eyes after a moment, and immediately lifted your hands to wipe them.

"You were having a nightmare, I think. I'm sorry I took so long," Levi finally spoke up, not moving from your immediate bedside.

You cleared your throat, knowing sleep would still be present in your voice, before you replied. You looked over at him, his typical concerned expression more prominent than usual. "It's okay. It isn't your fault," you told him, laying your head in your hands. You felt vulnerable, and you didn't like it. Part of you wished Jean was here to snore loudly while you woke up in tears, not requiring you to interact with anyone.

"Are you okay?" he asked you. You noticed his hand twitch forward and then return to his side -- was he going to reach for you? You found yourself hoping he would.

"I'm . . ." you started, not really knowing how to finish your sentence. You tugged at a tangle in your hair. "Used to it, I guess. Not okay, not terrible. Just indifferent." You figured it summed up your emotions enough. Sleep had started to nag at your eyelids again, likely knowing it would be refreshing rather than restless now that you were no longer alone.

You laid your head back down and looked over at Levi, waiting for him to either reply or sit back down. He did neither; he stood there, studying your face as you had studied his only hours before. He didn't answer until his eyes finally met yours. "Do you need anything? At all?"

The look in his eyes was confusing, one you had never seen before. It was soft, almost endearing. Your voice answered him before your brain permitted it, and you regretted it as soon as it left your lips. "Would you lay with me?" You cursed your mouth and nearly vowed to never open it again. You felt yourself blushing, so much so that you wanted to turn over and bury your face in your pillow to never be seen again.

He wasn't embarrassed, though. His eyes widened a fraction for only a moment before he nodded, then sat on the edge of your bed and unlaced his boots. He pulled them off slowly and set them under the wooden frame, then stood and took off his jacket. He pulled his cravat from his neck swiftly and laid both over the back of the chair. He unbuttoned his shirt quickly, leaving only the gray shirt he wore beneath it. It joined the rest of his clothes on the chair. You moved away from the middle of the bed, allowing him plenty of room.

He didn't use it. He lifted the blanket and climbed in close to you, sliding his arm underneath your shoulders and gently guiding your head to his chest with his hand. Your heart had built up so much pressure you were sure it would explode out of your chest and leave the both of you a bloody mess. You adjusted yourself, shifting to face him and allowing your arm to drape over his stomach. You avoided looking up at him at all costs, but you could feel his eyes burning into the top of your head. This was the strangest, most foreign thing you had ever felt. The most off-center part was that you were entirely comfortable, your body more than relaxed despite your chest's unrelenting tightening.

"I --" you began, unsure of exactly what you were going to say. It didn't matter, because he was quick to interrupt you.

"Hush," he whispered. "Get some sleep."

[shimmershae]

My thoughts on Episode 7--Promises Broken

Placed behind a cut for those of you that would rather escape my babbling, lol.  You’re welcome.  

The episode opens with Maggie, Elijah, Father Gabe, and Negan.  

Right away I can’t help feeling disappointed because the emotional core of last episode (Kelly and Connie’s reunion and the aftermath) seems like it’s being ignored and punted further down the road so we can waste another hour getting piece meal progress on the Reaper front, but I’m going to try to push my misgivings away and enjoy this episode for what it is, so.  

“Daryl just told us to go home.”  

And save your hides and keep the rest of the community safe?  I can’t argue that Negan might have an actual point here, lol.  But Maggie sure can.  

Not gonna lie.  When Negan came back with “I think he was being subtle. He said they were armed with lookouts” I had to LOL.  

“We will never be even.”  I mean.  Maggie been frustrating me with her stubbornness in this suicide mission, true.  But she right.  They will never, ever be even.  

“Ya’ll know Blackbeard, too?”  I admit it.  I laughed.  A little.  

Okay.  I don’t know if this bodes well for this episode or not, but the cold opening in this episode?  Was the most underwhelming cold open of this season.  

At least the opening credits still give me that old familiar rush of the heyday of TWD.  

Fake Stephanie and Eugene are on Walker clean up duty.  Hmm.  I think I’m going to refer to Fake Stephanie as Fifi until she gets a real name for brevity’s sake.  

Fifi handles herself surprisingly well with the Walkers.  Is she one of Mercer’s stormtroopers working undercover maybe?  

Somehow I doubt it’s true that our friends can trust “Lance” but whatever, lol.  

I hate to admit it but I’m already kind of bored with this episode.  We’re barely over 6 minutes in.  

I didn’t recognize Princess without her fluffy pink coat!  

Zeke is definitely struggling.  

I do like that these two  have been paired up.  They have taken to each other quickly and already have a good rapport.  There’s something endearing about their scenes together.  

“Never been afraid of hard work.  Kinda anti-friends who die from stubbornness.”  Have I mentioned lately how much I love Princess?  Because I really, really do.  

So it’s been days.  Has it been days that Maggie and Negan and Co. have been outrunning the Reapers?  I’m talking since they left the safe house.  Does that mean that it’s also been days since Kelly and Connie’s reunion?  This timeline is so slow and yet they keep telling us it’s been days and making me think we’ve been missing time.  Like I can’t even.  

You know Carol’s “Pookie is in danger” senses have to be big-time tingling by now if it’s been DAYS.  

Also?  Alden almost certainly has to be dead.  

But I digress.  They obviously don’t want us getting hung up on the apparent time warp between ASZ, Meridian, and the Commonwealth.  It’s like the Bermuda Triangle of the ZA.  

“A person with your pedigree...”  

Okay then.  Commonwealth is full of uppity assholes.  Good to know.  

Yumiko looks classy!  I say that in my best Princess voice, lol.  

Well.  At least they’ve given Daryl Dog back.  Has Dog come to his senses though?  That is the question.  

Daryl sharing a smoke with the enemy to gain some intel.  Or maybe just the keys to food storage.  

So.  Another redshirt (Elijah’s sister’s friend) we don’t know bites the dust.  Meh.  Including that tidbit in the trailer was purposefully misleading, lol.  Not that I want people to die, but still.  

“But the one?  He’s mine.”  Let’s take bets.  Was it Carver Elijah has a beef with because it just seems like it was.  Could also be that his name is the only one I know, lol.  

Where is Maggie sending our hobbled Father G?  

“I kept my mask for practical and sentimental reasons.”  Negan?  You almost had me.  He really can’t help his inherent asshole-ishness can he?  

But seriously.  Yuck at what they about to do because I assume Alpha and Co. at least cured the nasty skins.  

I wish I could say I give a damn that they’re attempting to give Leah some more likeable layers but it’s a cheap cheat so naw.  

There’s that damn river that symbolizes the great divide between Daryl and his love and his family.  At least it’s pretty.  

I’m with Daryl.  Is Pope just looking to cleanse the earth of those he doesn’t feel belong or what?  Wheedle the truth out of her, Daryl.  

“You never needed anyone to make you strong.”  

Think our guy has ever said this to his real girl?  

It’s kinda funny that the Whisperer flunkie is now the herding Whisperer tutor.  

Is that the Reaper’s version of a priest?  Sorry.  I swear.  I’ve been trying to pay attention during their scenes.  But my mind wanders because it feels like Woodbury and the Sanctuary all over again.  The Whisperers at least were elevated by Samantha Morton, Ryan Hurst, Thora Birch, and yes, Jeffrey Dean Morgan.  Like I love Norman Reedus and the character he’s crafted in Daryl but he’s not enough to have me enthralled with Leah and these dudes.  I don’t care if they were all Calendar pinups before the ZA.  

Truly.  A+ casting with Yumiko’s brother.  

Yeah.  Something’s definitely fishy about Tomi’s reluctance to go back to his old life in the Commonwealth, but the desire for a slower, less stressful existence is definitely relatable so I’m not going to hold that part against him at all.  

What did Maggie say after Elijah asked if Negan had changed?  Because I replayed it a handful of times and still don’t know.  

This Lancy Hornsby dude reeks of slimy politician.  

Too much one on one Daryl and Leah in this episode.  Without any kind of chemistry at least these two drag each other and their parts of the episode down.  Leah’s character is a fail for me and it has nothing to do with shipping reasons.  She’s just not believable or authentic to her role as a mercenary.  

“If I could do it all over again, I’d have killed every single one of you.”  Damn.  Well.  He’s being true to himself, I guess.  Unapologetically Negan.  

Again.  I can’t say Negan’s wrong exactly but shit does he deliver some uncomfortable truths.  

Princess’s childlike delight over treats is <3.  

Look at Eugene running toward danger!  OG Eugene would never.  Abe would be so proud.  

Eugene and Fifi actually work pretty good together but it all feels so staged.  I feel sorry for our guy.  

“This guy was being, well, an asshole.”  LMAO @ Josh’s delivery. The asshole definitely deserved that punch and his date deserved to be eaten.  

Real Stephanie is so pretty.  

Aww.  She’s concerned about Eugene.  

Oh shit.  Eugene punched Pamela Milton’s little entitled prick of a son.  This feels like the ASZ Monroes all over again.  Sorry.  I can’t remember their names.  

Poor Eugene.  Have I said that already?  

Is this Lance Hornsby guy the lesser of two evils or...”  

All the chances you’ve gotten, hmm?  Seems to me they’ve been set up for some failure too, though.  

Maggie and Negan leading a herd where?  Meridian?  

That poor woman.  Just wanting her family safe and spared of seeing her meet her maker.  

f

So Leah’s not completely cold.  Okay.  Doesn’t mean she’s able to be saved though.  

At this point, Kang is just  yanking Daryl’s chain and ours in the process.  

Even hidden behind that skin mask, Elijah made me tear up when he saw his sister.  

No previews?  What a copout.  

Not Kang correlating Maggie and Negan to child and coach, lol.  

The narrative they keep pushing about the villains having families and FEELINGS doesn’t change much for me, Angela.  Gracie was the only innocent in that outpost Team Family attacked.  I’m not saying they should have done it but stop trying to make the bad guys sympathetic.  It isn’t earned.  

Interesting how she mentions Gabe is trying so very hard to hold onto faith.  

If Leah’s the frog boiling in that pot?  They better be serving frog legs to the starving community she’s hunting.  Just saying.  

Overall impression of this episode?  

It was boring.  No seriously.  

I wish I could say I liked it better but it was just meh.  I can’t even muster up any words because I just feel blah about it and that’s not a good feeling to have going into the first final (mid?  half?  tri?  I don’t know what to call it) episode of the season.  

Withholding the previews further adds to the doldrums because what is there to actually be excited about here after that episode?  At least try to pique our interest, Angela.  

[thegrimzuera]

1 + 4 for the ask game? I'm always down to hear more about Autumn! 😁❤️🧡

Ahhh you are the sweetest 💛 thank you!

Spoilers for my Kiribaku (Bakugou centric) fanfic In the Roaring Autumn are below the cut. If you haven’t read it yet, click the link to the story and take a gander! These answers are in response to this fanfic ask meme I reblogged yesterday.

1. If you had to create a soundtrack for your story, what songs would you choose? Why?

This is such a great question, and I’m going to interpret it more as songs that remind me of my story and the characters than as if I were constructing a film with background music.

The Lakes - Taylor Swift

This song is one I heard well into the writing process of In the Roaring Autumn, but it was one of those situations where I felt like my brain had been hacked and the guts of my story were spilled out in this gorgeous, cottagecore-esque song. The idea of running away into nature—away from society and the eyes that are always watching a little too closely—is so true to Katsuki’s desires in the story.

Lines like “I’m not cut out for all these cynical clones/ these hunters with cell phones” and “what should be over burrowed under my skin in heart-stopping waves of hurt/ I’ve come too far to watch some name-dropping sleaze tell me what are my words worth” stand out to me in particular. They really speak to Katsuki’s struggle to let go of his own past and all the devastation and guilt he feels because of it, and also the ways in which other people in his life (primarily Midoriya in this case) have tried to tell Katsuki what he meant with his own actions and what he must do in order to redeem himself.

And of course the fact that the narrator of the song isn’t escaping alone. They’re going to the lakes to look over cliff sides and be with the only person they trust—the only person who can understand the ways which they’ve been cast out. One might even say Kirishima is the “red rose” that “grew up from ice frozen ground.” Katsuki is escaping the bounds of society, but as the song says in its final line, not without his muse—not without Kirishima.

I Was an Island - Allison Weiss

I have no idea whether anyone else in the world knows this song or not (it could be a beloved classic or a complete unknown for all I know), but in my opinion it is THE quintessential Kiribaku song, and therefore it must be included. I have a feeling that it works in most any universe that includes Kiribaku, even (and especially) canon. But, I think of it particularly in regards to the last third or so of the story where Katsuki begins to pull back out of fear, deciding it’s better to avoid Kirishima altogether than to tell the truth about his struggles. The song deals with a lot of the same things Katsuki is going through—this idea that he was a loner and he liked it that way, and then Kirishima came along and changed all of that.

I imagine that Katsuki would particularly resonate with lines like “I was a fighter and I was so brave/ but I lowered my sword when you held me and swore you’d stay stay stay” “I was a wolf dear/ apart from the pack/ but you heard my cry in the dead of the night and told me that you had my back” and “I’m no good on my own anymore/ what did I do to deserve this/ what did you do to me/ baby come back, you know I don’t wanna be free”.

Medicine - Daughter

This song is so heavy and angsty and I love it for Autumn. I imagine that it could be from either/both Katsuki and Eijirou’s perspectives and they try to help each other out of unhealthy coping mechanisms and numbness. It’s all about how they both see each other’s worth and wish to communicate that. It’s about encouraging the best in each other, encouraging accountability, but also saying “hey, if you mess up once in a while, that doesn’t change who you are and what you’re capable of”. The opening line starts it off right for me “Pick it up/ Pick it all up/ And start again./ You’ve got a second chance/ You could go home/ Escape it all, it’s just irrelevant.”

Don’t mistake my brevity for lack of love for this song. I just thing the song really speaks for itself. If somehow you haven’t heard it in the blessed year of 2021, please go listen now! It’s one of my favorites.

That’s enough songs I suppose 😅 considering I rambled so much.

4. What are your main character(s) motivations? What do you consider their main drivers?

This question actually made me pause! I think because it’s been a while since Autumn ended and I want to get it right. At the time of writing I was very connected to Katsuki as a character, so while I didn’t necessarily ever put this into words, I definitely knew his motivation. I’ll start with him and try to put myself back in his shoes for a moment.

Katsuki’s motivation more than anything else, I think, is to feel safe. There may have been a time when he wanted to be the best, but we come into his life at a point where he’s kind of thrown his hands up and said “Fuck that bullshit!” It’s something that Katsuki realizes is out of character for himself—so out of character that he no longer knows how to function. He’s living his life on the run in a way, choosing isolation as a means of protecting himself from things that he sees as threats to his well-being: consequences, human relationships, the wrestling team as a whole, and the concept of processing his trauma. We see him build wall after wall throughout the story, but we also see Kirishima peeling those walls away brick by brick. Soon enough Katsuki stops looking at Kirishima as a threat to his safety, and he begins to see him as a help to his safety. It’s a beautiful change, but through it all Katsuki’s motivation stays the same. I would say even with the lessons that Katsuki learns and the ways he grows, the moral is never that he was wrong for prioritizing his mental health and well-being. That was very important to me.

Kirishima’s motivation is a little more difficult for me to pin down (haha, wrestling puns), especially in hindsight. I think I’m looking for some sort of deep or abstract answer when in reality, the thing driving Kiri is the desire to be good. He’s made some poor choices in the past, and they were choices he knew were poor even when acting them out. It’s something that weighs heavily on him—something that has altered the way that he lives his life in a very permanent sense. Kirishima wants to do the right thing; it’s the reason he’s so willing to examine Midoriya’s actions and motives when (as Katsuki mentions) everyone else sees Midoriya’s gentle demeanor and assumes the best in him. It’s also the reason that Kirishima emphasizes Katsuki’s own goodness to him. Kirishima knows what it’s like to feel less than, or to feel that you’ve fucked up so supremely that you have no honor at all. Not only does he want to prevent Katsuki from feeling those things, he actually views Katsuki as the morally superior between the two of them and looks to Katsuki as an example of authenticity, honesty, heart, and goodness.

Thank you for sending in these lovely questions! It was so fun to recall where my brain was at the time of writing this story and in some ways examining it from a deeper perspective. I really need to dedicate more time to writing my upcoming fic because CLEARLY I have the urge to spill a lot of words into the universe right now.