#but specifically death that’s not ?? fresh

[hotasfahrenheit]

AYYYYYY it's me your neighbourhood florist girl with the flower knowledge again!

of COURSE the hydrangeas in the opening credits of the first episode of Spare Me Your Mercy caught my eye and i went "hmm if there's more flowers in this episode then i'll have to make a post" then we just got more hydrangeas but with an obvious focus on them so here we are!

hydrangeas are native to both Asia and the Americas, and while Japan is notorious for having cultivated them, there are ancient fossils of hydrangea blossoms from North America which means they grew in a variety of places and spread from there.

in Japan, hydrangeas traditionally symbolize heartfelt emotion, apology and remorse, because of a legend about an emperor giving hydrangeas as a gift to apologise for neglecting a lover. in Europe, where they were brought in the 18th century, they symbolised boastfulness, bragging and vanity because they produced many blooms but few seeds, and were sent by men to women who had rejected them. in Korea, they represent perserverance and resilience.

the general meaning of blue hydrangeas specifically now lays somewhere around serenity, apology, gratitude and understanding.

hydrangeas are a neat flower in that some varieties can act as a pH gauge for your garden soil- higher acidity leads to blue petals, but alkaline soil will change the petals to pink. by changing the acidity of your soil, you can adjust the colour of the petals. (white varieties can't be manipulated because they don't have pigment.)

they grow from early spring to late autum, and though most grow as shrubs around 1-3m tall, some are small trees and others grow as lianas, which are a long stemmed woody vine that climbs other trees; these varieties can reach up to 30m tall.

if you have cut hydrangeas at home, you can help maintain their bloom or restore wilting by immersing them in hot hot HOT water- even boiling- to help them freshen. the petals can also absorb water since they're technically actually a type of leaf, so you can also dunk your hydrangea blooms into room temperature water petal-first to help them rehydrate. this is a thing i've done at work as a florist- at the grocery store chain i started doing floral at, we always put our hydrangea bunches into buckets of steaming hot water, the hottest we could get from the faucets, when we processed incoming shipments and had given them fresh stem cuts before putting them out for sale.

in both Japan and Korea, some varieties of hydrangea are used for tea, while in the Americas, the Cherokee used the root as a diuretic and the bark as pain relief for muscle pain and burns, and as a remedy for stone and gravel in the bladder.

hydrangeas are also known as hortensia. the name "hydrangea", which derives from the Greek words for "water vessel", comes from the shape of the seed capsules, which resembled a water pitcher. they're called hortensia, supposedly for the name Hortense and after French astronomer and mathematician Nicole-Reine Lepaute, who was not actually named Hortense at all. she was named Nicole-Reine. someone tried to name them Lepautia or Peautia after her, but since they ended up being called hortensia (probably from hortus, which means garden) it's reversed into people thinking Hortense was her name instead of them being actually named after her.

so yes, with the associations with apology, remorse, serenity, understanding.... i'm not surprised to see them here, especially in the episode itself, but i am very intrigued, especially since being in the opening credits means we'll see them there at least through the whole show even if they don't show up again in the actual narrative. the fact that they symbolise remorse and grow around Tiu's mother's house, when he wasn't able to be there to see her before her death, is not lost on me.

hope this knowledge dump was fun and interesting to at least someone! i'll be back with another of these posts next time i catch some significant flowers in another show 🌸🌼🌹🌺🌷

[dufferpuffer]

No but Okay Yes so Uh - scattered thoughts... throwing at the wall, seeing what sticks:

+ Mass Murderer Cousin. Violent Death Eater Aunt. Black family name is in ruins. She isn't a 'Black' - but she's the next best thing fresh out of the war.

+ FRESH out the war - basically her entire life has been spent with news of the Dark Mark appearing over houses where Death Eaters had murdered whole families, where Blood Traitors like them had to hide, where her own family was being sent to Azkaban...

+ Wizarding Society is FUCKED about being different. It doesn't take much to be regarded as 'half-breed' or 'dangerous' when you're not.

+ Metamorphmagi seem reasonably respected - then again, we mainly see Tonks around the Order, who are extremely welcoming - but I doubt that matters much when your family is full of murderers.

+ We know how kids act - they act on their siblings/parents' worries without much awareness. Did the war end with Voldemort's fall? Not to the kids - anyone they don't like will be 'A Death Eater'.

+ Harry was bullied for losing house points and talking to snakes, Albus was bullied for his father 'getting revenge' on Muggle kids...

+ But I can't see her being low on the social ladder for long. She's too fucking cool and likeable. But at first? All it takes is an older kid pointing her out as 'basically a Black' in a negative light.

+ Tonks chuckled. 'Bet you wouldn't mind hiding that scar sometimes, eh?' Her eyes found the lightning-shaped scar on Harrys forehead. (OotP ch3) - oh, she gets it. Assumptions following you.

+ She got along well with Moody, whom people are typically scared of, don't understand and think is a freak - based on scars. AND Remus, based on Lycanthropy. Being different.

So she is at school. She has all this family baggage - and she is physically/magically different from everyone else. We know how people standing out at Hogwarts can be treated. How does she deal with it...?

+ Her parents were already rebels. They grew up being potential targets for Death Eaters. She is used to being unfairly targeted, but sticking to what you believe in anyway. Not giving in to bullies.

+ Tonks as an adult is clumsy and likes to make people laugh, likes to make people feel included, finds understanding people easy...

+ ...but she is also capable and serious enough to please Moody.

+ To me that screams 'bully buster'. Like of course she became an Auror - she was sorta already one at school. James/Sirius without being a bully herself. She cheered people up, supported the weak, confronted assholes to demand fairness... typical Hufflepuff shit

+ But did anyone support her? Did anyone really understand her? Or was 'giving' her form of self-protection? I'm thinking this because she REALLY connected with Remus, even though she has to fight for him, who is specifically good at comforting and supporting...

thinking about how awful Tonks’ first year at school must’ve been. she started in 1984, only a few years after her cousin was sentenced to life in Azkaban for allegedly murdering 13 people and being a DE, and her Aunt famously tortured two people into insanity & was a DE. i can’t imagine people were too kind to her

[bacchuschucklefuck]

dreaming abt sophomore year class swap bard!riz

[daydreamerdrew]

Captain America (1968) #110 and Captain America: Reborn (2009) #4

[iniziare]

Inquisitor: The Evanuris were elven mages? How did they come to be remembered as gods? Solas: Slowly. It started with a war. War breeds fear. Fear breeds a desire for simplicity. Good and evil. Right and wrong. Chains of command. After the war ended, generals became respected elders, then kings, and finally gods. The Evanuris. Inquisitor: You said that the elven gods went too far. What did they do that made you move against them? Solas: They killed Mythal. (Chuckles.) A crime for which an eternity of torment is the only fitting punishment. Inquisitor: I thought Mythal was one of the Evanuris? Solas: She was the best of them. She cared for her people. She protected them. She was a voice of reason. And in their lust for power, they killed her.

You know, sometimes I wonder about him in regards to Mythal. Not only over how intensely he struck down those who slayed her (and the severe repercussions thereof, even if he didn't realize they'd occur as they did), but the sheer conviction he holds in regards to the future. He banished the Evanuris, and in doing so, single-handedly brought devastation to his people, and Mythal's, leaving their descendants scarred and 'weak', shadows of their former selves. But it's the 'and Mythal's' that gets me. He 'avenged' her and in turn, became the 'undoing' of the elven civilization she'd loved and protected above all?

Inquisitor: That's the past. What about the future? Solas: (...) My people fell for what I did to strike the Evanuris down, but still some hope remains for restoration. I will save the Elven people, even if it means this world must die.

[nexility-sims]

🌷

[caterjunes]

we're gonna put our rats up for adoption at the animal rescue. things are. bad. we can't keep their cage clean. grayson gets exhausted taking them out to play and i rarely join bc i just feel empty or disgusted or i start sobbing or wind up in pain or exhausted myself. so they don't get the amount of human interaction they deserve/need.

i feel awful about it. i feel sick. i don't know the last time i've felt like such an abject failure. not just as a person responsible for small lives but as a partner. grayson gets such joy from these boys, and they are so sweet to us too. i just. i can't even take care of myself. it isn't fair. it's not fair.

[tortoisesshells]

Dark Shadows: 58, 112, 67, 126 & Moby-Dick Ch. 7 "The Chapel"

[longagoitwastuesday]

*reading a thesis about the evolution of the concept of infinity in China with a large amount of tabs open with diverse articles or word combinations to further look for information, all the while seething, blood boiling* I wish Satoru Gojo would fucking cease to exist

[nattousan]

have you smashed something to bits with a rock today?

for your health?

[pumpkinrootbeer]

sometimes I think about how the game that completely changed how the general public viewed pixel rpgs, has a breathtaking soundtrack that has completely escaped it's original circle, has lines like "It's you!" "Despite everything it's still you", changed so many people's mind about empathy in video games, was damn near revolutionary in how it used game mechanics as part of the story and literally fucked with the code of your computer, uses the game code as a means of storytelling, has secrets people still are trying to unravel to this day, and has a boss fight so mind-blowing people still talk about it and for so many people it's ongoing legacy is Kanye West likes...., selfcest, and that time it killed the queen of England. And I love that. good job team

[supercantaloupe]

why are so many people in like yt comments only there to complain about modernized/nontraditional/nonhistorical stagings and costumings of operas. “rossini wouldn’t have wanted il barbiere di siviglia to look that plain and ugly” “der freischutz doesnt work if it’s not set specifically in early 19th century germany” “ohh don giovanni shouldn’t be wearing a modern 3 piece suit” why not. there’s a hundred productions a year. as long as the director is Doing Something Interesting with the opera i don’t really care if it’s “period accurate” or not. if you can’t engage in the story without some pretty period costumes to focus on that’s a you problem

[agnesmontague]

#we need more education in critical thinking

without meaning to single out this tag poster (i don't think you're wrong, necessarily!), i did want to highlight a common frustration that i've seen stated a lot around here but that i believe bears repeating: it's not so much that i think people are unable to think critically or lack critical thinking skills (and the term itself has deteriorated into a sort of shorthand for "capability to reach the same conclusions as me"), because a lot of the time these people ARE thinking critically when they look at a piece of media and recognize what they believe to be signs of the author's biases or shortcomings. the problem is what they then decide to do about it

personally i'm not fully of the opinion that the internet itself has meaningfully changed our behavior as a species, because the concept of angry letters to the author (and worse) has been around for as long as there have been authors and letters to send them, but it can't be denied that the wombo combo of easier access to authors' mailboxes via social media and the constant push to self-market on the part of the creators has made for an unprecedented era of interactions and a great deal of it--dare i say most of it!--has Not been Good; and even apart from all value judgment this has certainly shifted the paradigm of The Audience as a concept. so, like, i would say the problem runs more deeply than people simply not having the requisite critical thinking skills but rather concerns more what an audience member decides to do with their agency, and that is definitely something that could be addressed in classes/opportunities to teach critical thinking

it's not that left-leaning Online folk have suddenly or even gradually regressed to an era of victorian sensibilities where they fully believe that bad things in fiction = bad things irl, i've rarely seen even the most uncultured of take-havers argue for monkey see monkey do (except that one blogger who thought anyone who enjoys horror is a damaged freak—special shoutout to you forever!); it's more that people have gotten hubristically confident in their ability to "clock" bad faith or dress a portrait of the author/creator/artist beneath their work when such assumptions can be false or even dangerous. yes, sometimes a person's work will put their biases and prejudice on display. sometimes people will be chronically unable to write women, to make characters of color sound human, etc, but somehow that (still fairly surface) level of engaging with a work has become the excuse we all use to tear down the veil between author and audience and drag people through extremely damaging interrogations of intent

even worse, everyone professing critical ability online has been able to find at least a niche clutch of others who got "bad vibes" from something and end up cruising through this vibes-based economy fueled by their echo chamber of angry fault-finders, resulting in critique that has no real literary or sociological value but sounds just well-dressed enough in critical language that it becomes someone else's metric for evaluation and even creation, which is how we get swathes of grown adults rallying against benign children's media or 200 "queer fiction" podcasts that all sound like they got mashed through a therapist's office to avoid precisely this type of senseless audience violence

[rozanallidawi]

Hello guys

I am Rozan Ayman Fathi, 24 years old

I ask you to read these lines and help me so that I can save my family

Consisting of 7 individuals

I live with my beloved family in the Gaza Strip, specifically in Gaza City. When the war began, we were displaced from our dear home and dearest to my heart to tents in the city of Rafah (we do not know whether it is still standing or whether it was demolished by bombings and shelling). We were always moving from one shelter to another seeking shelter. For protection, and when Rafah was invaded, we were displaced and moved again to tents in Mawasi Khan Yunis. We were very tired, especially my mother, as she is sick with diabetes and gallstones.

Life in a tent is torment, pain, and oppression, a life without the minimum necessities of life, where there is no bedding, no flooring, sand surrounds you from all sides, no sanitary facilities, no water, whether for bathing or cleaning, and no drinking water. There are no detergents. Canned food is scarce and of poor quality

We miss fresh food,

Very high temperatures inside and outside the tent

The spread of dangerous infectious diseases, insects, toxic organisms, and other difficult matters of life, in addition to the danger of bombing and death that lurks around us every minute..

[yandere-writer-momo]

Thinking about a Yandere vampire. Specifically, the beautiful kind that shape-shift into giant, humanoid bat creatures. The hopeless romantic vampire who cannot forget his human lover when he was once human…

Yandere Vampire who was oh so thrilled when you knocked at his door and shivered on his steps. What a scrumptious morsel you were! So soft and tender looking… he couldn’t wait to eat you. Your tears fell as you babbled about how you were thrown off your horse that was spooked by a pack of wolves and you ran towards his manor in hopes of safety. You were simply out looking for your lover. You were lucky to escape those damned werewolves! Those mangy mutts always laid their paws on most of the prey around here… which made you all the more scrumptious.

Yandere Vampire who invited you into his humble abode and ushered you into his living room to warm up at the fire. You couldn’t help but feel suspicious of his overly friendly smile and his incessant touching. Why did he dress up like he was from the Victorian era? And his accent was so thick… was he Romanian perhaps?

Yandere Vampire who gives you a fresh set of clothes and tells you that he has a spare room in the west end of the manor. You’re very grateful to him and even give him a soft smile that caused his chest to stir. When was the last time he’s had pleasant company? He couldn’t remember since it’s been so many years since a meal came to him…

Yandere Vampire who found himself sitting beside you as you asked him about his life. He was flattered that you showed interest in him. He didn’t find himself that interesting of an individual since he’s spent a millennium alone. Yet you seemed so happy to hear about his hobbies and book collection. The way your eyes sparkled and your cheeks flushed made him miss the days he was once human… but he could not let your human innocence enrapture his lonely heart. He must feast on you. It’s the way of living after all. No matter how strikingly similar your appearance was to the love his life.

Yandere Vampire who begins to feel more hesitant when you laugh and smile. Your mannerisms were so similar to a lover he had when he was human… it couldn’t be, right? There was no way they had returned to him… he was a monster now.

Yandere Vampire who sneaks into your room when you’re fast asleep. You were completely oblivious to the way his cold hands roamed your body as he dragged his fangs across your delicate neck. He’d make your death quick and painless… yet he couldn’t help but want to check to see if you really may be a reincarnation of his lover. What if you were? Would you be able to love him again?

Yandere Vampire who choked back a sob when he found a birthmark on your skin that was the same as his dead lovers. They were back to him… at long last, he wouldn’t be alone!

Yandere Vampire who leaves your room in a hurry in a cloud of black smoke. The vampire rushes to his room so he can stand on his balcony. His pale hands grab the metal rails as his body sprouts white fur and white bat wings spring from his back. He needed to feast but he wouldn’t feast on you. No, never you… his beloved.

Yandere Vampire who raids a nearby village and savagely feasts. He needed to build up his strength so he’d be able to turn you into a vampire as well! He couldn’t lose you again… not when he finally had you in his possession once more. He wondered if you’d remember him if he showed you all the portraits he had painted of you over the years.

Yandere Vampire who began to fantasize of all the ways he’d make love to you. Of how he’d litter your body with bite marks and bruises so you’d always have his ownership on you. Gods it made him breathless imagining being with you in this monstrous form. He wondered if yours would be more beautiful than his… he could hardly contain his excitement!

If only he was aware that you had a lover already who was his sworn enemy… a werewolf.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

You're my favorite writer, and König is my favorite aussie man, so OF COURSE im making you write for him, hal, BEAR W ME !

Alright, what do you think about König with the “You’re here late.” prompt? The reader is part of KorTac and always worked alongside König, since they both entered about the same time, because of the readers personality, they are always fighting, one of these fights are specifically bad, leading the reader to go on a mission with another KorTac member, to help out somewhere else and take their mind off things, when the reader face a problem on the mission and ends up arriving late, König is furious.

Moths Hit the Window

PAIRING: König x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Fights with König were always loud, but this time his comments went a bit too far.

WORD COUNT: 5.9k

WARNINGS: Verbal fighting, angst, high tension, blood & stitches, wounds, canon typical violence, guns/weapons, death, suggestive near the end, fluff, hurt/comfort, etc.

A/N: Huge thanks to @idocarealot for the German translations!! Also, König's wearing the arachnid skin in this because I love it sm - enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You seethe. If eyes could turn red yous would be a beautiful shade of crimson—bloody knives ripping out of the cornea to strike whoever happened to get too close. It was as if the very air boiled with the force of a raging tsunami as you stomped down the local military base’s hallways, covered in blood and guts. Never had you reconsidered working for KorTac more than at this very moment. 

Maybe I should just become a mercenary, you rip at the torn-apart gloves over your hands and jerk your arm out. Passerbyers quickly avert their eyes as you shove them into a garbage can and continue on with a growl. No shitty rules, no regulations—no fucking partners.

If people happened to slide past without noticing the steam coming out of your ears, they would have immediately locked eyes on the pure elephant of a man trailing fast behind. König’s eyes were goring into the back of your neck, gray and tan garb swaying as the packs and flash grenades on his combat vest bounced with every step. Accents of red do nothing in comparison to his visible flesh—the section of his eyes uncovered by his mask and head rig alight around his obsidian gaze. 

 König was muttering to himself far under his breath, curses and harsh comments all in German that he wouldn’t say to your face. At least not right now in view of others. 

“I can hear you, you dimwit,” you hiss over your shoulder, grinding your teeth as you both make your way to the armory, “curse me out quieter!” 

“You are making a scene!” The beast grunts, that heavily accented English striking your eardrums with its harsh dialect. 

“Oh, jeez!” You raise your voice even higher, turning back forward and clenching your hands into fists as blood and guts drip off your gear—none of it yours. “I’m just so damn embarrassed, König! I’m making such a large and obnoxious display. Whatever will I do?!” Sarcasm like a valuable drug is injected into the waves of your voice. People from open doorways look out with shock, brows pulled up. 

Everyone quickly darts back away when you snap your head in their direction and send them a scathing glare.

No one was surprised to find you and the Austrian going at it again but knew well enough to stay out of the crossfire. Lest someone get roped into it.

“Fuck off!” You spit the last curse into the burning air and shove past a soldier ahead of you.

König’s dark eyes flash dangerously, lips under his mask twisting into a sneer. The man’s shoulders seem to dig in even farther, spine curling over as if a brooding child. 

This had all started the second you’d joined up with KorTac. Fresh out of the military and eager to get back into the game after a good vacation the PMC group had been at the top of your list. But if you’d known you’d be paired up with this damn mountain every chance there was just because he’d got into the game at nearly the same time as you, you’d have put in your luck with SpecGru. 

“I do not see how this is appropriate behavior,” König follows as you place your palms on the black metal of the armory door, pressing with your shoulders. “I did what I was tasked to do—”

The masked man is cut off as you whirl on your heels, the door slamming shut as his body is shoved into it with strong arms. Dark eyes go wide in surprise, feeling the dig of your nails on his abdomen as your form presses into him and the chill of the door on his spine. You feel his skin bunch under his thick shirt and even if you want to stare him down that’s just not an option. Your warm figures shuffle together with panting breaths and dangerous glints in your eyes. 

“Bull,” you drag out the word, growling it right up into his neck; sniper hood caressing your chin. König’s breath hitches with shakes of swirling emotions. “Shit.”

Shoving once more so he gets the point, you push off of him and stalk away like a feral wolf, already unclipping grenades and medical packs from your vest. 

“You’re the damn reason the target got away!” Gear is thrown haphazardly to the long table in the center of the room. The Austrian watches with predatory eyes, hands clenched so hard that they quiver. He stays still, watching, as you send scathing glances. “The reason we’re going to be here for ten times longer than we’re supposed to be!” 

“It is not my fault you failed to properly check the perimeter before you rushed in like a fool.” Volatile couldn’t be used to describe this…this was nothing short of volcanic. It was as if there were two sides of a scale filled with bullets and gunpowder—fire in the middle that was equally heating both piles as they raised and lowered erratically. König’s voice grates over the air, “I did what I could to fix your scheiße plan!”

“Don’t you shit on my plan!” You point, voice bouncing off the weapon racks as you rip the rifle strap from over your chest, chucking it away. 

“I will shit on it—it was…it was…!”  König’s voice cuts out and he can’t find the words. The Austrian descends into visceral German ramblings. “Es war so ziemlich der schlechteste Plan, den ich je gehört hab. Welcher halbwegs vernünftige Mensch geht in eine heiße Zone ohne vorher alle Zielobjekte richtig zu markieren?! Ich kann dich und deine Rücksichtslosigkeit nicht mehr leiden — du bringst mich um meinen Verstand! Hast du überhaupt ein Gehirn in deinem Schädel?”

You shake your head to yourself, heart pounding. “You’re still the one that was supposed to focus on the HVT. I rushed so he would flush out, but, no,” taking out the magazine of the rifle you hold it in your hands like an accusatory ruler that a teacher would hold. König shoves off the door and stands to his full height; arms tensed and straining before they coil around his chest in a soothing gesture. 

He hated the fighting—the constant strain between the two of you. But when you were together it could never amount to anything else. The room felt like it was a million degrees.

Your eyes stab at him, “No! You had to go and focus on me! I hate to break this to you,  König,” feet come forward and you once again find yourself close to him—breathing the same air and taking in the scent of gunpowder and blood. You point the tip of the magazine into his chest. His unseen lips pull; jaw clenching with held-back fire. “But I am not your damn mutt to keep on a leash. I had it under control.”

It’s as if you don’t realize the Austrian could snap you in half with a single kick of his leg, as if the sheer size of König had slipped your mind as a whole. His hands could snap your neck in an instant, but that was only if he got ahold of you. 

But that was a line the both of you were never planning to cross. Words were one thing in this profession, actions another. If you ever got into a physical fight, you’d both kill each other, no doubt. 

You’d like to think you’re a bit above that, but perhaps not.

König’s chest rises and falls deeply, taking in calming breaths as he tries to get his temper under control. “You didn’t,” he jeers out, “I saved your life, you Heißluftgebläse. And if you wanted to be treated less than a dog,” he grunts to you, head pulling down close to your face, harshly whispering out, “You could have simply asked me, yes?”

You both snarl at each other's throats like rabid animals, the world disappearing all around the obsidian eyes that match with yours; for a moment you get lost in the shining bits of silver in his iris that seem to burn with chilled iron. What little skin you can see is flushed and tight—hawk nose nearly poking out your eye as you’re leaned over like a giraffe near a bush.

Body vibrating, you sharply breathe, “I’m not even going to ask what that fucking means, you tool.”

“Good.” The words are bitten and fast, “because I am not telling you.”

“Great!”

“Perfekt!” You both were arguing like children. Hot faces and unwilling to let the other have the last word. If you got along it might have been funny. 

“I’m going to dump all of your Einspänner out on the tarmac.” Your sure voice echoes with a definitive promise to the tone. 

Pale lids widen in horror at the threat to the Austrian's favorite beverage, comfortably sitting in the Base’s fridge. 

“You would not,” König’s tone is deathly serious and you smirk, eyes dancing. “You…” a guttural growl meets the air, mind translating words and giving meanings, “beast of a woman!”

“Oh, is that the best you can fucking do?!” You yell, splaying your hands out widely and moving away from him. “Now that’s really a show stopper, König, I’m shaking in my damn boots.” 

“Ich komm mit dir nicht mehr klar.” König yells, moving back and placing both of his hands atop his head, knuckles white. “You’re rude—you do not even try to get along. You are loud and disrespectful; how do you live like this?!”

Your eyes slightly widen, watching the Austrian.

“Don’t try?” You echo, scoffing loudly. “What do you mean don’t try? I was the one to try and smooth things out between us in the beginning.”

“When?!” König spreads his hands out, knees slightly bent. “Because I have no recollection of such events.”

“Well of course you wouldn’t!” The heat was meeting a breaking point—words were getting more personal, sharper. Like a blade being honed for the kill slowly; being sharpened by rocks and whetstones of conviction. 

König points a finger at you, voice going low and thin, “I’ve had enough of you, yes?” His sniper hood moves rapidly with his fast ricochets of breath. “Just about enough. Would you have wanted me to let you die?”

“I had it,” your lips spit, nose scrunched, and forehead tight. The man’s chest vibrates with a mute growl. 

In all actuality, you’d never seen him this worked up before. König wasn’t above giving your quips back even if he obviously disliked it—most of that was due to the strange familiarity between the two of you. In large crowds, the man preferred to stay silent. This only added to his almost deadly aura with others, though you knew the muteness was because of social anxiety and not some built silence. He wasn’t shy per se, just afraid he’d say something wrong; mess up the conversation. You did most of the talking in meetings and you never minded it. Added him in when the topic was something he knew a lot about.

Your mind had addled it up to thinking it was cute, actually. How his feet would shuffle; his half-lidded gaze and his intense eye contact to let them know he was still listening. When he’d have to remind himself to look away with a pinch to his thigh because it was starting to seem threatening. It was endearing, even.

But around people König knew, well, he was going to speak his mind. No matter how long it takes his brain to catch up with his lips.

The only thing the two of you were good at was being moths—hitting the metaphorical window over and over on the same topics and tension points. Slamming heads and flapping wings. You were at the end of your rope just as he was.

“I should have never taken you as a partner!” He calls, feet splayed. “Should have gotten out of this the second you were assigned with me. Gott, ich hab wirklich versucht, dich zu verstehen — Ich hätte gleich aufgeben sollen.” Your lips thin, lungs stalling as all the air vacates the room. You stand still and listen to what he really thinks, fingers shaking.

König’s large form towers over all, great sparks of electricity flying out. His gear shakes as he moves, thigh straps pushing fabric to shift and conform to his body. Your blood pumps with brewing hesitance. 

Maybe this had gone too far. I’ve never seen him like this.

“I can’t stand you any longer! Pathetic squabbles that mean nothing, absolutely ludicrous plans that make little headway.” Your head bursts with aggression and what little warning signs you have are squashed. “I can’t keep saving you because you can’t do your job correctly!”

“You don’t have to save me at all!” You scream. “You can’t keep your damn eyes off of me for five seconds, König.” Feet move away quickly from the armory door as if someone had come to put away their stuff but thought better of it. The next words burst from you before you can think of the contents. “It’s like you fucking love me or something!”

König doesn’t miss a beat, but for months afterward, he wishes he had.

“Oh, do not make me laugh—” he scoffs ferally, adrenaline making him talk, “as if anyone could ever love a woman like you in the first place.” 

Twin eyes widen and both parties immediately fall silent. A sharp inhale.

Too far.

Under the hood, König’s face goes an embarrassing shade of red all the way down to his chest. Fingers freeze. Jaw slackens.

You feel like your heart was just grasped in his grip and ripped out of your ribs with one violent motion—one sentence out of all the others enough to knock down the rebuttal that had formed on the tip of your tongue. Your throat closes up as you blink in shock.

“I-I…” König stutters, mind blanking as he struggles for words. But anger was easier than pain.

Numb fingers rip off the last of your weapons and belongings as you let them hit the floor with defining thuds as warm shame floods your cheeks. Shaky puffs of breath like a panting dog. Dark eyes watch with regretful panic, heart jumping and eyes flinching. The adrenaline it…it made him forget himself on occasion—how to properly act when not on the battlefield. It was like that with everyone but…but he hadn’t meant that.

Shame that it’s already too late.

Your fisted hand slams into his chest, brutal and unforgiving. König lets off a grunt but does nothing as you slither past, hissing into his ear, “Find yourself a new punching bag.”

His hand snaps to his breast where you had slammed your KorTac patch right into his heart, catching it. It’s many moments before he can think enough through the alarm; form words.

“I…I didn’t…oh, du blöde Kuh!” 

By the time the man composed himself, panicked tears burning in his eyes, the door had already slammed shut. His feet squeaked over the tile to an empty audience. 

—

Private Military Companies don’t have ranks. There are no Sergeants, Lieutenants, Generals or Colonels. Just people. Beyond the orders you’d been hired on, there was nothing keeping you in line with König on this mission. And those orders were loose at best.

Adhere to policy and listen to the Base’s COs. Shut up and get the job done. 

The Austrian and you weren’t due out for another week because of rotations. Since you’d failed to capture or kill the HVT that you were assigned, another group had picked up the tracks in the meantime. Like an oiled machine, the gears of this operation kept whirling. 

Evolve, or die. 

“Lieutenant!” You call to the geared-up man on the tarmac—the one heading that very same group. It had been only a few hours since the incident in the armory. You needed a distraction; blood was still running high and brain pounding for release. There were only so many times you could bruise your fists and legs on a punching bag before people started giving you nervous looks. “Need an extra hand?”

Your voice sounds strained, even to you. The man looks you over once and narrows his eyes. Nods not moments later. 

“Get tired of your big friend? Okay, how fast can you be ready for me?” You feel your shoulders loosen, a relieved sigh exiting your lips.

“Three minutes.”

“...get to it then. We move in five.” 

So that was how you found yourself backed into a corner five hours into the op from hell—bloody knife held tightly in your grip and mouth open in ragged pants. 

“Fuck,” your vest is torn and riddled with bullets; your entire chest must be bruised by now because it surely aches like it is. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

You really are reckless, just like König had said you were. Maybe you’d just never realized it because he always seemed to watch your six. This…this was really bad. The comms were awash with screaming orders and panic, ringing out across the abandoned mining factory that exploded with light from gunfire and the sounds that accompanied it. You knew for a fact three soldiers were down; two KIA. 

The Lieutenant is one of them. 

Your hand snaps to the radio strapped to your chest, one eye squinted in pain at the ragged slice across your left brow line. At your feet, two heavily armed men lay dead. 

“Pull back! They knew we were coming!” But your word didn’t carry weight here. Your face twists between pain and rage. König’s comment still rings in your ears as the onset of tinnitus does, as if anyone could ever love a woman like you in the first place. It wasn’t ideal to be thinking about this now—it was detrimental that you didn’t. 

But König and the things he did often stained your brain. No matter how much you tried to distance yourself from that fact. 

Snapping the knife in your grasp down in an arch to dispel the blood from the blade, you take a steel-laced inhale and shove off the wall. Limping, but moving. Sprained ankle. Nothing you hadn’t dealt with before.

The concrete under you is splattered with crimson viscera and you stumble over spasming bodies riddled with bullets. With a subdued shink you slip your knife into its thigh sheath, grabbing the FTac Recon strapped around your chest after slamming a fresh mag into it. With a numb calm overcoming you, you slip your forefinger into the trigger guard, poised over the easy press of the trigger itself. 

The long shadows spread over you; your head illuminated by the dull sheen of the moon as you pass under a stretch of open sky to slink into the building across the empty street. Feral yells still bounce off the air and you go to them readily, purpose settling in your veins. 

Pain flies to the back of your mind, displaced by adrenaline and the rabid puffs of breath that fall like grinding thunder from your lips.  

You wonder what König’s thinking right now—he’d without a doubt noticed that you were gone. He’d even probably gone to your barracks room to try and apologize and found it empty. That was just how he was. 

Would he be happy? You wondered. Relieved to see you out of his life? You’d both done nothing but fight, but there were moments of peace. Understanding. 

Shared meals and comfortable, yet sarcastic, comments; soft glances when the other wasn’t looking. Heat in your face and obviously shown on his when shy hands brushed. 

Your hold tightens on your gun, brows dripping with sweat as it dribbles down along with the blood. Gunfire flashes. 

Closer now.

Shadows scream on top of a raised walkway attached to an in-mountain compound, targets with trigger fingers firing on your fellows who take cover behind crumbling walls. Pinned down. You watch, unseen, from a broken window as dust and moths collide. 

Your eyes lock on the closest hostile and you raise your weapon slowly, barrel resting on the frame between shattered glass. You clock the distance and adjust accordingly; breaths falling steady. 

The small insect that keeps hitting the window plays in your mind over and over—drowning out the yells; the fire. 

Just a moth readily willing to smash into that barrier until it dies. You hum under your breath and rest the gun into the crook of your shoulder, cheek to stock. 

Your finger slams into the trigger. 

—

You stumble out of the loud infirmary with a bloody rag pressed deeply into your forehead, medical pouch under one arm. You hear rushing feet and barked orders from nurses and doctors just before the door closes, cutting off as you stake out on your own.

Limping, you reason there were others with more severe wounds than your own; as blood drips from your flooded rag, your feet take you deep into the base one broken step at a time. You’d figure it out yourself. 

Plus, the silence would give you time to think. Think about König. 

You just gritted your teeth and decided that was better than taking up space in the infirmary. 

In times like these, the Austrian would fix your wounds for you, just as you did his. While you had your disagreements and heated fights, he’d never made it as personal as he had hours beforehand. Never made it hurt. 

“Jesus,” you mutter, rubbing your other crusty hand over the mud along your chin. Everything ached and you don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. 

Flinching along like a downed bird, you shove through into the last door into the barracks; thoughts now stuck on finding a chair to sit down on before your legs gave out. The darkness of the common area was deep—staining your eyelids as you grunt, bumping into the back of the couch. 

It’s almost funny the way the lamp flicked on mere moments later. 

You hiss, eyes snapping shut as the rays attack your sight, rendering you blind for a moment. The shaking hand on your dripping rag tightens before the spark of pain makes you lighten the pressure. 

There’s a dark grunt just as you open your eyes back up.

“You are late.” König. 

He sits in one of the chairs—sniper hood still over his head yet only clothed in a large compression shirt and casual camo pants. Like a disappointed parent, the Austrian’s arms were crossed over his chest; feet resting out and crossed at the ankles. With such a big stature the look could strike fear into anyone. 

Anyone but you, that is. 

König’s dark eyes rove over you, stopping immediately on the fabric you keep to your forehead. The previous, furious, tone stops and the flash of very real concern takes precedence. His hands tighten on his biceps, thighs tensing over the cushion; spine just a little bit straighter. 

You watch and say nothing—dead-faced. 

Your heart suddenly skips beats, stuck into the framework of the man’s eyes. König’s brows peel back and a timid stutter stays in your breast.

“...Vögelchen?” Lids blink rapidly, and before you can register anything because of your blood loss and fatigue, you’re being dragged to the couch and forced to sit down. 

Strong hands encompass your shoulders and small breaths flutter in front of your face as König peels back to kneel in front of you; spying the medical pouch in your under-arm. 

“What is this?” He mutters to you, vision flinching along your body but always dragging back to the bloody rag on your face. “What did you do to yourself?” 

Scarred hands raise before pausing, obsidian eyes staring deeply into yours as if in frantic question. Your own gaze keeps him close, spying on his veiled fear at the sight of your blood and your disappearance. He’d heard about the mission, then, that much was upfront because of his earlier comment. 

The humvee had been late arriving back. Half an hour. 

“Fuck off,” you utter, shoving off the couch before you’re captured in an unyielding press again, shoved down. Your anger spikes along with your unease, “König! I don’t have the patience—”

“I’m sorry.” The fight leaves you. 

Fingers squeeze your biceps, hold lightly shaking with nerves. “I did not mean it.” Obsidian pierces you, “Please, Vögelchen, I am sorry. Utterly. I speak so fast I misplace words—get far more,” words fail as you stare so intently at him, a strange feeling swirling in your gut. König’s face was going crimson again, though not from anger. His tone was deep and honest, accent becoming more whole with emotion. The hands on your skin stay. “Rude than I intend. It is not an excuse, but…”

In the horizontal oval of his hood, you spy the dots of tiny freckles; the whispers of auburn hair. That hawk nose still points violently from behind the fabric. König never finishes his sentence, just takes a large breath and looks to the side after a moment of silence. 

Then he steals the medical pack from your grip and opens the zipper with firm fingers, taking out gloves and gauze. Needle and sutures. It’s all placed on the side table as the bear of an Austrian stays on his knees for you—bending and shifting as the bottom of his shirt rides up. 

It’s a tense affair of touching skin; warmth and hissed curses. Gentle shushing. But you say nothing through it. Until he’s up in your face trying off stitches with forceps and a needle holder, breath making his hood lightly caress your bloodless face. His fingers are large and firm, never second-guessing or stuttering over the course of directing tools that dig a needling and thread into your flesh. 

He’s warm and every motion elicits shivers. You see his form from the side of your eye; his face’s outline as the lamp light illuminates the hood’s fabric. Shadowy silhouette of König’s strong jaw that shifts with every other breath from his wide chest. 

“You’re an asshole for saying that to me, y’know.” you slip your gaze away just as he snaps over. “Adrenaline or not.” 

The needle pauses and a swift nod is given. 

“I…I know it was. No amount of apologizing can explain how very horrible I feel. It was like I was so…so…” An annoyed grunt was leveled at himself.

“Pissed off?” You offer quietly. 

“Yes! Pissed off.” Amused glances were shared, the air slowly smoothing out between the two of you. Dark eyes quickly look away from yours and König clears his throat terse-like. But softer, steadier, “I…could not bear it if I were to see you in harm and be unable to assist you. That…is why I was watching. Why I do watch you.”

Inside of you, it was like there was a pot of water on the stove, steadily boiling under the heat. Your eyes are delicately wide when the man’s hands leave your face; kneeling body still tall enough to stare into you.

“You are…” König pauses, but not to find the words. To ready himself. He takes a long breath. “You are special to me, my Vögelchen. I can not see you hurt,” a gesture to your forehead and creased eyes. As if your pain was his own. “Not like this.”

“What are you saying, König?” You whisper, face twisted with hurt and confusion. Apprehension. “You’re giving me mixed signals. We always fight with each other. I’m not saying I’m blameless, but…c’mon, now. Look at us.” 

“Not…always.” He grumbled like a child, tools placed away and hands dripping blood before he slips the gloves off. They meet the side table with a tiny toss. The Austrian leans back onto his ankles, butt to heel. He begins to look at your forehead and you can practically hear his heart break. “I do not like arguing with you, you know that, yes?” 

“Me neither,” you whisper, fingers fiddling as a sheen of anxiousness sets in. “You just,” you pause, “confuse me.”

 König blinks in surprise, head tilting and large eyes shimmering. Your mind flashes to a curious cat and you try to explain with a burning face and fast lips.

“You say we’re partners but you never act like it,” he stares and listens. When had you both had a conversation like this before? “You make it seem like you can’t trust me to do the simplest task. I’m not,” your voice betrays you, cracking, “I’m not that useless, am I?” 

He freezes, muscles going taunt. 

“U-Useless? Nutzlos? No, no,” A hand comes to capture your chin and you let him move you where he wishes. Creased eyes lock on yours. “That is not right. You’re not useless to me—how could you be?” Pained brows move in, “did I make you think like this? Like I did not appreciate your skills?” 

Your eyes burn, and the aches from your wounds mix with the pure fatigue in your flesh to leave your emotions running between sanity and sadness. A moment later you’re turning your head away. 

König recaptures it, hands finding both sides of your cheeks. He looks shaky; desperate. 

“No, please, Vögelchen, please. I need you to look at me.”

“König, I don’t—” You close your mouth before you let out the beginnings of a sob. “I can’t keep fighting with you.”

“I know, oh, I know,” his hands are so grounding it’s like you’re the inner pages of a book, and his grip the thick leather cover—leather laced with shared scars and the same that had stitched you up countless times. This push and pull had to end. “I cannot fight with you either—it tears me apart. Oh, du weißt gar nicht, wie sehr es mich schmerzt, dein wunderschönes Gesicht anzuschreien. Mit dir zu streiten bedeutet, meinen Verstand und mein Herz gleichzeitig zu brechen.” König’s thumbs run up and down your skin, still bloody with dried flakes falling to the ground. He seems not to care a bit. 

“What can I do to fix this? Anything. Anything to get us to stop doing this to each other.” You stare into his eyes, both creased and glazed over. 

There’s a brief moment where you wonder if anyone truly even knew you as well as König did—there was no one else that you shared such a deep connection with. Years upon years of being stuck at his side. 

And someone else’s hands had never felt as good as his. They were hard and callused over but cupped your face as gently as one would cup water from a rippling stream. His eyes were stars; visible skin like porcelain, his breath raised a large and wide chest with a fast-paced heart. You could sense his throat trapping air. 

König kneeled to you and bared himself. 

Anything, he had said, to fix what he had said. To stop this. 

There was one way you could think to stop this—it might not have been smart, certainly not, but…hmm…You gradually raised your hand raised from your lap and slipped it under the front of König’s hood. 

Slowly, with all the delicateness of a glass dragonfly, your fingers strayed to the side of his neck to press into tight flesh. A rapid pulse.

The man goes to stone. It’s like you’ve stolen his nervous system. Dark eyes stay locked onto yours as you gaze back, hand dragging nails up with a light pressure near to the speed of a slug. 

König whispers your name into the empty space and the oxygen seems to dry up. Warm light from the lamp cast phantoms on walls and over skin in a small moment of foreign discoveries. The Austrian swallows saliva and you feel his neck flex. You don’t answer him, just watch and feel his own hands tighten on your cheeks in warning. 

But you never listen, do you? Reckless you were called. And König had been right.

You were reckless.

Your hand had now explored like a map the indents of hidden facial scars; long and short over jaw and lips. The hand that was doing this had hiked the sniper’s hood up around your wrist so that the man’s lashes were twitching as the fabric got too close to his eyes. And you watched. And so did he. 

A twin pair of moths hitting a glass window, staring from opposite sides at one another until they realized the break in the frame. 

“Anything?” You ask in a loose tone, barely heard above the flood in both of your ears. 

König was breathing heavily but didn’t pull away. Pupils wide and body heavy to your touch. His spine briefly straightened, until he realized he had moved back slightly and immediately hunched again if only to keep your hands on him. 

“I…” he grunts, “A…anything.” Fingers touch his nose, they spread under the hood to trace the bumps and marks he keeps hidden like buried treasure. Your vision takes in the otherworldly hue on his visible skin; the glaze of rapture in his eyes yet still that ingrained heat. 

Your body shivers at the gravel in his accented English. 

Fingers stall over his lips, hood showing you the pale being of König’s strong chin and jaw. You shift your touch to the side and find chapped lips revealed to you, a small palate scar that had healed to nothing more than a line up to his nostril. 

You spare it nothing more than a glance before you look back into obsidian. Dark ether and dead galaxies devoid of stars. Swallowed in a sea of pasts and futures. You look for hesitation; for disgust. 

You find none. 

“You said that no one could ever love someone like me,” your head leans in, and your breath mingles together with an intimacy that had never been shared between this type of partners. König, as if broken from a spell, takes down a swift inhale of air into his stiff lungs. He stares with far back lids. Flashes of unidentified emotions. “Why did you say that?”

A moment of silence and of rabid hearts. The man’s lips twitch over yours as he answers slowly, not breaking eye contact for a moment. As if he did he’d be turned to rock. As if he’d miss something amazing from happening. 

He speaks with a whispered confession.

“Because if they did—I would have to kill them. Because no other than I would be able to love you more.” Your world slows and your ears strain with the breathy words. 

Face burning your lips part with shock and awe. Violent to any other, but to you this was a confession from a man that could meet you blow for blow—calm you and infuriate you all in one. Challenge you, but knew when he’d gone too far and how to properly apologize. 

He’d waited in that chair for you all night, you’d realized. 

For you to come back to him. His partner. 

You press your lips to his and hear his pitiful sounds of gasped reassurance. Slipping your tongue into his mouth, you let saliva drip off of your chins to splatter onto bent knees and shaking thighs.

König’s arms cage you; capture your waist and draw you closer, lips breaking apart before you both share a wide-eyed look of momentary pause. There was no room to breathe; to think. Chests hit together and fingers tighten to a tendon-visible hold.

The man's growing smile is wide from where you still hold his hood up by his nose, and with a lick of his red and wet lips, he reconnects your awaiting mouths. 

This time, you’re the one to gasp.

“Lass mich zeigen, wie leid es mir tut, Vögelchen.”

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