#but perhaps not that surprising in the grand scheme of things
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abirddogmoment · 5 months ago
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lillotte17 · 7 months ago
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*throws more Veilguard Banter into the gaping maw of Tumblr and then flees*
~~
Solas: “I have another question, Varric. If I may?”
Varric: “Just the one?”
S: “For now. I must admit, I was surprised to see that you were the one they asked to make an attempt at dissuading me from completing my mission. Not to belittle our prior bonds of friendship, but if the intent was to send an agent who might presumably hold some power of persuasion over me, I…would have thought another candidate might have seemed like the more obvious choice.”
V: “Would it really have changed anything if she had been the one telling you to stop?”
 S: “I…do not know. I should think not.”
V: “But at least you would have gotten to see her again, right?”
S: “Perhaps.”
V: “Heh, don’t you worry, Chuckles, I’m sure you’ll get your chance. The fact that I was here instead of her is more of a fluke than anything else. She was more than eager to follow up on the tip that led us to you, but then the kid insisted on tagging along, and you know how it is.”
S: “…kid?”
V: “Right, the kid. You probably haven’t seen him either.”
S: “…No. I have not. Although, I would have thought that there would have been news if the Herald of Andraste had… Well. I suppose there is wisdom in striving to keep such affairs private. I certainly have no right to voice an objection.”
V: “Why would you object to seeing the kid again?”
S: “Again? I… You are referring to Cole.”
V: *snorts* “Well, yeah. Who’d you think I was talking about?”
S: “Never mind.”
~
Rook: “So, Varric, do you really think the Inquisitor is going to show up?”
Varric: “Oh, don’t worry, she’ll be here. She’s been searching high and low for Chuckles for nearly a decade.”
R: *whistles* “And she never caught up to him in all that time?”
V: “Once. It…didn’t end well. After that, a few of our agents came close over the years, but it turns out that the world is a pretty big place, and tracking a lone elf with a network of magical transportation mirrors on his side is about as tricky as you’d expect. It’s even harder when you’ve got a notorious reputation and half of Thedas has seen portraits of your face. One whisper of the Herald of Andraste entering a city, and all our leads would vanish overnight.”
R: “But…I thought the two of them liked each other?”
V: “I think that made it worse, actually.”
Solas: “You do realize that I am standing right here?”
~
Solas: “For what it is worth, I am sorry about your Bianca, Varric.”
Varric: “Oh, you know, what’s an irreplaceable keepsake from the woman I can never be with in the grand scheme of things, anyway? At least you didn’t turn me to stone.”
S: “Your anger is justified. I do not expect your forgiveness, but I would apologize for my actions, none the less.”
V: “Look, if I were you, my forgiveness isn’t what I’d be worried about right now. Someone else has a much bigger bone to pick with you than I do.”
S: “I am not expecting her forgiveness, either.”
V: “So, you’re not even going to try?”
S: “And what, precisely, should I be trying, Master Tethras? This is hardly the sort of situation to be solved by a bouquet of flowers and a well-constructed poem.”
Rook: “Maybe you could send chocolates?”
V: “I was going to suggest groveling, actually.”
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fandom-lover2 · 1 month ago
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Sacrifices - Pt 2
Word Count - 2146
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Part One
Part Three
Optimus was grateful for his battle mask, now more than ever. Only his optics could show his panic.
And, knowing Megatron as well as he did, Optimus knew Megatron could see it, and smirk across the warlord’s faceplates telling Optimus Megatron was getting the exact reaction he wanted.
4 Decepticons, 4 glass canisters, 4 vulnerable humans, 4 keys.
Optimus was surprised it had taken Megatron this long to locate the humans. While he had done everything in his power to ensure they would remain safe and undetected by the Decepticon intelligence, Soundwave’s methods were far superior then any of them could ever imagine.
Starscream stepped forward, wordlessly handing over the case that held you to his master.
Optimus lost the battle of not looking down at you, and when your eyes met his optics, his servo clenched around the Star Sabers hilt.
For someone so close to death, you seemed unnervingly calm. But your eyes, your eyes showed the truth.
Acceptance. You had accepted you were going to die.
Optimus almost stumbled back as his words repeated in his processor, over and over again.
“You speak as though your life means anything to me.”
You had accepted you were going to die, because Optimus had told you as such. He had declared loud and clear for you to hear that his own desires would always be put above your life. Had announced that your life, your future and your dreams, were nothing to him in the grand scheme of his existence.
He was going to let Megatron kill you, open your cage and let Cybertron’s atmosphere kill you slowly, painfully. He would watch on without so much as a flinch, perhaps even turning his back and begin the process of rebuilding his home.
Home? Was Cybertron still his home?
After all he had done to his planet, all the loves lost in his war, was this metal shell still his home? Would it still welcome him back? Or was it you, and your vibrant planet that now held his spark.
Things were happening around him, but Optimus could not look away from you.
Starscream taunted the Autobots, clawing at Jack’s prison. The young man, how much he’d grown since their first encounter, stated clearly for all that he was willing to die for Cybertron and the Autobot cause. His brave, little companions agreed with his statement. And, Optimus knew you felt the same.
Even after all he’d said to you, done to you. Even after the pain he had caused, you were still right there, willing to give everything up. For the team.
The team he had told you you were not a part of.
Behind him, Optimus could feel his fellow bots moments from losing control. Weapons aimed, battle stances ready.
Would they stand down if he told them to? Would they continue with the mission if he decided that 4 human lives were not worth the restoration of Cybertron?
“Perhaps we should oblige them?” Megatron taunted
How fleeting human lives were. What was considered a decently long human life span was nothing but a blink of the optic for a Cybertronian. If the humans did not die today, they would die eventually. The humans would die long before the Cybertronians had aged a year and they would be left to mourn their friends. Since arriving on Earth, Agent Fowler was their third human liaison. The first died decades ago, the second grew too old to work. Fowler was nearing that age now, when he would step away and a new human would fill his shoes.
And yet, these four little humans had had more impact on his soldier’s lives then any other human had.
“Optimus.”
The prime was pulled back to the present, called back by your voice. He looked at you, into your steady gaze.
“Don’t.”
How silly you were, thinking you could change his mind.
It wasn’t a question, the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. Your life was not worth Cybertron, Cybertron was not worth your life.
He felt sick, horrified at himself that you had thought he wouldn’t fight with everything he had to save you. He hated himself that he’d allowed you to even have a moment of hesitation about what your life meant to him.
From the moment the space bridge portal had opened and he’d seen you and your fellow humans, he knew what his decision would be.
Nothing, not Cybertron, not his life, not The Matrix, nothing would mean more to him than you.
���If my decision dooms the future of the Autobot cause on Cybertron, so be it. But I will never forsake our human allies.”
Optimus speared the Star Saber into Cybertron’s surface with more force than was needed and began to step back, rejoining his fellow Autobots. Without so much more than a glance, they began to disarm themselves.
So, they were all in agreement then.
One by one, a key for a human child, until all that remained was one. Smokescreen held the final key, and Megatron had you. Wordlessly, Optimus held out his hand, a signal for the newest member of the team to hand over their final hope.
Each step towards his enemy, he felt heavier and heavier. This was it. The last hope for Autobot life on Cybertron, and he was giving it away for a human. Giving away the hopes of his people and his planet for one single human.
Optimus was before Megatron, the only space between them your cage. Optimus kept his eyes locked on Megatron, his battle mask up. He couldn’t look down at you, wouldn’t. He didn’t want to see the confusion, the concern, the uncertainty. 
It should have been relief, it should have been a sigh of relief. It should have been, but it wasn’t because he had made you believe you would die on his planet and now you could not comprehend why he was saving you.
He had failed. Failed you. And now he was failing his mentor, his people, his fellow Primes.
But, he was saving you.
He held out his key in one servo, and extended the other in expectation. Megatron extended his servos in turn, holding you out in one and wrapping his digits around the key with the other.
For a moment, neither one released either, but then Optimus’ grip on the key lessened just a smidge and Megatron opened his servo.
Not expecting the sudden weight, you fell to the hard metal surface of the dead planet. Optimus lunged to grab you, your canister bouncing once before he managed to grab you.
Luckily, the glass did not shatter, but within you winced.
Optimus barely had the chance to look you over before a second ground bridge opened and Decepticons rushed through.
One Autobot with an occupied servo could not take them all. Spinning, Optimus sprinted to the safety of his team, disposing you with the rest of the trapped humans.
The Decepticons surrounded the Autobots, blasters raised and keeping them in place as Megatron, Starscream, Knockout and Soundwave activated the Omega Lock with the Keys.
Everyone watched, transfixed as the mechanism powered up.
A keypad appeared, and Megatron selected something. With a shake and a shudder, the circle shot out a bream of blue light, the energy streaking across the expanse of the barren landscape and encompassing the ruins of the Iacon Records Halls.
Optimus watched in amazement as the building began to rebuild itself, within a few seconds transforming from the blackened ruins to the once sparkling tower Optimus once knew.
It worked. The Keys worked. Cybertron could be restored, would be restored. His home would be restored again.
Bumblebee said something, the humans making various noises of amazement, you remained silent. Briefly, Optimus flicked his optics down to you.
You were seated in your cage, hand raised to press against your forehead. Red stained your fingers, blood leaking from a cut.
Megatron must have caused more damage than he realized.
He needed to you get and your fellow humans off this planet. Who knew how much oxygen you had in those canisters, and what would happen once Megatron used the Keys to begin widescale restoration.
“This conflict is between Autobots and Decepticons.” he started. If he wanted to get Megatron to listen, he’d need to tread carefully. “Allow me to return the humans to Earth.”
“Oh I wouldn’t recommend it.” Megatron started, turning to address the Autobot leader. “They’ll be far safer here.”
“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” you spoke up.
“Is the Space Bridge locked on target?”
“Per your instructions, Lord Megatron.” Starscream bowed.
“Excellent.” Megatron purred, turning back to Optimus and locking optics with him. “Why rule one world, when I can rule two…”
Megatron was a sadistic, megalomaniac, power hunger monster, but he could not be this insane? Could he?
Far above, a ground bridge opened up. Megatron turned back to the consol and hit the activation button. Once again the Omega Lock powered up, and shot a beam of raw energy through the swirling green vortex.
“No.” Optimus could not find any others words.
“What’s he doing?” you asked, struggling to stand. When your guardian did not answer, you changed it to a demand. “Optimus, what is he doing?”
“If the Omega Lock can restore Cybertron, then it will do the same to Earth, right?” Miko asked before Optimus had a chance to speak.
“No. It will cyber-form your planet in favor of its new matrix. And destroy all indigenous life in the process.”
There was no reason to sugar coat it, not after all you children had been through. You deserved the truth.
“Such raw power.” Megatron began to ramble. “What should I call my new domain, New Koan? How about Gilded Earth?”
Optimus knew Megatron was taunting him, and it was working. He’d given up the chance as restoring his planet and you were still in danger. In fact, now you and every human on your planet were at risk.
Optimus looked to you human companions, held by their guardians. They fought against their glass prisons, spewing threats at the warlord, like it would make him change his mind.
Megatron laughed at their attempts, his followers joining his as they watched the scanners display how much of Earth was being lost.
Optimus looked down at you, and found you already looking up at him, fear marring your face.
It was a lot easier to face your own death than to stand by when facing the deaths of all those you love and care for.
Optimus’ processor was bombarded of all the times he’d heard of the humans mention their families in passing, every meadow and lake and mountain he’d stopped to admire for just a moment on his patrols. He saw the hill you and he had spent a late night sitting on, looking up at the clear night sky as he retold stories from Cybertron before the fall.
All of that would be lost. And, once the oxygen ran out, you would die too.
Optimus took a moment to plot his course, and then he charged. Slamming away a Decepticon, he raced towards the Star Saber.
Ripping it from the ground, he arched it through the air to disable two more Cons before racing to meet a roaring Megatron. Their swords collided, bouncing off one another. Megatron had size and strength one his side, but Optimus had something to fight for.
With a clean slice, Optimus literally disarmed Megatron, but he didn’t have a moment to waste. Every second the battle drew on, more of Earth was lost.
Optimus moved faster than he’d done in many cycles, deflecting blaster shots and leaning right so Starscream’s missile sailed past him.
Using the treacherous seeker, Optimus used his body to vault himself into the air, gaining the momentum needed to swing down, embedding the Star Saber deep into the Omega Lock.
He had not the explosion to be so big. It blasted him back, sending out a wave of fire all around. It was as he was airborne that he prayed someone had managed to grab ahold of you before the force sent you flying.
Hitting the ground in a roll, Optimus righted himself instantly and looked around. The rusted structure was now blackened by the flames, small fires dotting the charred circle. He did a quick headcount, finding all his Autobots and humans accounted for.
Ratchet spoke to him over the comm link, sounding desperate. Optimus was just as urgent in his request for a way back to Earth. If Ratchet was still able to contact them, that meant the base was still intact. Who knew how much else of Earth was still organic.
Securing his sword to his back, Optimus followed his team through the Space Bridge. He needed to make sure you received medical attention.
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iamgonnagetyouback · 3 months ago
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different ⋆˚࿔
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synopsis ⭑.ᐟ tom riddle x reader where he is going to need a lot of work
warnings: none
word count: 621 words
navigation┆tom riddle masterlist┆request here 𝜗𝜚
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It was a rare night off, the corridors of Hogwarts quiet as students retired to their common rooms, yet you and Tom Riddle found yourselves slipping out to the Astronomy Tower. He’d been in the library since lunch, flipping through ancient volumes, and you figured he could use a break. He begrudgingly agreed after you challenged his sense of adventure, muttering something about foolish whims but unable to turn down the gleam in your eyes.
The two of you stood close on the stone balcony, gazing at the stars scattered like fine dust across the velvet sky. A cool breeze stirred the air, the soft hush of it contrasting with the silence between you.
"When you look at the stars, what do you see?" you asked, watching his face from the corner of your eye. A flicker of something amused softened his expression, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Blazing balls of gas,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Why?”
You rolled your eyes, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Tom, it’s supposed to be romantic. Inspiring. Don’t you see anything else up there?”
He tilted his head, feigning curiosity. “What am I meant to see, then?”
“I don’t know,” you teased. “Maybe… galaxies stretching endlessly, a reminder of how small we are in the grand scheme of things. Or… constellations formed by gods who loved each other, stories woven into the sky.”
He raised an eyebrow, a glint of something unreadable in his dark eyes. “And what does that mean to you?”
“Means there’s something up there bigger than us. A sort of beauty you can’t see just by reading books,” you said softly, looking up again at the sparkling canopy. You wondered if he could see it the same way, or if he was too absorbed in ambition to look beyond what was directly in front of him.
He let out a small, contemplative sigh, and you could almost feel him softening beside you, though he tried to maintain his usual composed demeanor. “That’s a rather poetic view, but hardly practical.”
“Not everything needs to be practical,” you murmured. “Not even for you.”
A brief silence stretched between you, and the only sound was the gentle rustling of the night breeze.
“Look here,” you pointed up, aiming to shift his focus. “That’s Orion, the hunter. And over there, the Pleiades.” You traced the patterns with your finger as he followed with his gaze, his face unusually relaxed as he watched you.
"You know, you’re going to need more work than I thought," you said with a chuckle, leaning closer as if to pass on some secret knowledge.
"Am I?" His eyes flickered to you, an amused smirk playing on his lips.
“Mmhm.” You leaned against the stone railing, facing him now. “You know so much about everything, yet when it comes to seeing things differently…” you trailed off, shaking your head with a playful smile.
"Different isn’t always better," he countered, but the smirk softened, his eyes holding yours with a rare spark of intrigue. “But perhaps… it’s worth entertaining your way of thinking. At least for tonight.”
"Just for tonight, hmm?” you replied, pretending to consider it. “I’ll take it.”
He chuckled—a low, rare sound that surprised you, but you couldn’t help but smile back. “If only to satisfy your foolish whims.”
The two of you returned your gaze to the stars, his shoulder brushing yours. And while Tom Riddle might not yet see beauty in constellations or romance in a night sky, there was something warm and unexpectedly soft in his expression tonight—a glimpse of the boy behind the brilliance.
Perhaps, you thought, looking up at the stars, there was more beauty here than he realized.
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© iamgonnagetyouback ⋆.˚ please do not copy, translate, or repost any of my work.
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chisubi · 5 days ago
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from the lovers’ grave — h. ran
content. fem!reader, one (1) suggestive scene near the end, something about grief, mourning, and love
word count. 10.7k
note. this was not meant to be long. originally, all i had planned was the scene with ran and rindō at the end talking and the confession scene for practice (i hate confessions) i am not sure what happened . . . also, this is unedited.
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In the grand scheme of things, there were more good times than bad.
Of course, there’s no denying that during their teenage years of growing up, at some point, things have been deteriorating. Spiraling and spiraling and sprialing. They were just boys being boys, doing the only things they knew how to do, fighting and surviving; those moments were full of fun, exhilarating, a temporary bliss in this little corner of the world of theirs.
However, boys like them don’t live for long. They aren’t meant to. Just like how the saying goes: live fast, die young. Ran supposes the saying is true. Many of the people he’d known died before reaching adulthood, just like him — Kurokawa Izana. That’s just life, after all.
His funeral is a simple one. Nothing grand, and rather than how plain it is, it is more surprising how someone without a family – an orphan – is able to have a proper funeral. People like them never have one, forgotten by everyone and everything. And the one who stays forgotten by the world is Izana [to no one’s surprise], except for the few remaining members of the S-62 generation. Multiple police officers that keep a keen eye on all of them, and none of them are stupid enough to try and escape on a day like this — their bond with Izana is worth much more than that. It wasn’t something so shallow.
There are no decorations besides the white chrysanthemums and white lilies sitting in front of an old picture of him — a picture of when he first was admitted into juvenile detention all those years ago, he looked so young, his eyes were the same then as they are now. Dead. No sign of light. His cold body lies in a plain wooden casket. It’s an empty, stifling ceremony.
Shion is uncharacteristically quiet, and that alone would’ve been an insane sight if it were another day, but everyone understands his silence today. Nobody mentions it. Nobody says anything at all. It’s so silent, each breath drawn echoes, and something feels extremely off about the ceremony — something that has Ran glancing around the room every couple of minutes.
An obvious reason for this is how Kakuchō is not here; that kid would never miss this for anything, everyone knows this, and Ran can assume what happened. His injuries must be quite severe, and it’s rather a miracle that he had woken up, heck, even much earlier than the doctor’s expected. A sign of God’s mercy (and for a moment, in that cramped cell, Ran is a believer of faith). If Kakuchō is still awake, there’s no doubt he would be longfully staring out that white hospital room. Those cold, sad eyes of his watching the way the snow falls, burying the world.
And the other reason is how at the front of this cramped room, right next to the casket, sits a girl Ran has never seen before. It's alarming. Your head stays down as you only look at Izana, you haven’t bothered to look up since they have entered the room earlier. Ran can’t help, but wonder who you are. Who you are to Izana. An outsider to the S-62 generation that Izana had built from cold, scarred hands for delinquents like him. Ran wants to know so badly, but he is too tired, and now isn’t the time to focus on people he doesn’t know nor cares about.
Ran slips the singular white flower into Izana’s folded hands, all stiff, scarred, and freezing cold. A body of a dead man. He decides to place another: Kakuchō’s offering. Perhaps, that kid’s prayers would reach him, his heart has always been more pure than all of theirs combined, a softer soul trapped within this cruel world. Ran doesn't know why, but he whispers to Izana that he is sorry (he doesn’t know for what — maybe, everything), yet his eyes dwell on you.
When you turn and catch his curious eyes, he doesn’t look away; neither do you. Attempting to smile, it’s almost as if he’s looking straight into a mirror; a shiver runs down his spine.
He smiles back.
August tastes like cigarettes and bitter cherries. Just like it had last year in February, when blood, bones and ash had fallen and scattered around Yokohama that cold night, moments before the snow began to fall down. Gradients of whites and reds painting the town.
It’s a rather cool evening for a summer day when Ran finds himself visiting Yokohama after so long (even after his release, which had been quite some time ago, he hasn’t stepped foot here). There’s melancholy lingering in the air, much like how it always clings onto to long summer nights. Ran welcomes this, allowing his feet to lead him. Anywhere, everywhere, or nowhere at all. He just walks down the bustling streets, endlessly.
Something feels strange. . . Something is going to change this summer, something big; the unexpected always comes to people like him.
Downtown, there's a small bar that catches his eye. There's nothing too special about the shop — decorated with tacky neon flickering signs. Open, reflecting within his eyes. There's something inside of him that tells him he needs to enter, and so, he does just that.
And that feeling of his comes true within minutes. Ran sees you again. Coincidentally [or perhaps, fate, or by total chance].
The Izakaya isn’t really filled with people; either due to it still being early, since work hours are still going on or it just isn’t popular among the many identical shops along this street. And he should’ve invited Rindō to come with him; who enters and eats at an Izakaya alone? Ran has never gone out to eat or drink alone before, either way, it’s not like he’s a kid, so it doesn’t really matter that much, but he knows Rindō will be bitching to him about going out to eat alone. Well, that’s something he’ll have to deal with later.
Ran sits down at a table for two; ordering a small plate of yakitori and umeshu, something sweet and cold to drink. A waitress comes over and places his food down, his eyes widening at a familiar face, he speaks before he thinks, “Do you remember me?”
Your brows draw together, you look him up and down, then shake your head. “I. . . I am not too sure. I don’t believe so. Have we met before?”
He pauses. Disappointment swirls in his stomach, sinking. He tries not to think about why it makes him feel that way — like, disappointment is normal, but he knows he’s not someone unforgettable. “No. I must’ve been mistaken. Sorry ‘bout that.” He offers you a polite smile and that’s when he sees your eyes widen in recognition, the bar’s yellow lights flickering in yours; shining, shining, shining.
His finger glides against the rim of the glass cup, as he waits for you to speak — he knows you will say something. The ice cube clinks against the glass.
Clink. . . clink. . . clink.
“Oh—! Wait, um, you’re from the funeral. . .?” Uncertain as you carefully utter those words, he confirms this, and your eyes brighten. “Oh, hold on. Sorry, I can’t really talk right now, but my shift ends in twenty minutes,” you drift off, eyes darting toward the old big clock that hangs on the wall. You hopefully ask, “Wait for me?”
He nods. “Yeah, sure,” Ran casually says, ”take your time.” You thank him with a smile.
[Twenty minutes turn into fourty, and for some reason, he stays and waits for you. The yakitori was worth it, anyway. He’s grown to appreciate the taste of plums a little more today, too. It’s sweet.]
The both of you don’t say much tonight. Only indulging in introductions and small talk. The pier isn’t so far from the Izakaya, barely a ten minute walk away. When the two of you sit on the ledge, close yet not close enough to be touching, it’s all silent. Not a comforting one — one where the air feels thicker and there’s this itch where he feels as if he needs to say something to break this awkward tension. Curiously silent, because Ran has a lot of things to say — things he needs to know, but that can wait for another day.
“It’s a little breezy tonight,” you attempt to break the silence. He can tell there’s a lot on your mind, too, but you probably won’t say anything either. Not tonight, at least.
He offers, “Would you like my cardigan?”
You shake your head, declining. “No, but thank you. You might get cold without it.”
Relief runs over him when you decline because he is cold, he tends to get cold easily (which is something he and Rindō argue about because Rindō always, always, always turns the heat down in their apartment because he gets hot easily, even though Ran tells him not to touch it), and doesn’t like sharing his clothes or anything he owns with anyone. But Ran is a gentleman, or so he tries to be, girls feel special when he acts like this, and he likes making them think that. Well, sometimes he does. Sometimes, he doesn’t know.
“If you say so. That was my one and only offer so don’t complain after,” he halfheartedly teases (he still thinks you should’ve accepted it, because anyone would’ve if he was the one offering, but that’s your loss, really).
Maybe the way he was joking misses, because you simply reply, “I won’t.” And he hums. Silence falls over again.
“He was such an idiot,” your voice is anything but harsh when you say this. So soft, fond, a whisper of love. Too angelic, Ran is sure it will never reach him. He almost misses your words under the waves, too.
He doesn’t know who you are to Izana. A part of him understands, though. No matter what you two were or who you are, he knows you have loved Izana so dearly, you probably have for a long time. It’s quite obvious, the feeling of him that lingers onto you — he can feel it all.
His fists tightens around nothing, nail digging into his palm. How come he has never seen or heard of you before? Ran knows for a fact that Kakuchō knows you. Does Shion as well? He’s obsessed with Izana, obsessed to an unhealthy degree, so surely he knows or at least has caught a glimpse of you before. Maybe he really didn’t know Izana at all.
It’s kind of frustrating, he thinks.
Ran agrees with you. Though, he doesn’t verbally express it. Izana really was an idiot, a selfish one who was always stuck in his own head, and Ran would never get to tell him that. He’ll never get to tell him anything again. Bitterness, regret, and anger fill him for a split second, only a second, not a millisecond longer, because these emotions quickly fade back into nothing. Nothing because Ran can do nothing, but feel nothing.
“Do—Do you usually sit out here, doing nothing? Watching the world?” he sniffles. It’s summer, midsummer, heat is supposed to consume them, especially during these short nights, but the weather has been strange lately. He’s not even cold, it’s just when the breeze passes by, he gets bad shivers.
The flame of the lighter flickers, you’re lighting a cigarette — he didn’t peg you as a smoker (despite only knowing you for less than an hour at maximum), and he grimaces once he catches sight of a little pink box sliding back into your pocket. Pianissimo. Peach flavoured, of course, he almost snorts.
“Sometimes,” you reply as you breathe out the smoke. “We can go somewhere else if you want.”
You pass the cigarette to him, he accepts, saying, “Nah, it’s fine.” Your smeared lip gloss stains the tip of the cigarette, his lips overlap with the marking, inhaling the bitter smoke to feel that familiar burn, it’s quite mild compared to what he prefers, something sweet lingers within, too.
“Okay, but that was my one and only offer.”
Ran chuckles at the familiar remark, and you let one out, too. “Okay. I get it.” He passes back the cigarette. “A cheeky one, aren’t you?” It comes off more flirtatious than intended, but it makes you smile at him, cheekily.
You’re captured by the moonlit water, cigarette ashes drifting down, down, down, eyes taken by the ashes, his eyes drift back to you, and that sentimental expression you wear.
(Losing someone isn’t anything new. It’s normal in a world like this. He wonders if you know this; you definitely do.)
“You sure you don’t want to come?”
“I am sure,” you tell him, “it’s not even a party, it’s just a get together. Go have fun with your boys. Hasn’t it been a while since you’ve hung out like that?”
“Knowing them it will be a party instead,” Kakuchō replies with a short sigh. He has never been too fond of crowds and strangers. You wonder why he is so insistent on you joining, however you don’t ask. You tell him you are sure and want to stay home, before shoo-ing him out the door.
And despite your warnings [nagging, as Kakuchō likes to call it], when you go to see him the next day, you’re met with a hungover Kakuchō and two boys knocked out on his old, leather couch. One of them is barely hanging on, half of his body is dangling off, and you aren’t sure how he didn’t wake up from being uncomfortable. And the other, you are quick to recognise as Haitani Ran.
Kakuchō was indeed right. It’s always a party with the Haitani brothers, you’ve heard this from others before, too. You take a second glance at Kakuchō. Poor, poor, poor Kakuchō, who can barely open his eyes and stumbles his way towards you, more so to what you have in your hand, that glutton, you almost burst into giggles.
You greet him, asking him simple questions like: did you have fun last night? Too much fun, you guess. Are you hungry? And he’s replying to each one with nods and grunts and incoherent strings of ‘yeah’, ‘uh-huh’, and the most annoying one of all, ‘what’. Maybe, you both were too loud because the sound of shuffling behind catches yours and Kakuchō's attention. Both boys are awake — stuck in a similar state as Kakuchō — sets of tired purple eyes peering around the room as if they didn’t even realise they crashed at their younger friend’s place.
After a few seconds, Ran speaks up. “Oh. Good morning.” He doesn’t look too surprised seeing you. His hand ruffles through his wavy hair, smoothing out his bed head as he flashes you a grin. Ran has a pretty smile. He’s pretty first thing when he wakes up, and that alone makes you envious. It’s unfair.
“Hi, good morning,” your voice comes out a little quieter than you wish it had.
Ran is still smiling, as he repeats, “Good morning.” A slight pause as you smile, too. He cocks his head to the side, introducing the boy beside him. “My baby brother, Rinrin,” he lazily introduces.
“Don’t call me that,” the boy [Rinrin] grumbles as he turns to you and gives a slight nod, “Rindō.” Rindō, not Rinrin, bends down to sweep up a shirt from the floor, slipping it back on, covering his tattoo, long black ink that paints half his chest. Your eyes linger for a moment too long, before moving onto Ran, whom for some strange reason, you know to have the other half of that tattoo on his body. They look so different yet alike.
Ran raises an eyebrow, a grin tugging on his corner of his lip once he catches your lingering gaze. Like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. He mouths, ‘What?’, you turn your head away, feeling embarrassed. Your body heat rises to your neck, cheeks, and ears.
You can feel another set of eyes on you, not belonging to Ran, however you don’t look back up. You place the homemade bento on the counter, Kakuchō lets out a sigh, “Finally.” You roll your eyes at the boy.
“Sorry, I didn’t know Kakuchō would be having guests, so I only made enough for one person. . .”
You aren’t actually sorry. It’s just a little awkward. Kakuchō could’ve given you a heads up. It feels rude only bringing a meal enough for one when there’s a party of four (though, you didn’t plan on staying over after dropping off his food).
“Nah, it’s cool. We can share,” Ran says.
“No. Let’s order something else, too. I’m starving.” Rindō brings up. You all collectively agree with him because there’s no way the food you had brought is enough for the four of you.
Ran orders yakisoba and soda for all of you. Kakuchō loudly complains when he notices the two of them picking at the food you made for him, even with the yakisoba right there.
“So,” Ran begins.
You look up at him. “So?”
“Can I call you later?”
“For what?”
“To see you again,” he replies, “I have a feeling we’re going to keep running into each other.”
“That may be so.”
Haitani Ran was right. You do meet again and again and again. Sometimes he will get a call, lips pressing into a thin line, threatening to fall into a frown as he slips into another room for a few minutes before coming out to tell you that he has to go. He doesn’t say what, you don’t ask, but you know. It’s the same thing that has Kakuchō leaving his apartment in the middle of the night, too. You try not to think about it – acknowledge it – it has nothing to do with you.
He stops by from time to time, dropping by whenever he is in the neighbourhood, much like today. You’re no longer surprised when you open the door to be met with that charming smile of his, rather once you hear the familiar sound of knocking or ringing of the doorbell, you sort of expect it to be Ran.
“You play the guitar?” His line of gaze falls onto the acoustic guitar sitting in the corner of the living room.
“Hm? Oh no, that belongs to Izana.” Used to. A pause, before you add, “There was a time when I used to beg him to teach me and he gave up after an hour.”
Ran snorts as his lips curl up. “That’s a good job for you then. He would’ve given up on the guys in less than five minutes so you probably did okay, right?”
You laugh at his words. It’s the truth, because Izana has always been an impatient (impulsive) guy. “Maybe. Kakuchō was able to learn how to play it, and I remember being a little jealous of him because Izana seemed happy to have someone to talk about music with.”
You were jealous, upset, embarrassed at your lack of ability — you thought, maybe you just aren’t talented? You eventually came to terms with it. But there were moments when you would watch Izana and Kakuchō play their guitars (—Izana set money aside and bought a used guitar just for Kakuchō, you assume Kakuchō leaves it hidden away, far away from everyone and everything), the room fills with music and you would be sitting on the couch listening, listening, and listening until you’re slowly drifting asleep to their melodies.
You take a hollow breath.
“Those two have known each other since they were kids. . . Ah, you, as well, right?” he asks and you nod your head in confirmation.
“Yes, that’s right.”
Ran lifts his eyes to meet yours. Ever so purple, beautifully vibrant, like a gem, you’re afraid it could shatter. He smiles, softer, sadder. “I see. The three of you have a special bond then. Something others cannot replicate.”
Your heart races, then pangs at his words. Something special.
Yeah, it is special, you could never forget it. Even if you wanted to.
“Just like you and your brother. The charismatic brothers of Roppongi: the Haitani brothers,” you say, voice light with a small smirk on your lips. “I have heard some stories about you two.”
“Mhm, I bet you have. All good things, I assume?”
You tease, “Maybe, maybe not.”
He chuckles to himself. “So, good rumours,” he concludes with a satisfied look, “I am Haitani Ran, after all.” Definitely nothing good, you both know, or so, you assume Ran knows.
You agree, “That’s right, Mr. Haitani.”
He smirks at the name.
Ran doesn’t ask if it’s okay to touch the guitar, he just takes it, yet you can’t find yourself getting upset or complaining about it. You watch as he plops down onto the couch, patting the spot next to him, indicating you to come over, in which you do. “Ran, do you know how to play?”
He looks over at you and winks, “Oh, honey, that’s what you are about to find out. Keep your eyes on me.”
You roll your eyes.
It’s not even two minutes later, when you do find out, just like Ran had said. You learn he doesn’t know how to play at all. Ran plays the same tune over and over again, or he attempts to, it sounds nothing like the pretty way Izana plays. It’s clunky, off-tune, yet something about it feels tender. So, so gentle; your heart trembles along with the tune. Ran doesn’t seem to care about his lack of skills; lavender eyes softly gazed on the way his slender fingers move against the strings — a faint smile to his lips, rosy and glossy from your cherry lip balm you saw him put on earlier, as he plays Izana’s beloved acoustic guitar.
You remember Izana at this moment. The way he played all his favourite songs — how Bohemian Rhapsody and Under Pressure was played on repeat in his little apartment. How, on this very couch that you and Ran are sitting on, he used to get frustrated at how you couldn’t memorise or understand what he was teaching you (and in your defense, he sucks at teaching, definitely one of the only things he has ever sucked at), and you would cry at his frustration. Izana eventually gave up and instead learned to play your favourite song for you.
You wanted to learn it yourself, but you were so happy at the same time. It felt special. You felt special.
You remember, you remember, you close your eyes, and you remember it all. It dances to the memories every day, a little record stuck on repeat. It’s all you have left of him. What if one day your heart suddenly doesn’t remember?
“Falling asleep to my playing?” His voice breaks you out of your thoughts.
Opening your eyes, all you see is Ran in front of you.
You shake your head and smile at the sight, Ran catches it and flashes a pretty smile back, laughing beneath his breath as he attempts to show off by playing a series of random chords quickly. Giggling at his antics, you attempt to sing along; humming a random tune as the two of you try to match each other, clearly missing the beat. Soft laughter, light teasing, Ran playing the guitar and you singing along fills the room in your apartment. Your hearts dance along, ever so intimately. You feel light, so light, and you haven’t felt this way in a long time.
Maybe you could get used to this (perhaps, you already are).
“I don’t know anything about guitars or any instrument,” he admits, “maybe besides the recorder.” He looks disheartened at the fact as he stops playing and his fingernail taps against the wood, it echoes back.
“It’s okay, I am no good at it either. I also only know how to play the recorder,” only because it is mandatory to learn in primary school. “I am probably better than you at it, though.”
“Oh? Is that a challenge, young miss?”
“Maybe.”
“I guess we’ll have to find out,” he says. “Someday, of course.”
You nod. “Someday.”
Ran sleeps with you for the first time tonight. After dinner, he was too lazy, and your couch was too comfortable, so he didn’t want to leave, and you didn’t really seem to think of anything when you offered for him to stay the night. He didn’t think much of it when he agreed. It’s so innocent, yet more intimate than everything he has ever known. He feels. . . strange.
Your mattress is quite small, however Ran prefers it this way for obvious reasons. The dip in the mattress that allows you to get closer, he can feel your body heat so vividly, if he closed his eyes he could probably imagine it, except he doesn’t. He just stares at your bare face, who stares back at him.
“Your hair looks so pretty like this, Ran. I like it.” Your compliment makes him smile, it’s not often when someone witnesses his hair down, wavy and what he considers to be a mess. Your finger runs over the loose waves, twirling the end with your fingertip. He thinks you look pretty, too, in your pajamas, and bare faced.
You ask, “Can I braid your hair when we wake up tomorrow?”
“I like my hair a certain way.” He replied without much thought. He almost doesn’t notice that he didn’t necessarily reject the request.
You pout your lips, and give Ran your best puppy eyes — little gems are shooting out of your eyes towards him, but he is not one to fall for that. Do you think he’d be the type to fall for a cheap trick? If he were, he would’ve been screwed ages ago. You picked the wrong person for that. “Is that a no?”
He softly hums, debating to himself. “I am just—” he tries to think of the right word. He just hates when others touch his hair, his clothes, his jewelry, he spends so much time perfecting his appearance — he hates when others ruin it. “I rarely let Rindō touch my hair.” He decides to say this, because it’s something people can come to understand.
“I learn quickly. . .”
He sighs. Not one out of annoyance, more so at how he is so quick to give into your wishes. “Alright, fine. I will teach you how I like it done tomorrow.” You’re lucky that you’re cute, he almost adds.
He bites his tongue.
But he doesn’t know why. He says those types of things all the time. It’s a strange night. He’s been doing things he doesn’t do or say.
You lift your hand to his face, your pinky sticks out, “Promise?”
A pinky promise. Ran almost snorts — he would’ve if he weren’t so tired, if you didn’t look so cute and serious, and he would have laughed if it were someone else. Ran hasn’t pinky promised since he was a kid, barely eleven, promising something mundane to Rindō (the world, Roppongi, a new house, a new life, he remembers, he always will).
He softly sighs, sending you a sleepy smile as he locks your pinky with his. His thumb presses against yours, sealing the promise with a kiss. His eyes flicker down to your soft lips, you are grinning so happily over a mere pinky promise, what a simple thing bringing you happiness. “I promise.”
For a moment, he thinks he could give you something worth more than this little promise — pretty, shiny things that could make you smile even more. But he knows you aren’t someone like that. And that’s fine to him.
If braiding his hair makes you happy, for some weird reason, then he’s okay with it, too.
Ran awakens in the middle of the night, the room is coated in darkness, the moonlight shines through the crack of the curtain and that is how he knows it is still night time. He is not used to not sleeping in his own bed, he immediately notices your lack of presence, fingers tracing the empty surface, the side you had slept on is barely warm; you were still here not too long ago.
He slowly gets up, quietly walking down the hall to find you sitting curled up on the couch, on the side that is closest to the wall where Izana’s guitar rests. Unaware of him, his presence, and everything else in the world.
He lingers everywhere in your apartment, your home, your mind. It leaves Ran questioning: when you make a person your home, where do you go when they’re gone? Where do you go? Tell him.
He leans against the wall, asking, “You can’t sleep?”
Your body jolts. Your head snaps up, as you glance in his direction, and you shake your head, beginning to relax. “Oh, Ran. . . No, I was just getting some water.”
He hums, going along with your poorly webbed lie, your heart is exposed bare on your sleeve, so cold, lonely, he glances from the empty coffee table to the acoustic guitar to your unshed tears. You are seriously a terrible liar. That’s a good thing for him. “Do you mind the company?” He doesn’t want to intrude somewhere he doesn’t belong.
You shake your head once again, “No. Not at all.” You pat the spot next to you, and Ran moves from the wall to the spot next to you. You’re watching him silently, sinking back into the cushions.
“Are you thinking about him?”
You tilt your head towards him, sending a weak smile, unable to find the words for an answer that the both of you already knew.
“It’s okay. Sometimes, I still think about him, too.” He assures.
You ask, “You do?” You sound rather surprised, and he is also surprised by his own honesty.
“Yeah. He was. . .” Words die easily on his tongue as he struggles to find the right words to say. There’s not much he can say, despite all of the memories and feelings he once had. What can he even say about Izana? He can’t think of anything nice or normal that one would say about an acquaintance (friend, comrade, boss). “He was an interesting guy. I kinda admired him.”
He was an interesting guy, Ran had thought so their first meeting, years ago back in juvie. He was the only person that left a deep impression on him. Izana was many things. Anything, but a good man. He used to be a good boy (probably), once so long ago. Ran really did admire him, he wouldn’t have followed just anyone. He admired him to the point where he spent his entire youth following the boy.
“I did, too.” Barely heard even in this room containing only the two of you, it sounds a little bitter. Just a tad.
“Yeah, I’m sure he knows,” he says, leaning his head down to rest on top of yours. You breathe quietly next to him, all of the little noises can be heard in this silence. Your legs stretch out, dangling beside his.
It’s a long time before either of you speak. And then, you look up at him. There’s something glimmering in your eyes.
You tell him a story and then two more of your childhood. You laugh and tear up through them. He laughs, stays silent, and smiles as he tentatively listens to your every word. It’s his turn, you don’t ask him, but it’s only fair if he shares something personal with you; something he and only Rindō know. He wants you to know. He wants to tell you sides of him that he’s outgrown and sides that nobody knows. He tells you about the dog Rindō wants to adopt one day, you say you want to see it, but Ran tells you about how he doesn’t really want to have pets in his apartment (though, it’s sometimes hard to say no to Rindō). You tell him about the stray cat you used to feed a few months ago, and how you haven’t seen her in a few weeks. She’s probably fine, Ran tries to assure you, there’s a chance somebody had picked her up and adopted her. You hope so.
The two of you fall asleep on your couch, one far too small for him, curled up, and entangled together. He sleeps so soundly, the cotton of his shirt soaking up your silent tears.
[Ran believes — no, he knows that he visited you in a dream last night. He must’ve. You look so at peace.
The sun hits, orange light shining through the gaps of the curtains, and you look so at peace as you sleep, leg wrapped around his waist as you lay against his chest. His fingers run through your hair, carefully, not wanting to wake you. His index finger ghosts over your cheek and Ran freezes when you shift in your sleep, smiling when he realises you aren’t going to wake.
You must be a heavy sleeper. Or maybe, you’re having a sweet dream and aren’t ready to wake yet.
He admires you for minutes that seem to last forever. He comes to terms with the fact that he’s doomed, and decides he doesn’t want to think about it or you anymore, before drifting back to sleep.]
When morning hits (or rather afternoon), Ran stops to look at you before leaving. His hand lingers on the doorknob. “You’ll be okay?”
You nod. “. . . Should be,” you reply, smiling. “See you later, Ran, and thank you.”
His eyes are gazing down at you, his expression seemingly confused — conflicted, before his eyes soften, turning back into pretty little gems. His smile is so pretty. “I’ll call you,” he says.
It’s a promise.
It’s Wednesday, your afternoon lecture was cancelled due to the professor’s sudden family emergency, so you invited Kakuchō to hang out around Shibuya. Luckily, he didn’t have any of those meetings to attend. “Are you dating Haitani Ran?”
Your heart almost stops at hearing this.
“What—no, of course, not,” you reply — one far too quick, your voice raises and you hear Kakuchō scoff under his breath. You almost stop your tracks, instead you turn your head in his direction, narrowing your eyes, clearing your throat before asking, “Why are you asking me that?”
He shrugs, opting on not replying to your question, and you frown, pressing your lips into a thin line. When you lightly hit his shoulder, he sighs, giving into you. “You always hang out these days.”
What a ridiculous reason. “Is that so weird? You and I see each other almost daily,” you reason.
Another scoff escapes his lips as if you had just said the most insane thing in the world. He tells you, “I’ve seen him leave your apartment in the morning. More than once.”
“We didn’t sleep together,” you defensively reply. A growing sense of irritation quickly builds inside of you. “It’s nothing like that. I swear.”
“So, it’s nothing.”
“Well, you know. . .” You trail off, looking at the people fleeing in and out of the cafés and clothing shops. You don’t deny it. You don’t know if you should, yet it’s not really anything, maybe something. He’s your friend. Just like Kakuchō. Just like Izana.
He sighs before saying, “You look at him like how you did with Izana.”
You freeze.
Kakuchō steps stop the moment yours do.
You look at him like how you did with Izana. You grow cold from those words alone, your heart tightens by an old memory of Izana flashing by. Those words play on repeat with the memories.
Just like Izana.
You feel faint.
There’s a tap on your shoulder, you notice the guilt on his face. “Sorry, didn’t mean to make you upset. I won’t ask, you don’t gotta say anything. I get it.”
“No, don’t be sorry, I am not upset.” You aren’t upset, but you don’t know how you are feeling. You know you aren’t upset by his words, but your heart stings. You want to cry, but you don’t understand why. [You do, and this makes you feel like sobbing.]
“Okay, well, can I ask why Ran? Rindō is the cooler brother,” he says.
Why Ran. You don’t know this yourself. You just know you like being with Ran. His presence is comforting, he makes you feel less alone in moments you feel alone. You just like being with Ran. You just want to be around that person. It’s as simple as that.
You roll your eyes, jabbing a finger into his forearm, lightly pressing your nail into his muscle. “You only say that because he works out with you.”
He shrugs. “Yeah. That’s the manliest thing someone can do. And he drinks more than any guy I know, it’s kind of insane, and he will still show up to the meeting the next day.”
You grimace. You could never pull yourself out of bed if you were that hungover — and, well, you’re sure that Rindō is dragged and forced to go to these ‘meetings’. Probably. There’s no way it is solely dedication.
“Right. Don’t be drinking with him, got it?” You don’t need Kakuchō developing even more bad habits. Sometimes you can’t help, but nag, even if it doesn't really reach him (if you were Izana, it’d be a whole different case), always going in and out the other ear. “Kaku, are you doing okay these days?”
“I’m fine, but also, a little hungry.”
“Kakuchō.” You lower your voice in an attempt to sound more serious — threatening, maybe. Obviously, it doesn’t work because Kakuchō doesn’t reply or react in any way. “Come on now. Talk to me, I know it’s something.”
He sighs, his eyes don’t meet any part of you. He turns away, the long, faded scar running across his face becomes hidden. “It’s always like this. In the end, I am always the only one who ends up surviving.” You’d prefer bitterness, anger, or sadness – anything – over the empty feeling in his words. Your heart aches, you don’t want Kakuchō to leave you, too.
You don’t even want to imagine such a thing.
You want to hold him.
Your hand reaches out to grab him, so firm and all of his little scars and calluses are felt and seen. Kakuchō looks down at you the moment you touch him. He doesn’t pull away. “I am sorry to say this, I know you won’t want to hear it now, but I am grateful for that. I’d be sad if you weren’t here with me. You are my family, Kaku. Don’t forget that. So, please don’t say something so sad.”
And he’s quick to look away again, too.
He says, “. . . I’d be lonely without you, too.”
Your hand tightens around his. His hand is warm, like it always is, his body always runs hot, too hot, but he is still alive. You’re alive. “You could at least look at me when you say that.”
He grumbles something incomprehensible, you tilt in your head in confusion, “Hm? What was that?”
“I said, ‘what do you want to eat?’”
“Aren’t you being too shy? I guess you’re at that age now,” you continue to tease him, watching as the tip of his ears turn red. Kakuchō has never been good at voicing his own feelings, he speaks through his actions alone — through iron fists and undying loyalty — just like most of the men you have ever known. You grin at the reaction. “Hmm, well, how about we have okonomiyaki tonight? It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
The three of you used to eat that quite often back then, Kakuchō would be the one who would always make it for you and Izana. You haven’t had it since then. You’re craving it like crazy now.
“Yeah, sounds good. Let’s find a place less crowded, though.”
He really is still the same. Just older now, maybe maturing and experiencing life in all the wrong ways. But he is still your Kakuchō.
You wonder if he thinks the same of you.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
And similar to Kakuchō, you’ve never been so fond of crowds, either. Arms linked, you walk to an old restaurant owned by a cute elderly couple. You tell him you love him (because you do, since back then and now and in the future), he almost pushes you away right then and there, you burst out in laughter.
Kakuchō sits in front of you, in the past he used to sit beside you, you assume maybe it’s because it’s easier to talk this way. A guess because you aren’t so sure. He accidentally makes an extra okonomiyaki the first round, a habit he cannot erase, you both know why, you don’t say anything. You take the extra okonomiyaki and eat it for him.
Ran believes that some things are meant to happen for a reason.
You and him.
Him and you.
He throws a party for his brother’s birthday as he does every single year. He only invites their friends who immediately invite other people they know as it always goes and the apartment is filled to a brim. Just like every year.
You arrive a little later than most people, due to work and having to get ready, and Ran immediately removes himself from a group of people surrounding him (a chorus of boo’s are thrown at him), and rushes over to you.
“Hey. You took a while.”
You’re all smiles around him already. “I had to shower and get ready first.”
“You still look pretty in your work uniform.”
You look up at him, pointedly. “And smell like alcohol and chicken and fish?”
Ran grins, “Not much different from here, yeah? I love eating chicken.”
You playfully shove him and his grin widens as he pulls you into the drunk dancing crowd.
When he makes eye contact with Rindō, who is DJing (like always), his brother is clever enough to change the music to keep the two of you close. Bodies are bumping into him and you, you’re really close and your hands are in the air, in your hair, and on him. People are too close, too loud, too intoxicating. He has to lean down every time you attempt to say something to him — a lot of it is just you singing — and your lips brush against the shell of his ear every time.
Every. Single. Time. Electricity jolts through him.
Hair is sticking to your forehead, face red and glowing from dancing, sweat, and the mixture of body heat; you’re stunning and all Ran can think of is how badly he wants to kiss you when you bite your lower lip when you meet his gaze once again.
He pulls you closer, and it happens within a second. You kiss him first. Lips briefly pressing against his, you’re quick to pull back before he can reciprocate, and you flash him a smile more blinding than these flickering neon lights. He pulls you back in for a proper kiss this time.
Admittedly, this is not your first kiss together. He had kissed you once before – barely a peck – one night when he had picked you up from work and drove you home. It can barely be called a kiss, but Ran would be lying if he said it didn’t cause a shock that ran through his entire body. Later that night, alone in his room, his thumb brushed over his lips and they still tingled with the feeling of you.
This kiss, unlike the previous brief and fleeting exchange, he can taste all of you. Openmouthed, desperate, and a little shameless, too (but he doubts anyone is actually paying attention). Your hands find their way to his hair — much like they always seem to do — and Ran sighs when your fingers run through, gently scratching the nape of his neck. You look up at him with a gleam in your eyes, and he swears he wants to undress you right then and there.
Except, he wouldn’t do that. Plus, a loud whistle and a familiar voice jerks him back to the present (reality). It takes so much in him to hold himself back, he has to physically pull himself away from you for a second. He turns and glares at the interruption — Shion. Obviously. That fucker.
“What?” he asks, slightly annoyed and amused at the boy’s fucked appearance.
Shion grin widens, face glowing with sweat, red eyes, high and drunk on whatever someone had snuck in. Someone sure is having a good time. “Just—‘m just enjoying the show,” he slurs as his eyes make their way behind him, to you.
Ran steps forward and places a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Shion wobbles with a faint touch. “Go sit down, Madarame. You’re gonna fall over.”
Shion ignores him, brushes past him, and asks you to dance. Ran groans, calling out his name, but Shion blocks out his voice and smiles at you.
So, sure, he and the boys have this thing of cockblocking each other for shits and giggles, but now was definitely not the time for that. He needs to learn how to read the room. Damn idiot. (This is probably Shion’s payback from the last party, and all the times before that, but Ran swears it’s funny when he does it.)
You look from Shion to him and Ran shrugs, as if a shrug is enough to let you know that it’s just Shion, so it’s fine if you wanna dance with him, or not. After a second, you accept his dance with a curt, “Sure.” And Shion smiles, wide with all teeth.
“Behave yourself,” he warns Shion before turning to you. “I am gonna get some water. I’ll leave you to it for a bit.”
Ran walks over to join Rindō at his DJ booth.
Rindō looks at him with a raised brow as he makes his way behind the booth. “You lost your girl to Shion,” Rindō loudly snorts.
“Just letting him be around a girl out of his league for once,” Ran jokingly replies, and they both laugh. “Change the song for me.”
The song switches to something more upbeat; everyone is spinning and jumping, you and Shion, too. He can barely hear his own thoughts through the loud vibrations of the bass. He and Rindō talk about nothing, and Ran lets Shion dance with you for two whole songs. Shion is an idiotic lunatic, especially when he’s drunk, but he’s not stupid enough to do something he knows he shouldn’t. His hands don’t leave your hands, rather, Ran thinks you’re making sure Shion doesn’t let go of your hands, so he doesn’t fall over. Ran thinks you might be too nice. He’s having a good time and so are you, so that’s all that matters. He likes watching you dance, even if it’s not with him.
At some point, he runs to the kitchen to get a cup of water, and when he returns to you, Shion is nowhere in sight. That boy never stays in one place for long.
“Sorry, Shion is an idiot,” he tells you as he offers you the cup in his hand, basically forcing it into your hand to drink.
You chug back the water, no doubt exhausted and dehydrated from all the dancing and sweaty bodies around you. “He’s a funny guy. I had fun.”
Ran gives you a skeptical look. “Guess so, but feel free to ignore him next time.”
You grin, “Really, Ran, he was nice!”
“I sure hope so.” He leans down as whispers against your ear, “My room?”
You nod.
And finally, you’re on top of him. Ran is laying on his back, propped up by his elbows as he watches you take off your top, far too slowly, because you like to tease, and Ran is an impatient man deep down. But in this moment, he lets you do your own thing, and watches, watches, admires your every subtle movement. The real thing is much better than his daydreams. Yes, in the moment, he almost thanked Buddha.
You lean down to kiss him. Rather soft and innocent compared to the way you shift on top of him, and the way your hand runs down between the two of you. He’s rather shameless, and doesn’t bother hiding the way you make him feel. There’s nothing greater than pleasure.
Your movements come to an abrupt stop, and Ran suddenly becomes more aware. For a moment, he thinks you must be teasing him once more — Ran doesn’t beg.
He asks, “You okay?”
You stay quiet, he can’t see your eyes, something is wrong.
“Hey, is there something wrong?” His hand is immediately searching for yours, unknowingly. You pull your hand away before he can reach it. You pull your hands together.
Your voice comes out too quiet. It shakes at the end.
“. . . I’m scared,” you admit.
Ran pauses, his expression drops and he’s quick to sit straight up, reaching over to grab your hand, pulling it into his. His thumb brushes against the back.
He pulls you in his arms, your head lays against his chest as he whispers, “It’s okay. We don’t have to do anything.” He doesn’t need this. “It’s alright, don’t force yourself.”
“No, that’s not what I—” you’re cut off by a whine; your own cry.
He’s scared to death the moment you begin to sob. Full on sobbing, you’re choking, and he can’t calm you down. He’s frantically trying to speak to you, but his words are not reaching you.
He wants to know what’s wrong. He needs to know what he can do to help you. There’s nothing he can do, except hold you.
“I, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He frowns. Wrong. Your words alarm him. “There’s nothing wrong. It’s not wrong. Trust me.” He tells you, more firm than his usual tone with you. “You’re okay, baby.”
You shake your head. “It’s not.”
“It is.” He grabs the blanket beneath the two of you and wraps it around your naked figure.
You try to say you’re sorry — words don’t come out, but Ran knows you’re trying to apologise for something that only exists in your mind. There’s nothing wrong at all and he needs you to understand this.
“We’re okay, trust me. We’re more than okay.” He reassures as he holds you a little tighter when he feels your shaky form against him. “Don’t force yourself to do anything, yeah?” His voice drops to a comforting whisper, “Just breathe for me. You can do that.”
You cry into his chest for an hour. He says nothing, but strokes your hair and quietly calls your name from time to time.
After a long time, when your sniffles begin to slow and the party outside the door begins to die down, he asks, “Are you okay?”
“No,” you say, and leave it at that.
(You think Ran doesn’t understand, and you feel bad because you don’t know how to tell him how his sweetness and understanding and patience with you causes you to cry even more. He’s so sweet, it aches, and aches, and aches, but his arms around you bring comfort and security, and then, so do his lips.)
Leaves decay, autumn passes, and it’s almost Christmas. Snow fell greatly last night, piles and piles of snow pack up, and Rindō is dragged outside to play. Play as if he is some seven-year-old kid once again.
The three of you are outside their apartment complex, you’re rolling snow to make a snowman next to one that has already been made — probably by the family that lives on the first floor. They have two little kids — one boy and one girl. Rindō remembers bumping into them in a drunken state, and the mother looked at him in disappointment and disgust as she blocked him from her children (obviously, he wasn’t going to do anything, but he can’t exactly blame the woman, either), Rindō scoffed at her and stumbled his way upstairs.
He and Ran aren’t doing anything, just standing on the sidelines, lighting a cigarette, and watching you. When Ran passes him the cigarette, Rindō is quick to take notice of the difference in smell and taste. Since when did he start smoking another brand? Especially something like this. Still, he smokes it with him without complaint.
“So,” Rindō starts off, gaining his brother’s attention. “How are you?”
Ran’s face twists, he stares at his little brother strangely, as if he had grown another head. “Huh?”
Sure, it is a weird question, because no matter how close they seem (are), they don’t talk about feelings or anything like that, even if they are together almost 24/7. But Rindō just wants to know this time, he’s so curious, because something has changed about his brother. It’s noticeable in everything he does.
His eyes flicker from him to you. “You and her. The two of you are together now, or what’s going on?” Rindō is curious. He knows there’s something more going on, he’s no fool, and the way your eyes always seem to find each other basically screams it to his face. “Hasn’t it been a while?”
Ran shrugs, poker face, as always.
Rindō just lets out an ‘Ah’, and that’s that. There’s never much to say between them because they’ll just accept anything about each other without an explanation.
However, Ran continues speaking about it, much to his surprise. “I am actually fine with it, y’know.”
“Fine with what?” he asks.
“How there will always be a little part of her who loves Izana.” Ran says this so casually, Rindō’s mouth opens slightly, yet there’s nothing he can think to say so he shuts it and stares on ahead. “Even if he were still here. . . yeah, I’d be okay with it, too.”
Ran has always been complex in ways that nobody can understand, and when they finally think they do, he shows them that they never knew him at all. When he wants something, he’s quick to dive in and take it. He takes, takes, and takes. He’s quite cruel at times, it’s how he learned to survive.
(And Rindō learned that from him, too.)
If Izana were here, somewhere in another life, he knows you would still choose Ran — that’s probably what his brother is thinking. That cocky, confident smile tells all. And Ran is probably right about it, he always is, and he’s annoying about that fact, too.
Ran’s eyes have always been a shade darker than his. Yet, in this light, they seem to shine brighter than his.
“Ran!”
The both of them look up. You’re running over, there’s snow in your hair, frosting over. Your smile is bright, teeth showing, the snow around is sparkling. Ran’s smile is suddenly all soft.
“What?” Even his voice is all smiles, and internally, Rindō gags.
“Come here,” your hand pulls him along. Ran follows you like a dog.
And suddenly, it’s only the two of you in the world; moving slowly, kicking snow onto each other, pushing, running, hands never letting go. It’s pure, gentle, something so rare and hard to find, Rindō's heart shakes at the sight of Ran and you.
The idea of Ran and you.
He’s a little jealous, but he will never admit to something like that.
He thinks about taking a picture of Ran to show him how idiotic he looks, but in the end, he decides not to. Ran won’t see what he looks like in this light, unless, as cheesy as it sounds, through the reflection of your eyes.
January rolls around, the very first day of the year, and Yokohama’s seaside never seems to change. Dawn is blue, forever blue, you feel as if your soul is about to cry.
Ran had shown up at your apartment right before the hand of the clock struck midnight to no one’s surprise. Well, maybe, you were a little surprised. His brother was throwing a New Year’s party (one you had declined the invitation to), yet here Ran is with you. You ask why, to which he replies with, “I just wanted to see you.” And that is enough for you to let him inside.
The two of you attempt to stay up all night — that attempt is quick to fail, because you both become entangled in your bed, falling into slumber. And once your alarm sets off at five in the morning, you’re dragging Ran out of your bed, pulling his clothes off from your bedroom floor, and pushing him out the door. His hand in yours. You take him to your spot by the pier, almost jogging. It’s nearly six.
“Sleepyhead,” you eventually call out, glancing at the sleepy boy beside you. He could sleep anywhere, you think. It’s a fact known to everyone around him. “You are dozing off. You’ll miss the sunrise.”
After a few beats, your words register through his head. He lazily nods, almost as if he’s nodding off again. “If you don’t say anything, I think I really will pass out,” he mumbles back, voice groggy and deeper than usual from his sleepiness.
You ask, “What do you want me to say?”
“Anything.”
“Anything?”
“Mhm. . .”
You ponder for a moment, before asking, “Do you think people ever truly move on from their first love?”
This is enough to wake Ran up. The weight on your head is lifted, he shifts. “That’s heavy,” he breathes out.
“You said anything.”
It’s quiet for a moment before he gives you an answer.
“It depends on the person.” He turns his body to turn and look at you. “Why do you ask? Scared to move on or do you think you’ll never be able to?”
You don’t lift your gaze, settling on the waves below. You can’t bring yourself to look at him. You can feel his eyes on you and the smirk that is tugging on his lips, even though you know he is being serious with you. He wants to know. He needs to hear your answer. “I don’t know. . . Do you ever think about your first love?”
“Nah, I don’t think about things like that, sweetheart.”
“Liar. You could at least pretend and go along with me.” He smiles when you say this. You softly sigh, going along with his silence. “But fine. If you did think about those things, do you think you would eventually forget about them?”
Ran’s eyes flicker, violet hues staring deep into you, as he huffs a silent laugh — one that feels a little sad compared to his usual ones. “I think I would carry a part of them with me no matter how much time has passed.”
His words make you softly smile. And they feel a little sad, too. “I see. . . You are quite the romanticist,” you tease.
For some reason, you feel as if your teasing never seems to work against him, he remains as composed as he always is. He whispers, “Aren’t we all?”
It’s strange how easily Ran’s words bring comfort to you. In ways where you feel heard and seen even in darkness. Ran is always like that. There’s a part of you that will never forget Izana, not now or in another life. He will always be someone you love and cherish. Ran understands this — he understands you, never judging. You understand him, too, and that’s all that matters.
“Hey, Ran, can I ask you something?”
“You sure have a lot of questions today,” he says with both amusement and curiosity swimming in his tone. “Shoot. What else is running through that mind of yours?”
You open your mouth, then pause.
“Hm? What’s with the sudden hesitation? Is it something embarrassing?” he teasingly asks, nudging his shoulder against yours, prompting you to speak your mind. “You can tell me. Promise, I won’t laugh.”
You know he wouldn’t laugh at you — always with you. Never at you. You just can’t find the right words to say to him. [Or maybe the courage.]
“You know I don’t judge you.”
“You judge everyone, Ran.”
His smile drops, and his expression turns more serious than you would like. “Surely you know that you’re not everyone.” He asks, “You understand, don’t you?”
You quietly reply, “I know.”
“Then is it something bad?” His voice goes quiet, too.
“No, it’s just,” you deeply inhale, turning your head back to the sea, averting your gaze from those eyes that look at you so softly [tenderly, with his full adoration], it causes your heart to tighten every time. You fidget with the ends of your hair, exposing your nerves. Another short pause and then you breathe. “I think. . . I think I like you, Ran. Like, a lot, and it terrifies me. Maybe you don’t believe me—I would find it hard to believe, too, because of—”
“I believe you,” his reply comes immediately. Voice so clear among the waves and seagulls calling above. “I can tell. You make it quite obvious sometimes, it’s hard for me to ignore, y’know?”
You blink. “Oh. Um, is it really?” you meekly reply.
Ran hums and heat rises up to your ears in embarrassment. You don’t think you’re somebody who is that obvious. Your face no longer feels the coldness of winter brushing by, internally groaning. You guess it was obvious. The two of you kiss a lot, you’ve gone further than that on a few occasions, and he stays over at your apartment more often than not. It is obvious. But liking and loving someone are two completely different things. (Love. . .)
“I feel the same. But how I feel . . . it is probably too soon to say how I feel for you, so I will wait until you are sure you want this.” His hand brushes against yours — cold from the cement and winter air, pinky dragging across the back of your hand. “Not too long, though. My patience isn’t so gentlemanly.”
Your heart flutters, embarrassment shifting to shyness. I feel the same for you, too. You try to not burst out smiling, lightly biting down onto your lip. Your cheeks betray you. You can feel the heat rising against the wind.
“Oh? Is that what people call you now? I don’t recall you being that much of a gentleman.”
Ran scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Really now?” Beginning to mutter to himself about how he treats you so well, that he’s been born a gentleman — it’s engraved into the very depths of his soul. And to some degree, those words are true. Ran has been nothing but patient with you. Someone who is always there when you need it.
I will wait until you are sure you want this. You do want this, you want to be with him — with the person beside you now. You want us. “Me too,” you say as you gather more courage, leaning towards him a little, your hand rests on his shoulder as you stare straight into those pretty lavender eyes. “I am falling in love with you,” you say to him, more sure than before.
You don’t waver.
A second passes, a wave crashes.
“Mm, I missed what you said. Say it again for me, sweetheart,” he says with that signature smile to his soft, pink lips, “for me, please?”
His plea makes you roll your eyes. Ran loves attention — both good and bad. He loves pretty things and pretty words, even more when they hold something so precious and meaningful in them. I love you. I love you. I love you. I like you so, so much. I want to be with you, Ran. Ran, Ran, Ran — sweet words that have been whispered to him many times before in the past (and many more times in the future, including now).
You lean over, cherry lips brushing against his ear, as light as a feather. You whisper a confession. A heartfelt confession. The wind rushes by, his hair tickles your flushed cheek, and a sweet confession only for the two of you to know, drowned out by everything else in the world.
It’s just you and Ran.
Snow gently falls, your hand found itself in Ran’s, his fingers intertwined between yours. He doesn’t let go. You don’t let go. Even when the sun begins to rise over the blue horizon, not when you’re walking back to your apartment, not when Kakuchō and Rindō stop by later for dinner and Ran is doing nothing, but admiring you as you cook. Neither of you let go for a long, long time.
It’s just Ran and you.
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elryuse · 2 months ago
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To celebrate the release of part 1 of your Hierarchy series how about a fic about Yoon He-ra in where the readers family decides to help her out when her family was in debt, but the readers family made a condition in where the Reader and He-ra would be in an arranged marriage
A NEW BEGINNING
YOON HERA X MALE READER
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The rain lashed against the windowpane, mirroring the storm raging within Yoon He-ra's heart. Her family, once a beacon of hope, was now drowning in a sea of debt. The weight of their financial burden pressed down on her shoulders, a heavy, suffocating force.
A flicker of hope ignited when an unexpected offer arrived. The wealthy Kim family, particularly their son, Y/n, had extended a helping hand. Their generosity was overwhelming, but it came with a steep price.
The Kims' ultimatum was clear: an arranged marriage between He-ra and Y/n. It was a cold, calculated move, a strategic alliance to secure their interests. He-ra, a mere pawn in their grand scheme, was forced to accept her fate.
As the wedding day approached, He-ra found herself increasingly isolated. Her friends, once a source of comfort and support, began to distance themselves. The harsh truth was that they were uncomfortable with her newfound status as a future heiress, a position they couldn't relate to.
In the midst of this social upheaval, only one friend remained steadfast: Jae-i. She had always been different, a true friend who saw beyond the superficial. She understood the weight of He-ra's burden, the sacrifices she was making for her family.
"You don't have to do this, He-ra," Jae-i said, her voice filled with concern. "You deserve better."
He-ra, her heart heavy, shook her head. "I-i have no choice, Jaei-ah" she replied, her voice barely a whisper.
As the wedding day approached, He-ra couldn't help but feel a growing sense of dread. She was marrying a stranger, a man she barely knew. What would their life together be like? Would they be able to connect on a deeper level, or would they remain mere acquaintances bound by a contract?
On the day of the wedding, He-ra finally met Y/n. To her surprise, he was nothing like the cold, calculating figure she had imagined. Instead, he was kind, gentle, and surprisingly understanding. He seemed genuinely concerned about her well-being and made a conscious effort to make her feel comfortable.
As they spent more time together, He-ra began to question her initial assumptions. Perhaps this arranged marriage wasn't as terrible as she had feared. Maybe there was hope for a future filled with love and happiness.
As she prepared to start a new life with Y/n, He-ra couldn't help but wonder how their relationship would evolve. Would they be able to overcome the challenges of an arranged marriage and build a genuine connection? Only time would tell.
The night was still young, the moon casting an ethereal glow over the city. He-ra and Y/n sat on a secluded bench in the park, the soft rustling of leaves providing a gentle backdrop to their conversation.
"So, Y/n," He-ra began, her voice barely a whisper, "what do you expect from this marriage?"
Y/n turned to her, his gaze soft and tender. "I simply want to spend my life with you, He-ra," he replied, his voice filled with sincerity. "I want to care for you, to protect you, and to love you unconditionally."
He-ra's heart skipped a beat. His words, simple yet profound, touched her in a way she hadn't expected. She had been so caught up in the complexities of their situation that she had forgotten the most important thing: the human connection.
"But... but what about the family expectations?" she stammered, her voice filled with uncertainty. "The pressure, the obligations..."
Y/n took her hand in his, his touch warm and comforting. "We'll face those challenges together," he assured her. "We'll create our own happiness, regardless of what others expect."
He-ra's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She had never felt so vulnerable, so exposed. Yet, there was a strange sense of peace that washed over her. Perhaps this arranged marriage wasn't so bad after all.
As they sat there, lost in each other's gaze, a spark ignited between them. It was a spark of hope, a spark of love, a spark that could ignite a beautiful future.
The limousine glided smoothly through the city streets, the soft hum of the engine providing a soothing backdrop to the intimate moment unfolding within. He-ra and Y/n sat side by side, their fingers intertwined.
As they drew closer to Jooshin High, Y/n's hand, bold and confident, slid across the seat and gently rested on He-ra's thigh. A shiver ran through her, a mix of surprise and anticipation. His touch, soft and tender, sent a wave of warmth through her body. She closed her eyes, savoring the moment, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and excitement.
When they arrived at the school, Y/n leaned in and kissed her forehead. "Have a good day, my love," he whispered, his voice filled with affection.
He-ra, her cheeks flushed, nodded silently. As she watched him walk away, she couldn't help but feel a sense of belonging, a sense of security.
At school, He-ra immediately became the center of attention. Whispers and curious glances followed her every move. It was as if she had become a celebrity overnight. Some students were envious, others were simply amazed.
Jae-i, noticing the unwanted attention, approached He-ra. "Don't mind them," she said, her voice firm. "They're just jealous."
He-ra smiled gratefully. "Thanks, Jae-i. You're a lifesaver."
With Jae-i by her side, He-ra was able to navigate the day with relative ease. Together, they faced the curious stares, the snide remarks, and the hushed conversations. And together, they emerged victorious.
As the final bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, He-ra gathered her belongings and prepared to leave. Just as she was about to step out of the classroom, she felt a familiar presence behind her.
"He-ra," Y/n's voice, soft and gentle, broke the silence. "Would you like to grab a bite to eat with me?"
He-ra's heart skipped a beat. She glanced at him, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of red. His warm smile and inviting eyes made it impossible to refuse.
"Sure," she stammered, her voice barely audible.
As they walked together, the other students couldn't help but stare. They were an unexpected pair, a match made in an unlikely heaven. But as they watched the way Y/n looked at He-ra, filled with affection and adoration, they began to understand.
Perhaps love, like fate, could surprise even the most cynical of hearts.
- To Be Continued -
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nohaijiachi · 1 year ago
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I've been seeing just about all moments of GO S2 being put under a microscope and absolutely dissected frame by frame
And still I am yet to see anyone mention a moment that might be small in the grand scheme of things, perhaps not as character defining as many other that have been (rightfully) analyzed a thousand times over, but which was *so* important to me, and every single time I watch it I'm just filled with so many feelings and jhaghagha
(putting this under a read more to not spam y'all with a ginormous post clogging your dashes)
The moment in question is this (my apologies for the pics, I currently don't have a proper way to take screenshots of S2 and had to snap photos of my tv screen lol)
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It's such a quick moment, a small blip in the entirety of episode 5, but let me tell you why it absolutely destroys my heart every single time.
First of all let's refresh our memory on Aziraphale's relationship with Heaven and Gabriel specifically, shall we?
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The very first time we see Gabriel in S1, he surprises Aziraphale at a sushi restaurant. Aziraphale looks to his left, because that's the side where Crowley usually appears when approaching him, but instead of his boyfriend the familiar Demon, he sees the reflection of Gabriel at his other side, and he turns around with what reads to me as very much an "oh shit" expression.
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In episode 2 we see Gabriel again, along with Sandalphon; they are flanking Aziraphale and leaving him no way to escape in what to me seems a blatant intimidation tactic, especially with Gabriel being all "hey you remember Sandalphon, right :)" and Aziraphale being like "Oh yeah, likes smiting and turning people into salt, I sure do! *nervous laugh". There's literally no reason for them to be acting like this if not to (un)subtly remind Aziraphale what his place is, and that he is NOT safe, not even in his bookshop.
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Whenever we see Aziraphale in Heaven he is constantly standing ramrod straight, hands kept caged behind him, none of his usual mannerism to be seen. He always smiles like a hare being stared at by a hawk and the cinematography very much underlines that tenseness by both showing the impossible, cold and sterile expanse of Heaven in contrast to the camera being shoved right in the characters' face to make the viewer feel just as uncomfortable as Aziraphale is.
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When Gabriel and Aziraphale speak in the park there's this moment after it looks like Gabriel is leaving, but he pops right back up in Aziraphale's space in an instant, causing the reaction we see in these screenshots. Aziraphale is clearly taken aback and tense, eyes widening which is like, fair considering Gabriel pretty much jump scared him, but that's rather the point, isn't it? Gabriel pretty much jump scared him. He didn't just turn around and jog back to Aziraphale to ask him about the sword, he purposefully moved himself up to him without any warning. Like sheesh, talk about terrifying bosses.
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No Gabriel here, but just another example of how much Aziraphale does NOT like being in Heaven. When he gets discorporated and finally manages to stand up for himself, saying he refuses to fight a war, he still looks like *this*. Like he's one step away from just discorporating a second time and without an actual body out of sheer anxiety.
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When all it's said and done at the Tadfield airbase and the four horsemen are gone, Gabriel and Beelzebub decide to go check what the heck is going on, at which point Aziraphale pretty much seems to be bracing himself, straightening his back, adjusting his clothes nervously and then holding his hand in front of him in a show of dignified quietness I definitely read as him doing his best to hide just how anxious he truly is.
Of course we don't see Aziraphale's reaction at being told to shut his stupid mouth and die already by Gabriel due to the body swap, and at this point is pretty safe to say Crowley has never shared with Aziraphale that little tidbit of information, but even not knowing the extent of the cruelty Gabriel showed toward him at the end, he still knows that Gabriel and, by extension, Heaven was more than willing and ready to murder him.
Even at the start of S2, when an amnesiac Gabriel arrives at the bookshop and then hugs him (awkwaaaard), Aziraphale looks like he's entirely frozen and unable to react to the improbability of what is happening, and when Gabriel asks him if he can go inside the bookshop Aziraphale's immediate reaction is to pretty much recoil with an immediate "No!".
Of course he is then forced to let him in because there's a naked man on his steps while the whole neighborhood is watching, and we get some many more little moments of Aziraphale anxiety emerging through his body language: The pacing, the way he sits ramrod straight in front of Gabriel, and him literally backing away multiple steps when Gabriel asks him "You know how it's like, when you don't know anything at all, and yet you're totally certain that everything will be better if you were just near one particular person?"
(Because of course Aziraphale knows how that feels, and that's exactly the same reason why he's been so scared of Heaven for-fucking-ever!) (Also as an aside let me just bless Michael 'Acting Choices' Sheen for that smile that lasts a shard of a second after Gabriel asks that. You can pretty much see the word "CROWLEY" stamped in big bold letters on his forehead in that moment lmao)
(Also as an aside to the aside. Jon Hamm is just fantastic. Gabriel comes across as such an asshole in S1, but Amnesiac!Gabriel is a fucking cinnamon roll and he pulls it off so well ajahjahja)
Then of course we get the whole exchange about the 'something terrible' that sends Aziraphale into more anxious frenzy until another tiny, kinda overlooked moment hits us in the shins, in which Gabriel says "You're funny. I love you." And like, can't blame anybody for not looking at that moment without much thought, I know that that sentence had me crying laughing multiple times on multiple rewatches, but also... God, you can see the way some of that fear instantly leaves Aziraphale, the way he relaxes ever so slightly and ??? Aziraphale??? Is that all you need to instantly start trusting someone who wanted you dead? Who treated you like shit for who knows how long? (Why am I even asking this, of course that'd be enough, it's Aziraphale we're talking about, here.) Then of course the rest of season 2, he and Crowley having a row about what to do with Gabriel with Aziraphale insisting that he needs them, as his friends, yada yada, we get back to the initial moment that sparked this post.
We get there, Aziraphale's (eldritch) Ball and the romantic moment he's been working himself up for ruined, murderous Demons at his steps putting both he and all the humans inside in peril, and all he would need to do to avoid any harm coming to them is to give Gabriel up, and... "You came to me. I said I would protect you. And I will." Not just the words, but the way Aziraphale says them; voice lowered and serious, that hint of hesitation and fear at the start that melts away into full blown confidence at the 'And I will'.
It isn't just Aziraphale being scared by Gabriel mentioning the 'something terrible' at the beginning, nor the brief moments of cryptic recollection that he witnesses Gabriel going through-- It's that Aziraphale sincerely accepted to protect him, and he wasn't going to give that up. He is a Guardian and a Principality, after all.
And like, I see this and how am I supposed not to get my heart utterly shattered by it? If Aziraphale had rejected Gabriel, or treated him unkindly in any way, I hardly doubt anybody would be hard pressed to say Aziraphale did not have the right to do so, not after the way he's been treated by Gabriel and Heaven his whole life. But he doesn't. He is kind to him, if a tad long-suffering at times. The protection he extended over Gabriel is utterly sincere and unwavering.
And ngggggggh I don't even know where I'm going with this. I just. Love Aziraphale so much. Stupid, clever, anxious, brave man-shaped thing that he is, recklessly throwing himself into the line of fire for somebody that, by any means, did not have any right to ask something of that magnitude from him. He is my scrungly, and by God am I ever so excited to see how everything will play out in season 3. I want him to fully grasp that bravery and raise absolute -metaphorical- hell with it. Shine bright, you crazy bastard.
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taggedmemes · 1 year ago
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SENTENCE MEME BALDUR'S GATE 3 / PART SIX
leave us in peace and we shall leave you in kind.
cut the crap.
we just want to go home.
enough of this charade.
i'll not play pretend anymore.
you'll soon learn what it means to ally yourself with the likes of this garbage.
i'm free now, and i'm never going back.
fuck them.
felt good letting off a little steam.
if i burn any hotter, i might explode.
don't get too close until i've found a way to calm down.
it's a bit early to be getting into tragic backstories.
let's save the scar-show for later after we've worked up an appetite for tragedy.
in the grand scheme of things, i'm inconsequential [to her].
she favored me like a child favors a captive pet.
it had the makings of a good stage show, but i did not want to be one of the players.
torture, bloodsport? or perhaps just a good old-fashioned walloping?
you owe me nothing.
i could extort you, if that's what you want.
you're teasing me now.
ignorance is alive and well it seems.
don't make me get the wooden spoon.
you'd best have one hells of an apology for me.
if you think your precious little god holds any power here, you're in for a surprise.
do you treat all your guests so poorly?
i don't like busybodies.
you are as thick as they come.
are you telling me you made love to a goddess?
i shared a bed with a goddess and yet i wasn't satisfied.
shall i share the story behind it or would you rather head straight to its sordid finale?
how are you still alive?
we've come this far together and we'll continue on together.
even i am tired of the sound of my own voice.
i'll rip your spine out of your asshole.
i'll use your blood to spice my stew.
i'll keep you alive until i've sucked the marrow from your bones.
killing me is a waste of time.
you bastard, you ruined everything.
this is an interesting way of thanking me.
a slap is all you deserve.
a hag was never going to help you.
they don't help anyone but themselves.
that double-crossing, filthy, lying hag.
focus on the positive.
forgive the aroma.
perhaps that is why i have survived so long where more fearsome peers have not.
your loyalty is admirable but misplaced.
his kind have charm beyond our mortal means to resist.
who'd keep a secret like that from his friends?
you can't trust anyone these days.
even in the middle of nowhere, he can reach me.
why do you insist on exhuming the past?
people think the biggest threat to a vampire is a cleric with a stake.
they're scheming, paranoid, power-hungry beasts.
i am what i must be, says what i must be.
how does it feel to be a devil?
i can't tell if you're being silly or serious.
you have to admire the man's ambition.
i promise i will not betray your trust.
you kept me by your side despite the menace i am.
i learned quick how to stay alive.
to feel invincible again.
this isn't where i thought i'd end up.
maybe when this is all done, you can show me where you came from.
i'm not normally one to begrudge someone their secrets, but..
i'm already blessed to have you at my side.
don't you cut a fine figure.
i am not some lower city coinlad offering you a tumble.
there is nothing so depressing as learning one's true value.
i could use someone with your skills.
they're ravenous predators with fangs like daggers.
it's hardly an irrational fear to harbor.
you've been decent to me, so far.
everyone's got their own fears.
maybe that's what i like about you.
all of this was for nothing.
if you're here to help, get to the fight quickly.
gods, i thought you were one of those beasts.
i'm not chasing after it, if that's what you're thinking.
the little beast's charming once you get accustomed to the smell of rotting flesh.
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vigilskeep · 5 months ago
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sorry for rambling in your inbox but having recently finished a cassandra romance, your post abt people not, like, analyzing her got to me. i know you have arthur who romances(divorces) her and makes her divine but i don't know if you've fully played that out, actually seeing it in-game made me feel rabid. it's kind of an insane thing to do to her... cassandra is the divine candidate who /wants/ the position the least. leliana actively puts herself forward as a candidate, vivienne would never be so gauche as to be direct but she clearly is interested in the position. for cassandra it is a duty she must accept, bordering on a burden (particularly if she can never marry an inquisitor she loves as a result). she became the right hand of the divine as a teenager!!! she loathes the trappings of her name and nobility but she's been trapped by duty instead her whole life. free my girl she did all that but i understand her
it makes me feel insane.
i haven’t played it through no. and i don’t even consider myself to know cassandra particularly well (this is true of a lot of inquisition companions, having never finished the game fully with dlcs and thus never felt completely comfortable watching through banter compilations and alternate endings and low approval scenes and so on.) but from everything i do know about cassandra, the very fundamentals, making her divine feels so... cruel? it’s terrible for literally everybody involved except possibly the snakes in the grand cathedral who are going to eat her alive.
cassandra is a woman of action and passion, brash and violent, a blunt weapon, forthright in both her accusations and her affection. the life of a divine is everything she hates; she might as well be the noblewoman in a gilded cage she was raised to be (in a childhood that poisoned her entire extended family and nation for her), or perhaps an honoured corpse preserved lifeless and useless in the grand necropolis (the ones a young cassandra thought looked so “very sad” in the midst of all their buried, wasted finery.)
i was struck during dawn of the seeker by what an obvious publicity stunt it was to make her the divine’s right hand after her success against the conspiracy. a duty she had to accept, was even publicly surprised into accepting. at her age, would she ever have been put so forward in the seekers to be engaged in fighting such a conspiracy, if not for her name? she would not even have been allowed to join the seekers when she did if not for that. she has no skills of good judgement or leadership and it’s only due to the accident of her birth that these pressures she isn’t equipped to match are constantly placed on her shoulders.
she already wanted to leave after beatrix died, but justinia convinced her otherwise, for a failed vision that ended in death cassandra blames herself for. i find it harder and harder to blame her for dodging the inquisitor’s position, considering all that. and to make her divine... she won’t be good at it, she’ll fall into every politician’s scheme and old orthodox pattern even as she tries for ‘reform’ that she has no clarity of purpose for, she’ll be trapped there for the rest of a long grey life with none of the passion she longs for. she won’t be good at it!!! nobody in thedas benefits either! it’s worse! what the hell
(it’s kind of why i love my arthur and this ending the way i do, because of the equivalency. she does terrible things to him, reinstating the circles while he stands alone as her archmage. but he also did a terrible thing to her, by putting her in this position! by ruining her life and also lying all this time to someone he supposedly loves! neither justifiable or comparable, love loses, nobody wins, they are drowning there is no sign of land etc etc)
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sky-kiss · 1 year ago
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Can't Have Mornings without a Sun
A/n: @molinaesque asked for some soft!Raph/Tav, and I'm cold so like. I dunno. Here's whatever this is.
R/T: This is fine in the winter. It won't fly in the summer, devil boy.
Did a devil dream?
Tav thinks she read something about it once, years prior. A lifetime ago. The words are lost, but the sentiment remains. They didn't. Devils didn't dream, sleep, or eat; they were beyond or divorced from humanity. 
Raphael dreams. 
She frowns, pushing up on her elbow to observe him. His nudity is somehow the most negligible intimate factor in the equation; it's his wild hair, the little huffs of breath bordering on a snore, and the way his mouth falls open ever so slightly in sleep. It's humanizing in a way Tav knows he'd despise. She reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. The cambion grumbles, turning his face into her pillow. He doesn't stir. 
That surprised her; Tav had expected him to sleep lightly. 
She's afforded some time to think here in the early morning hours. The sunlight cuts through the bedroom window in jagged diagonals, only just falling over the bed. It'll be a half hour at least before it reaches her, and the light seems content to linger across her lover's nude form, bisecting his thighs and abdomen. She drags her nails across this dividing line, chuckling when Rapahel shifts. He grumbles something, shuffling nearer. It's a difficult task. In sleep, he's tactile. Her head remains pillowed on his arm (it must be numb by now), one of his legs hooked over her hip. In the grand scheme of things, she supposes it's possessive or instinctual. Technicalities that she'll argue at a later date. For now, all that matters is she's warm; he's here. 
And that's odd, too. In all Tav's imaginings, Raphael took his leave immediately after their first coupling. He would kiss her hand, thank her for her service (perhaps with a wink), and leave her cold. And yet.
She frowns, stroking his cheek. And yet, there's a dreaming devil in her bed. He's more mortal than he'd like to admit. Ageless, and yet there are crows feet near the corners of his eyes and laugh lines around his mouth. There's gray in his hair and dark bags from one too many sleepless nights. There are scars on his chest and ribs, and she wonders, not for the first time, what his life was like before they met. He's lived so long…thirty of her lives? Fifty? It's so much space to cover, so much weight. 
He is an odd thing. Tav struggles to quantify him, let alone understand. Her fingers tease back into his hair, nails scraping across his scalp. Touching him helps; it makes him feel…real. She's not deluded enough to call him soft, only handsome. So achingly handsome. 
"You're thinking," Raphael grumbles. He opens his eyes just long enough to glare, though the haziness robs the expression of its strength. "Loudly. A dangerous occurrence in your best moment, let alone before sunrise." 
Tav snickers. "Funny, I'd have expected you to be more of a morning person." 
"There are no mornings in Hell, pet." 
His tone remains petulant. Raphael reaches out for her shoulder. He shoves. It's enough to set her off balance; years of experience tell her to throw her weight into the motion instead of fighting it. Either way, she finds herself on her back, staring up at the ceiling first and Raphael shorting after. He presses up on his arms, settling himself between her legs before letting himself drop. Tav grunts as his weight drives the air from her lungs. 
"You deserved that," he says by way of apology, nosing into her throat. 
"Raphael?" 
"Sleep, little mouse. Or I will find a more suitable pillow." 
Tav rolls her eyes, ducking her head to kiss the crown of his skull. 
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chadfallout76podcast · 6 months ago
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what made you put nora x danse together in death shroud? i was surprised considering nora x hancock shippers seem to be the loudest/most popular ship in the fandom!
That's a great question with a complex answer. Sometimes writers write from instinct without a lot of thought in the moment. At least for me anyway, it's very stream of consciousness and I let the great whatever kind of guide me, in the moment not really thinking too much...just mentally playing out scenes in my head, letting the characters interact and then I transcribe what's in my head to the page. I had to think about your answer and why I put them together.
I know people LOVE a Nora/Hancock ship, but I looked at it through the lens of grief and loss. When you lose the love of your life, a part of you dies with them. Imagine a perfect morning, your husband, your child shattered in just minutes. MINUTES. In minutes everything you've ever known is gone. Then seemingly minutes later you watch them killed. An empty death. A pointless death, seemingly without reason or justification. And then, boom...you are thrust out into a harsh, unforgiving, broken world mirroring the shattered part of your soul. People bend, but they rarely break and even when they do, the road you take may grow dark, but at the end of it even in the deepest part of you, the heart YEARNS for what it lost. Nate went to war because he felt a deep sense of duty to his country and to his family, however misplaced this may be in the grand schemes of suits, politicians and madmen. Soldiers always pay the price for their kindness, willing to make the ultimate sacrifice and represent the last true measure of devotion and faith in an idea. I think Nora would've loved that about him.
Danse, while completely different, is a blurry shadow of Nate. The dedicated soldier, whose ideals and life were built around the idea of what the Brotherhood should be (perhaps not what it was under Maxson). I would argue that many of Danse's actions fly in the face of how Maxson would do things, and yet he clearly skated reprimand as the ends always were satisfactory. There is a nobility in that fact, as Danse isn't motivated by power, making many of his decision altruistic to a degree. His arc however SIMILARLY to Nora leads to a cataclysmic loss of everything he's ever known. His entire identity, his "family", his entire life shattered in minutes. Danse is a widower to the person he was, Paladin Danse DIED that day. Danse is who survived.
Sometimes soulful love is born from a shared journey in healing. For Nora, Danse is a reminder of the man she lost...never, ever to be replaced or forgotten but honored. There is so, so much of who Danse is that is a shadowed remind of what she fell in love with in Nate, enough to be comfortably familiar while also different. For Danse, Nora is the suture of a wound as deep as the soul, not born into, but made...not created by Man with 1's and 0's, but through choices and actions that represent the truth of sentience. They very much needed each other. Healing journeys can create friction. People are complex. Guilt, doubt, regret, fear of being wounded again all can push people away from each other. And yet, in due course, the heart wants what the heart wants. Nora and Danse found their way back to each other, and for me, would've remained following the events of Death Shroud.
Although for more on what happens next...you'll need to wait a little bit. ;)
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vinyls-and-valentines · 8 months ago
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The most noticeable thing that changes about the Fabulous Killjoys is the way they fight.
Fun Ghoul, although blessed with a knack for chemistry and mechanics, has unsteady hands. While this does not impede his work with electronics and explosives, it makes him a slower shot than most due to a shaky aim worsened by recoil. Because of this, in his early days in the Zones, Fun Ghoul relied primarily on incendiary devices and his own physical abilities to dispose of opponents in an area all at once. The downside of having a combat style based around such tactics however, is that it meshes poorly with the mid-to-close-range the Fabulous Killjoys have developed over the years (in no small part due to Kobra Kid), and thus led Fun Ghoul towards a style focused more on dodging hits and making decisive point blank shots or further sacrificing accuracy for the sake covering a wider area.
Jet Star, is the opposite of Fun Ghoul, in the sense that he has exceedingly steady aim born out of years of practice and a greater-than-life sense of competition, but can struggle to move effectively due to his size. As such, it perhaps comes to no surprise that Jet Star used to prefer long-range fighting, neglecting close-range in favour of playing up the fear factor of both his skill and affiliation with some of the Zones' most infamous snipers and gunslingers. That doesn't mean that he was useless in a close-range fight, of course, however his movements were simple, predictable, and incredibly limited, which put him at a disadvantage against anyone with more experience or endurance than him. Jet Star's current style hasn't as much shifted in order to accommodate the others' as it evolved alongside Jet Star as he learnt to direct his body as deliberately as his shots even when it comes to close quarters.
Party Poison has always been a flexible fighter, and it is this very adaptability which highlights just how purposeful their attacks truly are. In the grand scheme of things, nothing fundamentally changes about Party Poison's fighting style outside some improvements in their aim and the variety of their movement as they learn to fight alongside other people, however, the intent with which they fight does. As a young killjoy, whether consciously or not, Party Poison's intent in a fight was to always harm the oponent, prioritizing ways in which they could incapacitate them without having them lose consciousness or simply inflicting as painful an injury as possible to attain their goal. This intent then gradually shifts towards a desire to protect others from the cruelty Poison's own fighting style reflected back at the world because despite the cruelty of their actions they had never done it because they enjoyed it.
As candidate to become an exterminator, Kobra Kid's fighting style used to something akin a swiss knife, however much more calculated and deliberate. While trying to figure out its way through the Zones, Kobra Kid relied on any weapon available to it, going through a wide variety of combat and more often than not pushing aside his distaste for blasters in favour of having a weapon which was effective and easy to replace. Having Jet Star, Fun Ghoul, and even its sibling by its side, allowed Kobra Kid to focus on its unarmed combat and blade-wielding, casting long-range combat aside in favour of a style which gave it better control over the situation, enabling it not only to easily dispose of opposing combatants due to its athleticism, but to also support its crewmates in situations where long-range combat is the favourable approach
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plush-rabbit · 2 years ago
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The Dateables and Things
A/N: I needed to write something and like it was supposed to be about them and how they show affection towards you, but it did not come out like that so here it is!!
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Barbatos: 
He was only ever meant to serve- devoted and loyal to a fault where he’d die for his master if it was asked for. Barbatos was never meant to interact with you more than necessary; you were only an exchange student after all, a means to an end for the young master’s grand scheme. And yet, here you stand before him, invading his mind and body, acting as a poison that will wear him away and leave nothing but dust. You’re nothing more than a human, and all the same, you are a human, all of that and just that. He isn’t sure what it was that attracted him to you, perhaps it was how every other demon and angel and sorcerer had taken a fancy to you, or maybe how you always tried to include him when he was content just staying by the sidelines. Whatever the reason was, he was attracted to you, like a moth to a flame, his heart fluttering and beating against his ribs. 
It’s no surprise how affectionate you are with him. You cling to him, hands hooked onto the crook of his elbow, or hands bunching up his blazer so as to not get lost. When you part ways, your lips press against his cheek, fingertips oppressed over his jaw to turn him towards you and to keep him from running away. It wasn’t something that he was proud to admit, but he wanted your touch. He craved it more than he could ever understand, and more than he was ever willing to admit. He wanted to keep you close to him and he wanted to kiss you and never part for breath. The attachment and desire terrified him. It wasn’t like him to want to give in to such temptations, to want someone and want to give up so much of himself to someone other than his king. 
The attention that you gave to him was something that he craved, and wanted once he got a taste for it. He truly believed that if he just sat back and spoke to you in short conversations, that you would find someone else- find someone who could love you as selfishly as possible. But you never left him alone and he didn’t push you away. He wanted the attention that you gave him, he savored it each and every time that it was given to him. You had wanted his attention and when some spell had made him want your attention, he couldn't lie to himself that stealing and harboring all of your love was intoxicating.  The spell made him obsessed, and now beside you, he wishes he could blame a spell that would warrant such a lack of manners and selfishness. 
Porcelain clicks against each other in a sweet melody, and he feels your eyes on him. You sit on a stool, watching and talking, and he is paying close attention. He serves you the first slice, humming and nodding along. He pours you the first cup and places the sugar and creamer in for you even though the tea that he has made needs nothing of the sort, but it’s something that you prefer. The honey is stirred in thick and sweet now mixed into the drink, and he passes you the fruit that has sat above his slice of dessert. 
Barbatos says your name so sweetly, your name held in a whisper as he draws your attention. “My dear, would you like another slice?” Such a simple question has you beaming, your smile bright like the human sun, and it’s all for him, the warmth, the love, the want for him. It's for him and no one else. He’s glad that this is the timeline for him, that you chose to want him. You shake your head, and politely tell him no. Your hand reaches for his that are bare from the usual gloves that rest beside his own empty plate. Your wraps around his, your thumb arching over his knuckles. He pulls out of your reach and he smiles as your fingers reach out to continue to touch him. He curves over your hands, thumb and index finger pinching over each of your fingers and tracing upwards. “I wish I never had to part from you,” he whispers to you. “I think I could trace your body for eternity and never grow bored.” When he kisses you, he can taste the honey stuck on your lips. You’ll always get the sweetest honey, always be poured first when it’s the two of you, you'll have the sweetest piece and the finest china.
Diavolo: 
There’s an expectation for him, from him. He is a prince. A future king of his people. He has done so much, has sacrificed having any sense of normalcy in his relationships, and he will always be expected to sacrifice and to make the right choices. He suggested the exchange program to open communication, and it brought you to him. It was meeting you that he realized just how lonely he really was. Or perhaps he had always known that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how desperate he was, there was always going to be a power imbalance with every relationship that he would have had. He was never going to be an equal in a relationship. But then you come along, and he isn’t a king to you. He isn’t a “Lord” or a “Prince”, he is simply just Diavolo.
You’re human and it has to be a cruel joke on him made by the universe to have you live a short life and have him live to a time that you could never comprehend. A part of him restrained himself from trying to get to know you, but that was all that he wanted to do; he wanted to get to know you. He wanted to be close to you and to hold your hand and when you would lean against or laugh at one of his jokes, he would swell with pride, beam with a smile and be covetous with your attention. You were sweet with him and it was intoxicating. He needed more of you, needed more of the casual banter and the eagerness that many were hesitant to give him. Not many were like that to him. Not many wanted to be around him in fear of saying something that would offend. 
It’s so rare for him to wish for anything different about his life. He’s fine with his status despite how lonely it could be. But when he’s around you, when he’s reminded of how human you are when you grow weary after using magic, he wishes that things were different.That maybe as human, he would have met you all the same and would have fallen for you just as hard. You make it difficult to stay away from you. He tries not to grow so attached, but he can’t help but seek you out as you do with him. It is wicked of him to steal so much time away from you, but having you close to him brings him comfort that he has not had in a long time. 
When he’s around you, he gives you his all; his entire being is placed in your hands. He’s allowed to be himself, to stay soft without the fear of being torn apart and having to harden up. Around you, he’s allowed to want and to give into his wants as small as they seem. He can trace the lines on your palms, have you brush his hair and hold his hand. Around you, he does not have to be a prince, he can simply be himself. As much as he loves being someone that you can rely on, he cannot deny that he also loves just being spoiled by you. He gets to let his guard down and to have you pet him and coo such soft things that if it were any other, he would have ordered an execution. He gets drunk off your comfort, how you baby him and how you let him be a puddle of ooze when around you. He wants nothing more than to spend his days with you, to nuzzle into your chest and let the world be locked away and blocked by wood. 
Your legs are thrown over the cushions of the seat, your phone held in your hand as you mindlessly scroll through whatever it is that you’re watching. He could only guess short videos with the brief seconds that are given to him. Your back is turned to him, and he stares at the nape of your neck and the outline of the shirt that is draped over your back, the muscles and fat shaping the fabric over your body and he is entranced by it. You’re in a vulnerable spot, and you give your back to him, and he gets to stare, gets to let the tip of the pen blot on the document, and let the stack of paperwork remain the same height. In the next breath, you tell him that you can feel his eyes on your back and the corners of his lips twitch. He makes no noise as he walks over to you, crouching down to be at eye level with you. “I think I would like for you to hold me,” he says in a delicate voice, fearing the possible rejection even if it were impossible. Your smile grows and you open your arms, letting him lay upon you. Diavolo gets to be held by you; he is allowed to feel soft and have you wrap your arms in a comforting hug and play with the hair that trails along the back of his neck.
Simeon:
You’ll always catch his haze on you no matter where either of you are. He’s been alive for so long, and lived in a way that a proper angel should. Simeon is an angel, devoted and loyal to one and no other. He is supposed to be an angel first, and a being second. His entire existence, his reason for being alive is to be devoted to Father. In the entire time that he’s been alive, he can count on one hand all the times his own loyalty has wavered, and even then, it was a passing thought, and ones that he has punished himself for. Never has he strayed from the teachings that have been engraved upon him, words etched into his very soul and being, words that glisten along his skin in gold and blood. He is an angel, through and through. 
A plan was set out for him, there was to be no shortcuts, no distractions or any of the sort. And yet, he meets you. Defying death and making relationships with a kind that eats your very soul, and protecting the young angel from such a proud demon. Meeting you set him off of his trajectory. Meeting you had only made him fall, slowly and surely. He chases after you, lays his head on your lap, and watches you sleep, traces the shape of your face and dips his index on your cupid’s bow. When he sees you laugh alongside Luke, and wave to gesture him over, he believes that he could have had a good life with you had he been born mortal. He’d stake his life on it, rip his own wings out if he was wrong. He would have been happy with you, he would have lived a good, long, loving life with you. He’d grow gray and rest beside you, count every new wrinkle that appeared on your skin. In a different life, he would have loved to wash dishes with you and live ordinary. 
Whatever he has going on with you, the relationship is a sin. It’s a mockery of what happened long ago, but in Devildom, where the moons’ light and the stars and night sky obstruct Father’s view, he can lie beside you. He’s rotten, worms and parasites filling his insides, but when you kiss him and hold him in your arms, he’s pure and holy once more. He wants you, craves you, desires you more than he has ever needed something in his life. He describes you in such a way that anyone would have believed you to be a saint, to some angelic figure higher than him, someone coated in gold and sweet like perfume. Yet, you aren’t that. You’re human. Sinful and pure, an enigma that holds onto him in the middle of the night with your ear pressed against his chest. He’s noticed the way that Raphael looks between the two of you, and he’s aware of what the angel would say, but it’s you, and it’s no question that the former angel would trade everything just to sit beside you for a moment. 
He’s answered for his treachery, held his tongue and stole from the Celestial Realm all for you. He was stripped of his status and made human. It’s blasphemy to think, but it’s you that he’s placed above all else. He’d never place the blame on you, he would rather have his mouth fill and drip of blood before he would ever make you feel guilty. There are many things that he would do rather than ever have you feel like you have to hold the blame for his blessing being removed. Even with his blessing removed, even with his status as a human, it doesn’t stop him from blessing you, from hoping and pleading that his words would keep you safe from the dangers around, from something that he can’t protect you from. 
“I don't think I’ll ever understand how you type so fast,” he says, watching in amazement as you send out a message. You stick your tongue out to him in response and he smiles. “You think that being a writer and living with Luke and Solomon, that I would have it down by now, but-” he cuts himself off with a sigh, turning his body over, the comforter pulled slightly away from you. The phone is placed on the nightstand where it buzzes with a notification, and your hands pull on the stolen piece of blanket back towards you. You open your mouth in a retort, and he watches as you furrow your brows and swiftly turn your head to sneeze into the crook of your elbow. “Bless you,” Simeon whispers as you sniffle out your thanks. The moonlight peeking through the window does nothing to warm the room like a sun would have, but it’s enough to see you in a pearl glow with fuzz dancing in the air. There was a time where he would bless you before you woke, desperate to keep you safe, and now he continues that, hoping that you would stay alive because he needs you more than he would like to admit. 
Solomon: 
The sorcerer has never been one to form bonds- after a few hundred years of immortality, one learns that all good things do come to an end, and the pain never fades. However, you seem to be different. He’s spent a long time alone, and he’s had his fun and spent time mourning for those whose voices he no longer remembers- he’s told himself not to get attached, played coy with you, teased and flirted, and he thought that whatever the two of you shared, would stay as a fling. He was fine with it- he was fine with the flings and the small moments, and he was fine remembering the things that his past lovers used to love. Solomon was supposed to be fine, not caring, not wanting to get close because getting close meant love and love meant mourning and it meant grief, and as powerful as he is, grief wears away the soul. He’s sure that he could handle another heartache, but he’d rather not.
A part of him is sure that he had some way that he showed his love to someone, that he could be vulnerable to someone when he was younger, when the weight of immortality wasn’t so heavy. He tries to remember it for you, tries to even copy your own, but it never fits right. Every action that he mirrors is false, it isn’t him. All of it is you, and he doesn’t want to be a copy of you- much less he doesn’t want to stain the memories he has of you with copies of himself crudely pasted over your silhouette. You show love so eagerly, so readily, and without saying any words, you’ve already made it clear what you think of him, and what you want from him.
It’s a slow build of wanting to be with you and allowing himself to be close to you. The flirting is fine- that’s the easy part, sharing sharp grins and letting his hand linger onto you for a bit longer than necessary- it’s all fun and games. He never thought he would ever want you so hopelessly, as if he were young and in love all over again. You were supposed to be fun, and then all of a sudden you weren’t. It was by chance- maybe, or maybe not- that you had been chosen for the exchange program, and it was only by chance that he had wanted to stick close to you out of some sort of comfort to provide to you when you looked so helpless and lost. And by a cruel joke from fate, he had gotten attached. The brothers had taken away all of your attention and it had left him feeling empty. He wanted to reach out to you; he needed to touch you, to be near you and to occupy every inch and ounce of your mind just as you had to his. 
Citrus coats his fingers, it’s sticky and wet, and he pulls at the white string that dangles from the orange slice, tossing it onto the bowl of peeled skin and white thread. A television show plays in front of you, one that you’ve been eager to watch and enthralled ever since. Two empty bags of popcorn have fallen to the floor, and you sit with your leg underneath you and body pushed to the corner of the couch. It’s so simple, so human, that it makes him smile and wince when orange squirts on his wrist. The slice of citrus is cleaned, peeled and made to look delectable for you. You turn your head towards him, mouth parted open and he places the slice on your tongue. With a hum, you knock your head gently onto his shoulder as a thank you, and he continues to peel the citrus. 
He stares at you, with your finger pinched softly over the peeled slice of citrus, and you trace his lips with it, and he can’t help but smile, and open his mouth to have the orange placed flat on his tongue. “Thank you,” he says, with bursts of juice filling his mouth and sliding down the back of his throat. He can't help but stare at you, to have the bowl of skin and seeds in front of him. The show has been paused and it lights up the room, and he’s looking at you. His thumb brushes over your lips, and when he kisses you, you taste like citrus, and summer. You lean into the kiss, lips stretching into a smile and thinning the touch between the two of you. Solomon’s hands are sticky and sweet, and when he looks at you, you’ve returned to watching the series as you lean against him. If you were to ask him for anything, he’d do it in a heartbeat, no matter how big or how small the request is. And in this moment, you ask for another slice of citrus, and he hopes that you would always ask him for this, that you would never peel your own fruit again just for the chance to be beside you, for the chance for you to need him.
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lemedstudent2021 · 3 months ago
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4 years ago when the dumbfuck (biden) won, i was a first year university student, nodding along solemnly when my family briefly discussed foreign and internal politics over our tea, pleased to be finally old enough to somewhat contribute to adult conversations.
i still clearly remember my aunt saying "well, he isnt any better [than his predecessor] but at least he cant be worse". the conversation moved on from there, but my thoughts lingered. i didnt know if i wanted to be a cynic or an optimist, so i drank my tea in silence.
--
this past year has been one of the darkest in our human history, the scale of death and destruction and pure unadulterated depravity is unmatched. it will truly be long before the world can hope to recover from the atrocious damage that has been dealt, if it ever does.
i wont go into details mainly because i havent the time nor interest in doing so, but the world to no ones surprise is changing, fast and taking a turn for the worse. it has been for years perhaps even decades now. in the grand scheme of things i mean.
for many of us this is nothing new per se, merely a tangible extension of our worst nightmares and fears, but for many others its a reign of terror of the most potent kind. one that will herald further losses, but this time around very few will be spared.
--
despite myself i did think that common sense would prevail and wed see the the fucker (trump) behind bars and hopefully dead and not- as of writing- about to win another 4 wretched years in office.
theres a sort of grim satisfaction seeing the bitch (harris) getting a big fuck you to the face, but its devastating to think that she is losing has already lost? to the biggest fuck you to the planet. i truly dont want to imagine what the world is going to look like 4 years from now. if there is anything left of the world to look at.
--
there isnt much to say or add i think. nothing i can contribute at least for the time being. i would however like to point to what jon stewart bless his soul has to say about the matter
youtube
esp at 02:15
sounds hypocritical to say after having said nothing but the worst, but i mean it when i believe that this isnt the end. to give up now is to doom ourselves and the rest of the world (and perhaps the trajectory of humanity itself, whos to say) into eternal darkness.
ive said it many a time on this blog before and ill continue to say it for as long as there is life in me; power will always be with the people. weve seen it time and time again throught history and before our eyes. we are a force to be reckoned with.
we do hold the power to change the tides, look how many countries fought with everything they had for their freedom, how many times we arose from the ruins and started building anew and with just as much fervour, how much damage we can do to the institutions that dare to transgress.
war brings out the worst in some but the best in others. this is a war, one the corrupt wage on the sanctity of our lives and human rights, one were all on the front lines of, for ourselves and those around us.
--
as cliche as it is, and i admit to it being so, our chances honestly are better when we move and act as one. dont be fooled into thinking our differences will seperate us; those in power follow the age old rule of divide and conquer & thrive when we are scattered and lost.
show them that our spirit is one and whole, prove to them that we wont give into their unjust demands. look out for one another and dont hesitate to come to each others aid. be kind to yourselves.
humanity as a whole literally and metaphorically depends on it.
Godbless & Godspeed
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quiet-nocturne · 4 months ago
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I am so intrigued by your fic, bring me that pining 👀
Ask game:
Can you share some dialogue in this time? Crunchy perhaps? However you interpret that?
*nods* royai pining is *chefs kiss*
and ooof this was a struggle to choose! *cue me, furiously scrolling through my google docs*
so I'd maybe interpret some of my crunchiest dialogue as this, from chapter eight, in a scene where roy trims riza's hair and there's a lot of pining and ust going on:
She realized he had stilled behind her. "Sir?" She felt his finger tracing along the scar on her neck, so light she could barely feel it. "I haven't seen this in a while." He said; she couldn't see his face, but his voice was oddly rough, and almost trance-like.  She wasn't surprised he hadn't seen it; before, her military uniform had covered it, and in Ishval she mostly wore collared shirts that happened to cover the scar. Today, she'd worn a crew neck t-shirt that was high enough at the base of her neck to cover her tattoo, but not quite high enough for the scar on the left side. She wasn't hiding it, but she just wasn't highlighting it, either. In the grand scheme of her life, she felt that there were other things on her body that represented things far worse than this scar - namely her tattoo. He cleared his throat. "How’s it feeling?" "Good. I don't feel it at all anymore. It healed well."  Well, at least some part of her had. He hummed behind her. His fingers brushed gently down the back of her neck, likely moving the freshly clipped, loose hairs away. His skin was hot against hers, his fingers soft against the sensitive skin of her neck, nearly ticklish. This time she did shiver. Riza couldn't stop herself from tensing at his light touch, heart frantically thumping like a trapped bird against her ribcage. She wanted him to be fifteen feet from her - no, that was a lie, she actually wanted him to be so much closer. She didn't want him to ever stop touching her like that. She wanted him to grab her and not let go. She wanted him to bend her over his bed. She wanted - "Are you cold?" He murmured behind her. "You've got goosebumps." He'd finally noticed. Thankfully, he thought she was cold - not aroused. She certainly wasn't going to correct him. "Yes." Hawkeye lied, despite the heat of the day already pressing in, mixing with the heat flaring on her cheeks. Good thing he wasn't looking at her face. 
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miranyx1337 · 1 year ago
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Alastor x angel reader
FEATHER chapter V
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When I opened my eyes, I sensed it was the day I never wanted to face. The day to start implementing a grand scheme against heaven. Crimson light pierced through the curtains, but it wasn't the familiar sunlight. A magnificent pentagram gleamed above the hotel, and an army assembled against heaven. They aimed to extinguish my people, but did I possess the right to thwart them?
I observed malicious smiles honing angelic weapons, relishing the thought of golden blood. Yet, what emotions would Adam's blood evoke in me?" I'll likely be his top priority. I suspect he forced my mother into silence and passivity. If only I could erase his little secret from memory.
If souls could be judged anew, why hide it? Is it about his dignity or perhaps the will of God?"
Strips of bandages cascaded near my bare feet. As I reached the portal in the nick of time, I grievously injured two of my wings. The pain of unfolding stiff feathers pierced my back, accompanied by a subdued hiss escaping my lips.
Examining my ravaged visage, circled light eyes, disheveled hair, and wings with missing feathers. I confronted the memories of the previous evening. Running my fingers over my cheek, recalling increasingly embarrassing details,
Wait, didn't Vaggie once mention that Alastor's favorite meal was decaying deers? Oh heavens, I hope he didn't consume them yesterday. I watched as my cheeks reddened and feathers bristled. It wasn't what I had planned, yet I easily surrendered to the arms of the radio demon.
I braided my hair and arranged feathers in any sensibly stylish manner. Trembling hands slowly buttoned up the snow-white shirt, a silver corset wrapped around me, and beneath a light skirt with a slit, long black boots peeked out.
"What time was really left? Three weeks until the battle?’’ Approaching the balcony with determination, I forcefully swung open the doors. Only 4 or 5 meters separated me from the ground. With a smooth movement, I jumped onto the railing. maintaining balance by leaning on one of the columns.
Barely 9 days passed, yet it felt like an eternity without flying. A few deep breaths, I spread my arms to sense the balance. Seconds from the jump, a sudden tug pulled me back. A black tentacle gripped my waist, and moments later, I found myself in the arms of radio demon.
"I knew you might feel regret, but I wouldn't accuse you of suicidal attempts," he whispered directly into my ear. I sharply recoiled, standing on my own.
I glanced back to utter the first words of the day. "Jumping from the balcony is nothing compared to a hellish portal," I proudly replied, resuming my climb on the railing.
"Sweetheart, just wait a little; impatience isn't a trait of wise people," he cautioned.
"What should I wait for? An army furious angels led by Adam?" I questioned.
"Wait for my plan to work."
"No offense, Alastor," I addressed him directly for the first time, "but your army of cannibals can only break their teeth on celestial blades."
His face revealed he didn't take criticism well. " Oh, I see you don't appreciate demonic beings,". The atmosphere thickened. "And me.
When I first learned about the plan from Charlie and Veegie, I was terrified. However, my deep longing to return home was tied to their success. My lips opened in silent astonishment; they truly wanted to face the angelic forces.
So, what's the plan? Invite them for dinner with our own bodies?"
The plan is the last thing your beautiful silver head should worry about. I'm the one pulling the strings here, Soon, we'll partake in a feast with Adam's head served on a platter and golden drinks in our cups."
"Stop talking like that about my kind ," I insisted.
"Oh About angels flying here to murder hundreds of souls or those who aren't in a hurry to descend for you?" he mocked.
My lips tightened in a grimace; I felt anger taking control over me.
"Alastor, stop!" - I shouted, to my own surprise, feeling my hand clenching on the cold metal.
A blue chain led from my hand straight to the tied demon, who instantly froze.
Alastor looked at me with undisguised surprise, his eyes wandering across my face and hands, trying to connect the dots until he finally found an answer.
Alastor POV:
Angel magic weakened contracts but also made them susceptible to a new owner
The hands that touched me with unique delicacy this night, now are helding the chain tightly around my neck and hands, instantly making me to be on my knees
As quickly as they appeared, they vanished, and I desperately gasped for air.
Y/N approached, visibly in shock but stopped a few centimeters in front of me.
The sudden command still echoed in my ears, piercing through my body like a blade.
Traces on my wrists and neck burned. I know the feeling of chains, but their angelic version was something else on my sinful skin.
Oh fuck it, I became properity of an angel
From her bewildered eyes, I gleaned that she has no idea what just happened. Does she even know about soul contracts in hell? If not, it's better to keep it that way. "Give me a second," I propped myself up on trembling hands, clumsily attempting to stand, "and I'll explain everything."
I felt a slender arm lifting me up. She gripped my face, examining it from every angle.
"We will talk later," she uttered with a gaze lowered.
I tried to read something from her expression, but with a stony demeanor, she turned towards the balcony.
A strong gust of wind forced me to lean on a cane and close my eyes. When I reopened them, Y/N had dissolved into the air. Only the shadow of wings traversed the crowd gathered below.
Simultaneously, giving me time for deep reflection on how to deal with this... unconventional situation."
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