#don’t try to sand the relationship down and force it into a shape it doesn’t want to be

[withleeknow]

moonstruck.

pairing: minho x f!reader genre/warnings: established relationship, fluff, angst if you squint; they're in love <3, mentions of menstruation, there's a bit about orpheus and eurydice so you're not familiar you might want to look it up beforehand idk, not as edited as i'd like. not a lot of warnings here tbh it's just pretty mild and mellow saur 🤷‍♀️ (also i don't exactly love this but i hope you'll still tolerate it anyway lol) word count: 4.7k playlist 🎧: moonstruck - enhypen // this is how you fall in love - jeremy zucker ft. chelsea cutler // pansy - taemin // tightrope - zayn

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation / masterlist / ko-fi

Minho is the kind of love that you thought only existed in movies and fairytales. Make-belief, too good to be true, out of reach.

When he rests his head on your shoulder, drifting in and out of sleep like he’s been doing for the past hour or so, you give into the urge to stare at him in wonder. An angel on earth, if there ever was one.

His long eyelashes that you could only dream to have, the slope of his nose, his pink pouty lips, his impeccably sharp jawline, and even his fluffy hair that’s ticking your cheek as you look at him as if you don’t get to see him like this every day. But that kind of beauty is something that demands to be showcased in the world’s most exquisite museum and admired by anyone who comes across it.

Minho is beautiful in every sense of the word.

And you adore him. You do. You love him with every single beat of your pathetic little heart and then some.

Surely, you must’ve saved a nation in one of your past lives to deserve someone as ethereal as him.

Turning your face to the side, you press a kiss against his forehead. The touch makes him stir awake, eyelids fluttering open as he groggily looks around and stretches out his limbs, in the limited space that he has anyway. His sleepy voice asks you, “Are we there yet?”

“Not yet. I think they said we still have about forty minutes before we land. Do you want to go back to sleep?”

Minho shakes his head, covering his mouth when a yawn forces its way out. He straightens his back to his full height sitting down, then slumps against the seat a little bit. He rests his cheek against the top of your head while his hands find one of your own to hold in his lap.

He rubs the skin of your fourth finger for a moment before he eventually stills, lightly snoring again while you look out the window, gazing at oddly shaped clouds and blues and the reflection of the sun on the waters below.

–

After you’ve checked into the hotel, freshened up and readied yourselves to explore the scenery, Minho takes you down to the beach. It’s a little chilly, spring hasn’t yet settled into summer. Even with a light jacket on, you still shiver every time the wind rushes by like it’s playing with the waters. But it’s nice – the sea breeze in your hair and the sunlight on your face, your lover by your side, his fingers intertwined with yours as you walk along the shore together. The blue of the sea almost blending in with the sky where they meet somewhere out there on the horizon. Seagulls flying overhead, families enjoying their relaxing vacation, children playing in the sand way down the shoreline where all you can make out are blurry silhouettes dancing about.

It’s paradise on earth. It’s an escape that you desperately needed. Exhilarated doesn’t even begin to describe how you felt when he told you that he’d booked a Jeju trip for your anniversary.

He’s always been the perfect partner. Always knows just the right thing to do for you whenever you need a pick-me-up. He may not seem like it, but Minho is beyond caring and considerate. He’s a man of few words but he certainly makes up for it with his actions.

“Hey,” he says, pointing somewhere ahead of you. “Remember what happened there?”

“Hmm?” Your eyes try to follow the direction of his finger, until they find a spot where two people are sitting, watching the water in front of them, content smiles passed between lips as they talk animatedly. “Didn’t you confess to me there?”

He smiles as the memory resurfaces in his mind. “Did you know I almost chickened out?”

You two started out as friends way before you got together.

Three years ago, just a few months after you’d both graduated from college, Minho asked you to go to Jeju island with him. You thought it was a little strange – though not that strange since you had been on trips with him before, but it was always in a group setting with all of your other friends. Never just the two of you.

Nonetheless, you agreed. You wanted to get out of the city anyway. You needed a change of scenery to clear your head and to recharge. Everything was starting to become too much for you - being 22 and in limbo. You felt like you kept falling behind no matter what you did. Everyone was moving forward and you were running in place no matter how hard you tried to get out of that slump.

Everyone around you was outgrowing you and your little life, and all you could do was pretend you were fine.

It was one of the lowest you’d ever felt, and you suppose that was why you said yes to Minho’s invitation. A vacation didn’t seem like it would help much, but it certainly couldn’t hurt.

A few days away, with nothing but the sun and the sea to help you get out of your own head.

A tropical paradise and Minho. It wasn’t the end of the world. There were worse things you could think of.

That, and the fact that there had always been something between you and him. Not crazy sexual tension or anything, but just enough of a noticeable spark. An inkling of something that neither of you ever acted upon.

“Did you?” you ask. “Didn’t you plan the whole trip back then to confess?”

“What? No. Why would I willingly do that when you could’ve rejected me? Then I would’ve been stuck in a hotel with you and on the plane ride back.”

You squint at him. “Then why did you take me on that trip?”

Minho shrugs. “Friendship trip to cheer you up.”

Years with him and he still makes you feel as warm as he did the first time you kissed. You gaze at him with what must be the world’s most lovestruck look plastered on your face. You reach up to press your lips to the corner of his mouth, then watch as a blush spreads across his cheeks.

“You did confess though,” you argue.

“Well, yeah, but that wasn’t planned,” he tells you. “You just... We were sitting right there,” he tips his chin toward the same spot again, “and you had my jacket on because you were cold. You were watching the sunset and you looked so pretty. I couldn’t help it. Almost chickened out though.”

You stop walking, and this makes him stop too. Minho glances at you with his head slightly tilted, wearing a puzzled expression.

“You never told me that,” you say.

“You never asked.”

Pouting, you tug him toward you until he’s close enough for you to wrap your arms around his neck. Minho is good, so incredibly good for you that sometimes you can’t possibly fathom how you even deserve him. He never meant to get anything out of it; he just saw that you were struggling and wanted to make it better for you.

Maybe you didn’t do a very good job at pretending, not if Minho could see right through you.

Before him, you had a fear of heights. Not the literal kind, but rather the kind of heights that often accompanies big leaps, big changes. A fear of falling, maybe that would be more accurate. Falling and failing and hitting rock bottom with no way to climb back up. A fear that you would always be stuck with this life forever, trapped in an existence you never asked for. A fear that no effort to escape your reality would be enough, and you’ll always be trailing ten steps behind even if you try twenty times as hard.

You pull him down so you could properly kiss him, your lips slotting together perfectly like he was made for you, like he’s the only person you’re ever meant to kiss in this lifetime. You can taste his smile, minty and happy as he moves against your mouth, his arms sliding around your waist to hold you to his body by the small of your back.

“If I had known,” Minho pulls away slightly, mumbling against your lips, “telling you that would get me brownie points, I would’ve told you ages ago.”

You roll your eyes with affection.

“So all this time,“ he says, “you thought I asked you on that trip just to get into your pants?”

“You did get into my pants on that trip!”

“Let me remind you that I only wanted to do something nice for you. You were the one who almost jumped my bones right then and there after I said I liked you.”

You slap his chest as he throws his head back in a hearty laugh. Minho takes your hand in his once more as he drags you along, savoring the cool sea breeze and the golden daylight dancing on glittering waters before the sun bids you goodbye.

Minho is the kind of love that makes you want to curl up into a ball and ugly cry for an hour straight.

In a good way, of course. In the best way possible.

So that’s what you do, on a fine Tuesday afternoon, sitting on a couch surrounded by three cats as you wait for him to come home, perfectly sheltered from the harsh sun outside.

He returns eventually, toward the end of your crying session. When he sees the pile of tissues on the coffee table, soaked with your tears and snot, his heart nearly falls out of his ass.

Minho drops everything, rushing to you like you’re on the verge of spontaneous human combustion because clearly, this is a normal reaction to have when you come home to a girlfriend who’s been sobbing in the dark for god knows how long.

That, and the fact that said girlfriend doesn’t cry very often. Not by herself and certainly not in front of others.

Doesn’t mean that you’re immune to the occasional bouts of tears whenever shark week closes in, though.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Another rush of tears breaks as you look at him. You wipe your eyes and your nose with the tissue you’re currently holding, before throwing it on the table to join the pile you’ve accumulated.

You launch yourself forward, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck. The sudden force takes him aback, makes him gasp a little.

He freezes as you cling to him like a desperate koala, before his hands slowly land on your back, rubbing slowly, hesitantly, as though he’s afraid he’s hurting you.

“What’s wrong, baby? Why are you crying?”

“PMS,“ you hiccup your answer out, to which Minho only responds with a relieved Ah, his hands now moving more assuredly on your body.

“Anything hurt? Sore?”

“No. Just… missed you today. Love you a lot.”

There’s something saccharine in his gaze when he pulls back and regards you with his big doe eyes, softened and endeared, yet there’s still a twinkle of mischief peeking through the sugary glaze.

He moves to make himself comfortable next to you on the couch but still makes sure to keep a hand on you so you don’t grow impatient.

Once he’s effectively squished between you and the armrest of the sofa, he says, “You missed me so much that you started crying? You could’ve texted me, or called. I would’ve come home sooner, crybaby.”

“I didn’t cry because I missed you. I cried because I love you.”

He pretends to think for a moment. “I honestly can’t tell if I should be offended or not.”

You jab a finger at his ribs.

Sure, the mere thought of Minho brings tears to your eyes sometimes. It’s not really a secret anymore.

There’s something about him, just him, how wonderful he is and how all of the stars in the sky must have aligned themselves to make you and him happen. He’s the love of your entire life, there’s never been any doubt about it. Your other half, perfect for you.

You’ve never felt this way about anyone before, and you’re positive that you will never feel this way about anyone ever again. Your love for him runs so deep, so powerful that it overwhelms you at times, drowns you in nothing but affection for him and only him. A love that spreads like wildfire through your calm and sacred forest.

It’s cliché beyond words, that one day you would be having these thoughts about someone. You used to watch this kind of sentiment romanticized in movies, used to cringe and laugh at sappy lines in books and TV shows though there was always a part of you that longed for that kind of love.

You didn’t talk about it often, not even with the people closest to you. You always found it a little embarrassing to admit that you wanted love. To love and to be loved. There was something so utterly vulnerable in the act of yearning and isn’t it such a scary thing? To be vulnerable? You never saw the appeal in showing someone the deepest, darkest parts of you.

What if they leave? What if you bare yourself to someone and they deem you not worth staying for? How would you come back from that kind of rejection?

You suppose it always held you back - the fear of being open that goes hand in hand with the fear of being left behind. Maybe you have more fears than you’d like to admit.

Then came Minho.

No, that doesn’t sound right.

He didn’t come crashing into your life like a tidal wave and unraveled your every belief.

He was always there by your side, a calming presence that you could lean on when things got tough. A friend, a solid foundation. He’s the relief after every monsoon, the first day of sun after a long and harsh winter.

He saw you for who you were, all the messiest parts of you, and loved you anyway. In spite of your mess? Because of your mess.

He taught you that love isn’t always extravagant gestures and grand declarations that Shakespeare would applaud.

Love is acceptance. Love is staying with you on your gloomiest days and holding your hand through your dreariest moments. Love is lingering glances by the doorway before he goes to work because you’re half asleep but you’re still trying to reach for him even in your dreams.

It’s sharing joys and burdens alike. Reminders to eat and gentle wake-up calls. A photo of you in his wallet, a silly picture of him as your phone’s wallpaper. Giggling with him after he tells a joke not because of the punchline itself, but because his manic chortle is even funnier.

Love is Minho cradling your face in one hand and holding onto your shaking fingers with the other, his steady gaze holding yours, and his voice whispering gently in the darkest of nights, “Your storm is my storm.”

At the end of the day, love is pretty simple. Love is him.

“Do you ever think about Orpheus and Eurydice?”

Minho laughs, the sound vibrating where you lay your head, his hand still absentmindedly rubbing the skin of your waist over your shirt. “No, I don’t think about Orpheus and Eurydice.”

You figured as much.

Your fingers trace invisible patterns on his chest as you hum your acknowledgment. Then you ask, “If it was me, if you were Orpheus, would you look back?”

His hands pause their ministrations, a little taken aback by the question you suppose. Your brain tends to pingpong between the most random things sometimes.

“You know,“ he says with an even voice, though the corner of his mouth still curls upward in amusement. “Other people just ask the worm thing.”

“The worm thing is boring. And we both know you wouldn’t love me if I was a worm.”

“You wouldn’t love me if I was a worm either.”

“That’s true. I don’t like worms,” you agree, chuckling while your boyfriend scoffs. “Answer the question, would you look back?”

There’s no right answer because you’re not expecting a correct response. It’s a hypothesis that can never be tested because you aren’t a nymph and Minho isn’t a bard with the ability to sway all life with his music. It’s a silly thought but it’s one that you’re curious about nonetheless, just to hear what he would say. Why not?

You’ve read many interpretations of the tragedy. In some, Orpheus hears Eurydice stumble and turns to catch her fall. In others, he can’t hear her at all. The story will forever be among your favorites, one of the things that never fails to turn you inside out no matter how many times you mull over it.

Minho is quiet for a moment. You think he’s about to shoot back with a witty retort that he always has up his sleeves, probably something about how he would find a loophole and trick his way out of the deal, or that he would personally fistfight Hades to get you out of the underworld. This wouldn’t surprise you at all.

Instead, he says, “Yes, I would look back.”

But regardless of how you choose to view the myth, the ending does not change. Orpheus always turns around.

He turns around because he loves her.

Minho’s fingers slip under your shirt to brush your bare skin, angling his head sideways so he could kiss your forehead. 

Maybe he’s just saying it for the sake of being romantic, for the sake of saying what seems to be the right thing. It’s an answer that you can never give substance to, but you believe him with all your heart.

You believe him. You do.

“If it’s you, I would look back.”

Minho is the kind of love that eclipses the sun and dims the light of the moon. The kind of love that drowns out all the noise and makes everything a little more bearable. Not just the most horrible things – your fears and struggles alike – but even the smallest, most mundane things.

If there’s one thing that you absolutely hate, it’s the smell of nail polish. You hate the way it lingers in the air even after the bottle has been capped, hate how the smell of toluene stains your fingertips even after washing your hands several times with scented soap.

Though, the only time you try to tolerate it is when Minho convinces you to stay in and pamper each other. Pizzas that he picks up for dinner and tiramisu ice cream for dessert. Face masks and fancy candles that you save for special occasions. SoonDoongDori napping on various surfaces in your living room, an old vinyl playing from the record player he got you for your first birthday you shared together after you started dating.

You each take turns doing the other’s nails on the carpeted floor. It’s become somewhat of a tradition that you indulge in every month, where you would spend cozy Friday evenings indoors just because neither of you can be assed to indulge in a “proper“ date night. Being hermits together sounds infinitely more appealing to you than any other alternative.

“I’m not done,” you say, snatching Minho’s hand back after he pulls it away to admire your work. You blow on his fingers to make sure that the layer of black polish you applied earlier is dry, then you’re reaching for a bottle of beige polish sitting amongst the ones scattered on the floor. You take a tiny brush from the nail kit - one that’s rarely ever touched because neither of you knows how to do nail art - and dip it into the sand-colored polish.

“What are you doing?“ he asks, watching as you trace some squiggly lines on his middle finger, the lighter color settling nicely on top of the black even if he has no idea what you’re trying to draw. “What is that?”

“Soonie,” you say simply. “When you flip people off, you can show them Soonie.”

You don’t need to look at him to know that his attention is fixed on you even though he doesn’t give you a response. You feel his gaze on the side of your face, soft and warm and never leaving for even a second. He doesn’t say anything while you work though, maybe he doesn’t want to mess up your concentration while you’re so engrossed in what you’re doing. He only chuckles at your answer, then nothing afterward.

You don’t mind the lack of conversation. It helps you focus better on what you’re doing because you’re no artist by any means. You can’t draw to save your life, let alone master something as intricate as nail art, but this is therapeutic. It’s perfect to help you unwind after a long week - doodling your beloved cat on your boyfriend’s nails while Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls sets the ambience. You’ll get the ice cream when you’re done with your impromptu project, along with a little headache from inhaling too much of the polish scent perhaps, but isn’t that a small price to pay?

You take your sweet time with the teeny tiny details, like Soonie’s delicate whiskers and the darker strips of fur on his face. He still turns out a little wonky, a little lopsided here and there but it’s not like you expected it to turn out like a Picasso.

The real Soonie seems to sense a disturbance in the force when he wakes up from his nap and saunters toward you curiously. You pick him up and sit him in your lap so he doesn’t come too close to the fresh polish on Minho’s nails. “Look,” you say with a proud smile, pointing toward the small cat doodle. “That’s you.”

He studies it for a moment, focused on your portrayal of him but then he’s quick to decide that he’s not interested anymore before wiggling away from your lap to go join Doongie on the couch. You chuckle lightly, watching him as he walks off, wondering if this is what it will feel like when your future children enter their teenage years.

When you turn back to Minho, he’s still staring at you, a dazed look in his eyes as he blinks slowly, his hand resting limply on his thigh.

“What?” you ask. “Do you not like–”

“Marry me.”

The rest of your question dies in your throat, wilting away like cherry blossoms when summer nears. He doesn’t break eye contact, still that dreamy gaze when he peers at you. Nothing has ever changed in the way that he looks at you.

For a moment, you’re too stunned to speak. You think anyone would be when their boyfriend drops a proposal out of nowhere while you’re doing each other’s nails in your comfiest sweatpants.

Everything that you’ve been afraid of comes bubbling to the surface, every doubt, every fear, even every fleeting insecurity. They manifest as a ringing in your ears, a buzzing in your head that makes it hard to think about anything at all.

But then he shuffles closer, closer and closer until his warm breath fans your cheek, his nose nudging your cheekbone gently. It’s similar to what Doongie does sometimes when you’re lounging in bed and he just wants some love.

When Minho takes your hand and laces your fingers together in his lap, everything stills. The rumbling comes to a halt, the distant thunder fading slowly into the background of your mind palace until it’s reduced to mere white noise. “Marry me,“ he says again, and his voice is so tender that you ache. Tender and sweet and so full of wonderful adoration. If you ever have to describe what love sounds like, you would say it’s him and his voice, right here and right in this exact moment.

“A little dramatic to propose just because I drew your cat.”

He chuckles, presses a kiss to your cheek before he ducks down to deliver another kiss on the side of your neck. Then he pulls back, just enough to get a clear view of you and your now glassy eyes.

“Bottom drawer in our bedroom,” he tells you. You can’t lie; you have half a mind to leave him here and go check. “I bought the ring two months ago, but I knew I wanted to marry you two years before that. I’ve been waiting for the perfect moment to do it but I realized the perfect moment doesn’t exist, because every minute I spend with you is perfect. I love you so much. It’s not because you drew me my cat, by the way. I think I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you.

“I love your weird brain and your blanket-hogging ass. I love that you’re crazy enough to listen to a song literally over a thousand times without getting bored. I even love you when you set ten alarms in the morning and still manage to sleep through all of them. I know you hate your smile but it’s my favorite smile in the world. Did you know my favorite color is the color of your eyes? The best part of my day is when I get to come home to you and the kids waiting for me. I want all of you forever. I promise I’ll love you twice as much on days that you don’t love yourself. When we’re old and gray and we look like raisins, I’ll let you go first so you won’t have to spend a single day alone. I’ll–” He stops when you let out a teary giggle, no bite in his voice at all when he says, “Please don’t laugh at me during my big romantic speech.” 

It only makes you laugh harder, though it’s just as emotional. If you focus on the other part of his sentence, you’ll only crumble into a million pieces right here.  “How very romantic of you to include the visual of us as raisins in your speech.”

Minho rolls his eyes – fondly, of course. When he pretends to squirm away from you, you tug him back by the collar of his shirt to plant an apologetic kiss on his lips which he eagerly accepts.

“Please continue,” you say, smiling against his mouth. “Tell me all the ways that you’ll love me.”

“You ruined it. I retract my proposal,” he grumbles, but his arms betray his words when they tighten around your frame, holding you close to him to steal another kiss. Then another, and another, until your faces are wet with tears and you realize that you’re both crying.

“I’m sorry,” you say through sniffles and tears. “Please keep going.”

“Make it up to me first.”

“How?”

“Marry me,” he repeats a final time. “I’ll give you a better speech on our wedding day.”

Years and years from now, when you’re old and gray and look like raisins – as he so poetically put it – you’ll remember this moment down to every miniscule detail. How the cats’ peace is disturbed by your tearful giggles and the strange look they give you before wandering out of the room, in favor of somewhere without two crying idiots. How the record starts skipping but neither of you can be bothered to do anything about the obnoxious sound. How the material of his shirt feels when you bunch the fabric in your hands because you need to kiss him, need him to be as close as humanly possible.

You’ll remember the sob that he hiccups when you tell him through choked up whispers, “Yes, I’ll marry you,” and how his lips feel when they tremble against your skin. You’ll remember the way he holds onto you like a lifeline, because he’s always been your salvation for as long as you’ve known him. You’ll remember what happens after, later that night when he finally slips the ring onto your finger. The words he whispers into the crook of your neck, “You mean the world to me,” and the emotions in his voice when you both realize this is the start of the rest of forever.

You’ll remember everything, all of it, every clumsy touch and every graceless kiss. Ugly crying on the floor and yet, it’s more perfect than anything you can ever dream of.

all rights reserved © withleeknow. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 13.07.2024]

[recurring-polynya]

Once again, I am thinking about the dubious claim that people make from time to time that Renji would have gotten better character development in the TYBW arc if Byakuya had died. The thing is, though, that Renji did get excellent character development in this arc, particularly with respect to his relationship to Byakuya, it was just very subtle and I want to talk about it.

So, the first thing I want to point out is that the captain-lieutenant relationships is one of the major themes of the TYBW. A lot of this is sort of weird and awkward, but this is perfect, actually, because captain-lieutenant relationships are, for the most part, weird and clunky and awkward. Take for example, the part that I always make fun of, where the captains are told not to go to bankai, and Hitsugaya, Komamura, Byakuya and Soi Fon immediately go to bankai-- but they all do this on the assumption that they are luring their opponent into a trap to see how this works, and that their lieutenant will somehow ??defeat them anyway?? (well, except Soi Fon who seems to think she can one-shot her Quincy). There’s Sasakibe’s funeral, where we find out that Yamamoto cared far more for him than we ever imagined. Kyouraku returns Nanao’s zanpakutou to her and stands behind her as she defeats an opponent he can't. Iba carries Komamura’s body off of the battlefield as he loses the last of his humanity. Isane struggles to keep her head above her grief because that’s the burden Unohana left her with. Rose avenging Kira. Hitsugaya and Matsumoto fighting and (sort of) dying together. The Zaraki-Yachiru thing. The Mayuri-Nemu thing. Momo and Shinji actually got to have a relatively normal one, which they each deserved, but at least they got to have normal one together. Anyway, that could be an entire essay, but as usual, I only want to talk about Renji and Byakuya.

Renji’s introduction as a character happens in stages. Initially, he sort of appears to be Byakuya’s sidekick-- he's here to do the dirty work during Rukia’s arrest, while Byakuya stands by and calls the shots, but even early on, it’s clear that Renji’s a little hung up on Byakuya. He’s trying to impress him, and gets more embarrassed and self-conscious as things go progressively pear-shaped. When Byakuya finally enters the action, Renji’s thought bubbles reveal that he’s watched Byakuya for a long time, that he knows all his moves. When we get the Renji backstory reveal a few issues later, we learn that Renji’s goal is to defeat Byakuya, which he seems to feel is necessary to seeing Rukia again, even though there has never been any sort of causal link revealed between these two things. Don’t get me wrong, if Young Academy Renji had tried to continue to be friends with Rukia, I think Byakuya would have kicked him out on his ass, but it’s clear that a lot of Renji’s hang-ups are internal-- he doesn’t want to face Rukia again until he can stand against Byakuya. I think the origin of this is that he simply wants what’s best for Rukia, and he can’t stomach the idea of asking her to leave her rich, noble family for him, unless, of course, he’s somehow better than Byakuya in some dimension, and the only thing Renji’s ever considered himself good at is fighting.

Even more interesting is that he’s chosen to go about this by... studying the man’s every move and becoming his lieutenant. But for as much energy as Renji has put into learning Byakuya’s favorite combat moves, he doesn’t actually know anything about him as a person. He’s shocked when Rukia predicts that Byakuya won’t lift a finger to help her, and then horrified when this actually comes to pass. A few chapters later, as he’s running Hinamori through, Aizen comments that “Adoration is the state furthest from understanding.” I would probably classify Renji’s feelings towards Byakuya more as admiration or idolization, rather than adoration, but I think this statement is also very true of Renji and Byakuya’s relationship. Unlike poor Momo, Renji gets a little more time and opportunity to do something with this information. With a little Ichigo-forced soul searching, he realizes that he’s not going to come out the hero of this story no matter what, but if he doesn’t do something, Rukia’s not going to come out of this story at all, and even if he’s not really ready, he’s spent 40 years trying to figure out how to beat Kuchiki Byakuya, let’s hope all that was good for something.

The Byakuya-Renji fight has no direct impact on the events of the Soul Society Arc. It makes Byakuya show up to Rukia’s execution 5 minutes late and without his scarf. Renji gets healed, so it really doesn’t matter all that much to him, either. You could argue that they both wasted a bunch of energy (that they could have used to fight Aizen later) but it’s primarily a character-driven moment of them both drawing lines in the sand about where they stand, vis a vis Rukia. Byakuya wins this fight, and he wins it handily, but he’s wrong, as he comes to realize a few issues later, when Ichigo kicks his ass and tells him he’s a bad brother, a lesson that Byakuya will take to heart for the rest of the manga. Byakuya claims that the difference between Renji and himself is class, but the real difference between is the heart, and in the long run, Renji is the real victor of this fight.

The hospital scene is an interesting footnote to this. Byakuya defeated Renji, but Byakuya was the asshole and everyone knows it. There’s an expectation that perhaps Renji will quit or perhaps Renji will give him an earful and perhaps even Rukia will choose to leave the family, either to go to the Living World or to be with Renji (and Byakuya would deserve this), but instead, both Renji and Rukia give Byakuya another chance, which is not, I think, a place Renji ever expected to be.

Rukia and Byakuya building up a sibling relationship after this is fairly straightforward (although I’m sure it had its weird moments), but Byakuya and Renji now have this profoundly awkward relationship where Byakuya is obviously in charge, but he sort of depends on Renji as a personal compass because he’s shit at dealing with people and he doesn’t want to screw stuff up with Rukia again. Take for example, the part of the Hueco Mundo arc where Orihime is kidnapped and Rukia and Renji desert their posts to come help rescue her. Kubo takes to the panel-space to tell us that Byakuya has tacitly approved this. As a clan head and a captain, a person who is entrenched in the hierarchy of Soul Society, Byakuya couldn’t possibly go to Hueco Mundo-- but he can turn a blind eye while his sister and lieutenant scurry out through the Kuchiki family senkaimon. Renji, for his part, tried to go to Hueco Mundo through official channels and got shot down. We don’t know what Renji would have done if Byakuya had explicitly forbidden him from going, but it doesn’t matter-- Byakuya enabled Renji to follow his heart here, because Byakuya can’t. Rukia would have gone to Hueco Mundo regardless. She cares about Byakuya, but she doesn’t depend on him for validation the way Renji does.

I said this was going to be about the TYBW, so let’s get to that. Early in the arc, we’re shown several scenes where it’s clear that Byakuya respects and values Renji as a lieutenant, but he’s also pretty damn patronizing to him. Renji is the first one to engage As Nodt, and when Byakuya shows up, he acts surprised that Renji hasn’t taken him out yet, but then proceeds to take over the fight (real, “stand back, fives, an eleven has arrived” energy). After Byakuya then loses his bankai like a doofus, Renji wants to take point so that Byakuya can figure out As Nodt’s attack and Byakuya won’t let him... and then proceeds to get thrashed.

This has to be one of the most emotionally charged fights in Bleach. Byakuya is losing, and Renji jumps in, absolutely incensed that As Nodt would use Senbonzakura against Byakuya. Renji isn’t doing great, but he’s not doing terrible when Byakuya gets up and tries to help Renji, even though he’s a big bloody mess. As Nodt reacts by shredding Byakuya into chunks, and Renji just loses it, and if Mask de Masculine hadn’t shown up and kicked him halfway across the Seireitei, I daresay Renji would have killed himself trying to take down As Nodt.

This is where I usually make the point that if Byakuya had died to here, it would have broken Renji into little pieces, but that’s not today’s essay. Instead, everyone goes to the Royal Realm, and by virtue of the fact that Byakuya is injured worse than everyone else, Renji has to go forward without him or his approval.

In typical Renji fashion, the thing that motivates Renji here is not glory or heroism, but the desire to accompany Ichigo, the need to be with his friends in their times of trial. In fact his companionship here is absolutely essential-- at Hikifune’s, Ichigo expresses deep doubts that he’s doing the right thing, and Renji reminds himself that if he wants to protect others, he has to take care of himself first.

At Nimaiya’s however, Renji and Ichigo are split up because they must follow their own paths. The other extremely interesting thing that happens here is that Renji’s sword is reforged. Byakuya shattered one of Hihio Zabimaru’s joints the very first time Renji used them in combat. Renji brushed it off at the time, saying that he could get by without it. Even though Byakuya has long been his motivating force and his mentor, he’s also been held back by his connection to him. And at this point, it’s gone.

I really wish we got to see where Renji and Rukia meet up again, but we don’t. Unlike with Ichigo, though, Rukia doesn’t seem to need anything from Renji. They travel together, fight together as equals, wear matching outfits, like you do. Oh. Wait. After all this time, in the 493 chapters between Needless Emotions and Blue Stripes, Renji can finally see himself as an equal to Rukia. They get. bankai. Together.

I want to emphasize that it’s not really anything about Rukia herself that allowed Renji to make bankai, it’s the fact that he’s finally managed to move past the feeling that he’s not enough. Defeating Byakuya would not actually have solved this problem, and having Byakuya dying in front of him wouldn’t have either. Renji gets criticized for losing a lot of his fights, but that’s such a key to his character. He’s not always the strongest, he doesn’t always win, but he keeps fighting for what he cares about. He struggles with his need for approval, for external validation, but Renji is at his best when he doesn’t have time to think about that, when he’s just fighting by his friends’ sides against impossible odds, doing what he knows in his heart is right.

I think people tend to make a little more than is strictly necessary of the line where he tells Mask that he’s “a villain”, I think he’s most just making fun of Mask’s own self-aggrandizement. On another level, though, this is just Renji being at ease with himself. Byakuya typically enters a fight bloviating about the honor of Soul Society and “how dare you raise your sword against me, the 28th Head of the Kuchiki” and even Ikkaku had the whole deal about telling people your name before you kill them, but Renji is more like “you beat up my friends, so I’m gonna break your face,” like there’s no ego in it, just you’re there, and he’s there, and then you’re lying on the ground and he’s taking a nap somewhere. This is so different than the insecure, posturing young man he was at the start of this series and I love this growth for him.

Even after he eventually meets up with Byakuya again, something has changed about their dynamic. The group gets split up and rejoined two or three times, and Renji and Rukia always stay together while Byakuya ends up fighting alongside others, Hisagi and later Hitsugaya and Zaraki. This is cemented in their last scene together, where Rukia and Renji try to stay with Byakuya and he sends them off to fight with Ichigo by saying “your help is not needed here.” In some ways, it’s an echo of Byakuya sending them off to Hueco Mundo, but in other ways, it’s acknowledging that they are their own people, not just an extension of him.

Hitsugaya follows it up with this:

There’s more here than meets the eye, though-- Byakuya and Renji have maintained a pretty strict superior-subordinate relationship, because that’s the easiest way for them to make sense of the world, but the fact is, they do care about each other and are important to one another.

I know there would be a certain narrative satisfaction in seeing Renji make captain at the end-- he’s one of the hardest working people in Bleach, and it frankly seems weird to see Iba get the haori when he doesn’t. But Renji has never wanted to be a captain. Renji becoming captain would, in some ways, be a failure. He spends years pre-canon chasing rank and prestige because that’s what he thinks will make him worthy, and it didn’t. Instead, he found worth in being himself, in loving his friends and being there for them, in learning things from Byakuya and teaching him things in return. Renji doesn’t need to be Byakuya’s lieutenant anymore, he just does it because he likes it. It makes him happy. What better character development is there than that?

[clarissalance]

Watermelon-flavored popsicle

Pairing: Xingqiu x g/n!reader, mention of Chongyun

Warning: light swearing, kissing, a lot of grammatically errors.

Word count: 3404

Summary: A coincident meeting between you and Xingqiu on Yaoguang Shoal might have changed your relationship.

A/N: Here is my come back for summer. This piece has been in my folder for so long but I just don’t want to check the errors and proofread. Luckily, I have found my motivation (no more wifi) and here is the piece. This one is inspired by imagination if I can go to the beach ( I hate corona).I hope you have fun reading this oneshot (and feel my desperation to enjoy the sunny beach) Next up will be Kazuha, I think :D. Please send Xingqiu a lot of love~~ (❤´艸｀❤)

Picture credit:  @polarbear43666 on Twitter. 

Summer in Liyue has always been sweltering, burning, and unbreathable. The sun stands proudly in the middle of clear azure sky, not a single cloud dare to tread near the glowing king, blocking the beam of lights shine down the city. 

Today is also another day of undesirable temperature. Even when the city is a harbor, the cool breezes from the sea can’t calm down the rising heat from the road, nor the glowing businesses or the flock of people going to the market. Living in the city for 5 years, you know not to tread near the market during working hours, so you decide to go somewhere quiet, relaxing and enjoyable. 

Yaoguang Shoal.      

Normally, you would have gone to a teahouse or a bookstore to escape the hot weather, but today, those areas are swamp with people. You might have a brief idea of why they would be so crowded in there. It can only be Yunjin performance, or the teahouse is having a giveaway.    

As much as you love to enjoy her breathtaking performance and intriguing stories, you wouldn’t risk getting trampled by those people. Maybe another day, when people aren’t packing inside the teahouse. 

As soon as you arrive at the shore, the thick scent of salt waffles around the tip of your nose, sounds of waves calmly splashing against the coast. Slowly, you remove your shoes and sink your feet down the fever-like golden sand, heading toward the white bubbles splashing waves. 

You should have brought a flip-flop instead of shoes. 

At the burning sensation on the sole of your feet, you start sprinting toward the nearby small patches of grass hiding under a gigantic shade, hoping to save your sensitive skins. 

As soon as you jump on the lump of grass, you can’t help letting out a painful hiss, jumping like a grasshopper on the surface. This place isn’t very far from the water, maybe you can put on an umbrella here and enjoy the breathtaking scenery.  

Afar, you can see a few white cranes enjoying the cold water while looking for fishes, bathing under the scorching heat. Propping yourself on your knee, you sit down and enjoy the feeling of wind combing through your messy dark locks. From here, the sound of splashing water on the sand, the soothing sensation of a peaceful summer gently sinks down your skin.  

You’re lucky to find a shade in the middle of a shore, under the scorching sun glaring holes on your head. Unlike the harbor, Yaoguang shoal is much more breathable, the cool breeze brings the smell of sea salt dancing on your skin, slowly imbued your silky dark lock with the distinctive scent of the ocean. 

Letting out a lazy sigh, you leisurely drift into a slumber, opting for a relaxing nap while enjoying the sound of nature. 

How great is it to not have someone disturb you? 

“Y/N?” 

Maybe you speak too soon. 

Furrow your brows, you slowly open your eyes, annoyed by the sudden intrusion. The bright light clearly wants to pierce your eyes, but the figure moves closer and blocks the over-enthusiastic sun out of your gaze. You slowly sit up, squinting hard at the dark figure. 

“Xingqiu?”  Widen your eyes at the familiar shade of blue, you look at him quizzically. “What are you doing here?”

The male lets out a breathy chuckle and crouches down, letting light falls on his face.   

“Me? The weather is nice, so I’m strolling along the shore and enjoy the weather.” 

At your comical gaze drilling at his head, and the hydro user finally raises his hand in defeat. “ Fine, fine. I was on my way back to the Harbor after helping the traveler with some commissions.” 

“ The harbor is the other direction.” You dubiously point the opposite direction, a small gust of wind picking up and tousling your hair. “ If you’re heading this direction, Dragonspine is where you're heading.” 

 “What are you doing here?” The young man ignores your remark and changes the topic, eyes curiously wander down your lying body on the grass. 

“ Escaping the heat from the harbor.” You hum and scoot to the other side, sparing Xingqiu a space to sit. He must be drying staying that long under the sun. 

He quickly sits down next to you, slowly peeling his boots and socks away. The area is small, forcing you to stay close to him, your shoulders almost bumping into each other. As much as you love skinship, any physical contact is overbearing in this weather. The scenery would have been more romantic if you’re sharing body heat in the bizarrely cold Starglow Cavern.

Wait… why did Xingqiu sit down and remove his boots? Isn’t he supposed to go back to the harbor? 

“ You aren’t going back to the harbor?” You tilt your head and his side profile. 

“ I was, but I change my mind.” The blue figure has his eyes on the boots, unlacing the footwear. “Sitting here with you is much more breathable than cramping inside the teahouse and the bookstore.”

  …But you didn’t agree to let him stay in the first place. Why is he still here then? 

You just offer him a place to sit down in the shade, just because he was sweating profusely under the sun when you were talking to him. It’s called an action out of politeness!!! He isn’t supposed to take the offer and makes himself comfortable.

Great, now you’re stuck with a body heat that you desperate to get away from. Roll your eyes, you let your gaze fleet over the vast clear ocean in front of you. 

From here, you can slightly make out an outline of Guyun Stone Forest peeking behind the thickening clouds. That majestic scenery, the infamous fight between Osial and Res Lapis, you wonder how big that fight was to create a whole island with a gigantic unique shape?  After thousands of years, you can still feel the rumbling energy threatening to break the seal of lord of Geo, yet something manages to force them down. Perhaps, there might be someone there securing the seal, holding the remaining pieces together. What would happen if that seal finally breaks again? Will the entire harbor engulfed by the anger of the lord of Vortex, or, will the new Geo archon will defend it?    

“A mora of your thought?” A youthful voice calls out, and you whirl your head in his direction. “ You look so deep in thought.” 

“ Ah… I was just thinking about the Guyun Stone Forest.” You shyly scratch your head, eyes don’t meet his. You totally forgot someone is sitting next to you. Xingqiu doesn’t comment, he lets his gaze drift to the Stone Forest, and the silence falls. 

This time you don’t let your eyes stray to the exalted scenery hiding away under those clouds. Instead, you observe the hydro user, who is just a few inches away. His features are soft, yet so define. The sharp eyes, the slope of his nose, and the plush lips. Under the smooth cerulean locks is his signature amber orb. You have always felt enamored under his gaze ever since you first met. That golden eyes are always filled with the determination and sharpness of a predator. You love it when the soft, bubbly Xingqiu turns sharp, or when he’s practicing his swordsmanship.   

“Take a picture, it will last longer.” The hydro user says, his voice remains calm and unwavering, almost make you mistake for someone else. “ How is my face?” 

“ Utterly unacceptably handsome.” Propping yourself on your elbow, you stare into his deep eyes, answer honestly, try to hold your scoff. 

Xingqiu doesn’t comment on your compliment but tilts his head the other way, avoiding your hawking gaze. Obviously, he knows you like to mess with him, trying to pull a reaction out of the shameless nonchalant friend when you’re bored. How you wish he would at least give you an entertaining reaction. 

You remember those days when Xingqiu and Chongyun are easily flustered. Nowadays, only Chongyun is still affected by your antic. How does that popsicle boy not immune to your frequent teasing is also a big mystery you’re looking for an answer to. 

“ You shouldn’t say someone is handsome if you don’t mean it.” After a while, the calm hydro user is back, composed, and relax. How can he be so lax in this atrocious weather, you don’t want to know. 

“ But… you’re handsome ?” 

“ You’re just trying to make me fluster.” He replies, a blush slowly creeps on his cheek. You don’t know why he’s trying to deny your compliment. He’s handsome, and you’re just using that fact to turn him into a tomato. Why does it sound like he’s trying hard to convince himself his face isn't aesthetic to look at? 

You open your mouth but close it. Speechless, you don't know how do you convince him that you honestly compliment his features, not… uh baiting him? Do your compliments sound like cheap-ass flirtatious attempts people usually get in a combo when they visit the tavern?   

Your motive isn’t as pure as it can be but your compliment does: honest, and authentic. How could he twist your words into something so scandalous like that? Outrageous! 

Your lips part to speak, but something cold and hard is shoved inside, and your olfactory bulbs almost explode with flavor (and numbing cold). The feeling of fruity sweetness seeps on your tongue, with a tingle of refreshing feeling dancing on top. Glaring dagger at Xingqiu, you notice his gloating face while biting the signature blue popsicle. Did Chongyun give that to him? 

Plug the freezing item out of your mouth, the vibrant pinkish color glowing under the sun, slowly dripping down your hand. It is a watermelon-flavored popsicle. He could have handed it to you nicely instead of almost choking you off and stop your sentence like that. Nevertheless, you still enjoy the watermelon-flavored popsicle while pouting at the young man. 

“ Where did you get this?” In between you lick, you look up at him, surprised to see half of the popsicle has disappeared. Did he just chomp all that in less than a minute? 

“I bought it, of course, food doesn't fall from the sky.” This young man is much more handsome when he has his mouth closed. You are really contemplated whether to use your handkerchief to shove down his throat. Or maybe a rock could do the job well too. 

“So, pay me.” Xingqiu suddenly brings his hand to your face, mischief glowing in his amber eyes. The audacity of this hydro user must have rocketed the sky after so long not having a good fight. You give him a forced smile while elbow him in the stomach, voice dangerously low. 

“ Our friendship doesn’t even worth a single popsicle? Really Xingqiu, I’m so disappointed.” You fake a sigh, head shaking in disapproval.  

The god-damned bastard avoids your blow without a hitch and even slithers his hand on your waist to tickle you. Oh, he must be looking for death this time. 

With the popsicle still inside your mouth, you sneakily raise your hand, attempting to push Xingqiu into the lava-like sand as revenge. It'd be a perfect touch to your lovely afternoon to see him tumbling on the group while jumping like a hissing cat. 

How naïve of you, to think that he doesn’t spot your little antic. This is the young man always out-performing you in every aspect, even in eating a popsicle. 

Without even looking at you, he catches your wrist effortlessly while still licking the ice cream. His body relaxes, compare to you, who almost tumbling toward him if he doesn't hold you in place. In a panic, you try to wriggle yourself out of his hold, but the young man only tightens his hold, remains unfazed by your swinging attempt to fling his hand out of your wrist. 

“ Let me go Xingqiu!” Instead of laughing at a hissing Xingqiu tumbling on the sand, you become the angry cat here. 

“ So you can hit me? Of course not.” He replies gloatingly, chins lackadaisical, his fingers wrap tightly around your wrist. 

“It’s hot.” 

“ Eat your popsicle then.” His hand holding your wrist brings up to point at the melting ice cream on your hand. “It’s melting.”

Of course, everyone can see that. Shooting pointed gaze at him, you try to shake the tight grip on your wrist a few more times, but nothing avails. He doesn’t let go, and your other hand is busy holding the popsicle. If you have another one, maybe you can peel off his fingers. Too bad you only have 2 hands. 

Sigh out in defeat, you give Xingqiu stink eyes before turning your attention back to the watermelon popsicle, occasionally look down at his grip to find an escape route. You don’t believe you can’t escape from his grasp! 

The hydro user doesn’t let your hand go after he finished his popsicle, instead, he slumps down with one cheek resting in his hand, staring at your face blatantly. You don’t usually mind but being gawked at while eating isn’t as comfortable as you thought. 

“ What?” Finally, you look up to face the mischievous blue boy. 

“ Can I have a bite?” 

“ Obviously n-” He doesn’t wait for your answer and leans in. Your first reaction is to be dodged away, but the sneak has your wrist pinned on the grass, forcing you to stay still. 

As soon as you realize your immobile state, Xingqiu is a few inches away from your face, licking the popsicle, and then biting off the edge near the stick. His smooth cheek brushes past your fingers, the deep blue locks fall on his face. From here, you inhale a hint of mint and sweet vanilla. Instead of the familiar scent of woodsy musky of old books, you notice a whiff of summer and salt on him. 

Stunted by his sudden closeness, you remain to freeze even after he pulls away. 

“W-wh-what did you j-just do?” To your horror, you stutter. Not once, but twice.

“Eat your popsicle.” 

As nonchalant as ever, he shrugs while swiping the remains on his lips, like he isn’t the one who just leans in so close to you. You are too dazed to even realize the popsicle hang close to your mouth is dripping down your clothes. 

Startle at the coldness, you hastily look down and scrunch your face at the mess. Ugh, it’s because of him, again! 

“ Need me to eat that for you?” he offers, but you swear you hear a hint of playfulness glinting in his voice. Quickly, you bite off the remaining before he can steal another bite, forget how sensitive your gum is. The result, you can already imagine, is brain freeze. 

Hissing at the sudden burst of frost blooming in your mouth, unconsciously grab on Xingqiu, squeezing his hand tightly while squirming vigorously. You shouldn’t have bitten off the whole thing, even when it melts. Hand in hand, you can feel the warmth of his fingers caressing your wrist, and they slowly move down and intertwine with yours. That opportunistic guy. 

During that heated moment, you remember yourself instinctively looking for a source of heat. At one point, your brain decided to throw the remaining sanity out the window. It convinces your body that the crook of his neck is the best source of warmth to melt the overbearing sensation in your mouth. And your body decides to do without giving another thought. 

Face buries deep in his neck, you are engulfed in his strong musky scent, naturally, you freeze dead on your track. 

What have you done? 

How do you get up? 

How can you look at his eyes now? 

With the dreading thoughts constantly running around your mind, you can only hit your head on his shoulder blade in shame, earning a rumbling chuckle from the young man. 

“ Don’t laugh!” Your whiny voice is muffled by his clothes. Upon your request, he doesn’t stop at a chuckle but starts to wheeze, chest rumbling. Your cheeks burn crisp with embarrassment, yet you can’t find a single hole to hide. 

“ Hahaha… Why did you do that?” He bursts out ungracefully, his shoulder shaking vividly. Xingqiu is teasing you on purpose!!  

You also want to ask why did you do that too. Why did you do that without even thinking about the consequence again? 

“ Stop laughing!” The audacity of this boy, after you told him to stop laughing, he snorts louder and teases you more. You thought this chivalrous nobleman would only snort for a few minutes,  then he would comfort you like the novel. Too bad, life isn’t as predictable as the novels. What you expect is the comforting hug, or his hand patting your head reassuringly. What you get instead is a never-ending tease and the constant re-telling of the scenario in an out-of-breath voice. 

Moving away from his neck, you pout and sulky. Despite being under the shade and cool sea breezes, you feel the heat rushing at the back of your neck and on your cheeks, a friendly reminder. Fingers fondling the edge of your shirt, you pretend to be deaf at the puff of his laugh. Is it too late for you to move to Inazuma and never see him again?

 Actually, it might be better to start avoiding than do nothing. 

You attempt to stand up abruptly and prepare to sprint off, fleeing away from the young hydro user who is making himself relax next to you. 

Notice the use of the word here: “attempt”.

Xingqiu quickly sees through your plan before you can start it.

  Unlike last time, he saw your movement and stopped your hand in the mid-air. This time, he is a step ahead and caught your chin between his fingers, tilting your head toward him, his mesmerizing golden eyes pierce through you. 

Catch-off-guard by his sudden closeness, the unsuccessful plan is extinguished at the back of your head.

Out of everything, why would he choose this way for your attention? You feel like you have no sanity left every time he does something intimate. 

How weak are you for him? 

The deep amber orbs study you intently like he’s trying to ingrain your face into his memories. The glimmering eyes always full of mischief and playfulness now is like an abyss, easily pull you in and spiraling into the darkness. The bubbly, transparent Xingqiu is replaced by a mature, mysterious, and charismatic man.

The distance between you slowly shorten, and finally, he’s a breath away. You nervously hold your breath, eyes widen at his every movement. Being this close, you can see his fluttering lashes, his sudden quicken breathing, and his plump lips dangling like a piece of meat in front of your hungry gaze. What is this feeling of heat rising up to your chest? 

Like a moth drawn into flame, your eyes follow when his tongue darts out to wet the soft kissable pad, his lips transform into pinkish color, just like the watermelon popsicle. 

Butterflies roaming inside your stomach, your fuzzy mind lets out a weak resistance, telling you to turn away, escape from the cradle of his finger on your chin. 

However, your instinct gives in.

You part your lips and angle up, time stops when his lips meet yours. It is a light brush, yet you can feel your heart pounding wildly inside your chest as the mint frosty scent invades your sense. Your breath slowly turns labored, yet all you can focus on is how soft he felt on your lips and how addicting he’s tasting on your tongue.

When your visions start to blur, and your legs threaten to give out, you finally decide to part away, but the hydro user has his hands cupping on your cheek doesn't think so. 

“Let me taste you again.” Xingqiu whispers, his voice deep and smooth like velvet. 

And then he pulls you in, claiming your mouth again, passionate and intense. He tastes like the watermelon popsicle you just ate, like a sunny summer you used to love, like a soaring kite in the sky. 

You don’t think you hate the feeling of his lips on yours.      

[whumpiary]

this was originally a prompt fill from an intimate gestures list (i think) for ‘shoulder rub’, however tumblr ate the ask requesting it as i tried to post it so: anon from a couple of months ago, this one’s for you!

content warnings: whumper pov, emotional abuse tactics, retaliatory violence, blood, mild hand whump, dubcon vibes that lead to noncon at the very end

(please note that this piece definitely has the vibes, beats, and tactics of a classic abusive relationship. please look after yourself if reading.)

-

Christopher is finally finished for the day. He closes out of the last open tabs, saves the important documents before closing his laptop completely and abandoning the lot on the desk as he heads to the bar cart. The days have been long and frustrating this week. He’s glad that this one is over.

Cassius has been making a habit of coming to sit by him while he works. It’s very sweet. He rarely bothers Christopher. Just comes in quietly and curls up on the couch, lies on the chaise. Or, from time to time, settles beside him on the ground, resting his head on Christopher’s thigh.

Like a little housecat. 

He doesn’t talk until Christopher initiates, seemingly more than happy to self entertain or doze. He just seems to like the company. Or seems to know that Christopher does. Another warm body in the room. It’s incredibly sweet.

Today Cassius is sitting by the window, frowning over a textbook, a language tape in his ear. Mandarin, Christopher thinks. He seems to have taken to reading that better than the French, though he’s not half bad at holding a conversation in either these days. He works hard. Again, it’s very sweet.

Christopher takes his drink to the couch by the open fireplace and watches his boy for a moment, watches his lips moving around the shapes of words that he doesn’t dare speak aloud, finger dragging along the line of text as he studies it.

“My darling.”

Cassius looks up at him like a pet being called for food, eyes wide and sweet and questioning. Maybe a little hopeful. He pulls an earphone out to listen better. Lovely thing.

“Come sit,” Christopher says, pointing to the ground in front of him. 

Cassius stands, dropping his things on the table beside him and moves over with relative grace. He settles on his knees between Christopher’s legs without hesitation, rests his cheek on Christopher’s thigh with a coquettish little grin. Christopher laughs, running his hand through his boy’s hair. 

“What?” Cassius smiles as he kisses along the seam of Christopher’s trousers, looking up through his lashes, the perfect picture of innocence. “Is this not what you want?”

“It’s not what I was asking for,” Christopher corrects.

Cassius shifts closer anyway, nuzzling his inner thigh with a hum. “That’s not a no.”

“It is for now,” Christopher says, irritation running through him just a little at Cassius’ pushing arrogance. He makes himself keep the fond smile and turns his finger in a little spiral. “Turn around.”

Cassius looks up at him, shadow of a frown on his face before it melts back to placidity. It always seems to catch him a little off guard when the instruction he hears is contrary to one he can feel. It sets him off balance, maybe. A little uncertain.

But as soon as the moment it is there, it’s gone again. He smiles, freshly flirtatious, like he’d never hesitated, and rises on his knees to turn. “Yes, sir.”

Christopher’s lips press together in disapproval. The moniker is practically an inside joke at this point, the playful, rebellious pushback to his own insistence to be called by his name. Most days he finds the cheek of it sweet. But on days like today it’s like a needle under a fingernail.

Still, he pushes the annoyance down, intent on having a nice night. “Would you like a cushion?”

Cassius casts a look over his shoulder, “Depends what we’re doing, I suppose.”

Christopher laughs under breath and reaches for one, passing it to his boy, “Get comfy.”

Cassius obliges, tucking the cushion underneath himself and settling with crossed legs, slouching a little forward. Christopher reaches forward, and presses cool palms to Cassius’s back, smooth and flat. He delights in the way his boy breathes in response, deep and rich, muscles of the back expanding and relaxing. Like through his touch alone he gives Cassius absolution. 

He keeps them resting them a moment before he begins to circle, and then press, working the movements into a gentle massage of a back that has only ever learnt to tense and tense and tense. Through the touch, he can feel his own sharp edges get sanded down. His own stiffness start to ease. Relaxation. Alleviation. Relief.

“How was your day, darling boy?”

Cassius sighs, contented. “Boring.”

“Sorry to hear that. Who do I need to fire?”

Cassius breathes a laugh and then hisses a sharp inhale of pain as Christopher drives his thumb into deeper tissue. The contrast between the sounds is delightful. The satisfaction of balancing scales. 

Christopher runs the heel of his hand along the trapezius, the other keeping Cassius still with a hand to his collarbone, fingers slipped beneath the neckline of his shirt. Cassius lets out a breath that could nearly be a moan, swaying with the movements of Christopher’s hand, melting at the touch. 

“What, um…” Cassius says, sounding like he’s already halfway out to sleep. He well could be. He was always so interesting with touch. Like a wax figure melting and reforming under the heat of Christopher’s hands. Cassius tries again.“What have you been working on?”

“Just reading over some things,” Christopher says with a sigh, trying his best to keep it out of mind. “Putting off calling my accountant if I’m being honest.”

“It’s stressing you out?”

“It’s boring me, mostly,” he says. He runs his thumbs along the sides of his boy’s neck as he asks, delighting in the way Cassius shudders and lets out a sigh. Relaxing piece by piece. “Stressing me out... what makes you say that?”

“Mm. Dunno. You’ve been… tense lately.”

“I’ve been in a bad mood, you mean.”

There’s only a brief pause, “Maybe a little.”

Christopher hums, “The others hide from me when I’m in a bad mood.”

“Well I’m not the others.”

There’s an interesting flavour of insult to the way the boy says it that makes Christopher smile.

“No. You’re not.” He presses a kiss to the top of Cassius’ head and taps his shoulder with a finger. “Take this off for me, love.”

Cassius glances a little over his shoulder, gives him that flirting little smile before turning back forward and slipping the shirt from his head. He drops the shirt to the side.

Christopher hums, curling his hands over lovely, olive-skinned shoulders. “Gorgeous.”

Cassius laughs and tilts his head to the side, letting his hair brush by one shoulder and his neck stretch long. Christopher hums again happily at the invitation and rubs his thumb along the tendons there, following the curve of his boy’s shoulder.

“Shall we go down to the den tomorrow?” he asks softly. He presses a kiss to Cassius’ stretching neck, like it’s an invite to lunch. “It’s been a while.”

Cassius almost misses his cue. Christopher stops the circling motions of his hand, palm resting flat over a shoulder blade, the other still curled lightly over his opposite shoulder. The stilling seems to be enough to prompt. 

“Sure,” Cassius breathes, all exhale and attempted nonchalance. Then he echoes in the sweet little way he does when he’s nervous, “It’s been a while.”

Christopher hums ambivalently, “What, do you think? The flogger maybe?”

Cassius hums back, head tilting down as Christopher’s thumbs press up to the base of his skull. “Will I get to see Chook after?”

Irritation surges at the question. Prickles under skin. Christopher sighs, irritated and disappointed. “It always has to be a quid pro quo, doesn’t it, darling?”

Cassius tenses under his hands. Christopher pretends not to notice, thumbs working double-time into the tightening muscles, forcing his own satisfaction at watching the skin go red under his touch. He runs down along the grain of the muscle, digging his thumb into a place he knows bothers. 

“Didn’t mean it like that,” the boy mutters through clenched teeth, right shoulder hitching up as the left is pressed down.

“Then what exactly did you mean?”

“I don’t know, I just thought-”

“No, you didn’t think. That’s the problem, you never think.”

“That’s not-”

“You already knew I was in a bad mood tonight, you couldn’t have just said yes?”

“I’m sorry, I was just-”

“I ask you for something I need and your first thought is oh, what do I get for it?”

“That’s not-”

“There is very little I don’t give you, Cassius, and yet-”

“I know.”

“-the second I want something from you that you find mildly distasteful-”

“I know.”

“-you turn it into some unnecessary, bargaining manipulati-”

“Jesus I know, alright? I get it. I won’t fucking see him, I was just asking. I didn’t mean it like that.”

The snapping tone. The raised voice. The breathless silence after.

How… disappointing.

Cassius knows — and Christopher knows he knows — he just made a mistake. 

Christopher pulls his hands back from Cassius’ shoulders, watching them raise up to his ears like that could possibly protect him. He sighs, and picks up his drink. He takes a slow sip.

A pin could drop and they’d hear it all the way at the gates of the Estate.

“Turn around,” Christopher murmurs. Cassius does, dark eyes cast down and skirting to the side. No, they can’t be having that. “Look at me.”

His boy looks up dutifully, trepidatious and tense. Christopher takes another slow drink, gaze locked on Cassius’. He slaps his pretty face.

Cassius’ head snaps to the side hard and fast, eyes slamming shut in self protection. He stays frozen in the wake of it, either in shock or just carefully awaiting his next instruction so as not to misstep again. His pulse is visible in his lovely throat, the little mole by his jugular keeping time.

Christopher offers out his scotch, “Drink.”

Cassius takes the glass, hand just barely shaking with adrenaline. Somewhat impressively, he downs the whole thing in one swig. Christopher watches, impassive, and puts his hand out for the empty glass to be returned to him.

His boy places it back in his hand in slow motion, holding eye contact the whole time, searching Christopher for answers of what will come next. Poor thing. It must be difficult for a telepath to predict the next course of action when the person they’re reading hasn’t decided yet.

Christopher waits for Cassius to pull his hand back from the glass entirely. And then he shatters the thing on the side table.

Cassius flinches, shards of embossed crystal exploding across the carpet, along the table-top, flicking out to glance off his boy’s arm, and leaving the jagged-edged base of the glass in Christopher’s hand.

Cassius keeps his eyes down and wide. He’s still and tense. Jaw clenched. Whole body shaking.

He doesn’t know what comes next. Isn’t sure how to move. 

Christopher is placid and steady. The burst of violence, Cassius’ involuntary reaction alongside,  was very pleasing. Satisfying. Prescription medication for the irritated soul.

Christopher takes a long, deep, calming breath through his nose. Sits forward. Looks at his boy.

“Pick a hand, my love,” he murmurs softly. 

Cassius glances up, and then down again, closing his eyes momentarily before the jaw clenches and the shoulders lower and with a tiny catching breath, he resets himself. Christopher tilts his head to the side. Cassius knows all his choreography, at least. Even when he fumbles his lines.

Cassius starts to pull up his left hand, and then, calculating, switches to his right.

How very sweet. 

Christopher takes the offered hand in his own, uncurling lax fingers with the brush of his thumb. Cassius has lovely fingers. Long and slender, pretty pink nails contrasting brown skin. There was a time Cassius used to bite those nails so short they’d bleed. Christopher has taught him to keep them longer and neater. He prefers them that way. Prettier.

Christopher takes the base of the glass and places it face down in his boy’s open hand. The circle of it fits satisfyingly well over the dip in the palm. Christopher circles the shape with the tip of his index finger, as though he were making a wine glass sing. How perfect.

For a few seconds, that’s all there is: pointed glass balanced on creased skin. And then he presses in.

Cassius winces of course, but makes no noise, as the glass cuts through the skin. Christopher watches carefully, releasing his breath as he sees the blood prickle up, beading alongside the glass. It soothes something in him, these slow moments of pain. Like the slow release on a pressurised bottle. 

He holds Cassius’ hand in place with a gentle touch to the wrist and with his other hand closes each finger, one by one, and then the thumb. He closes his own hand over Cassius’ fist, and then the other. Presses it closed and closed and closed around the glass.

Blood looks so very pretty decorating the cracks of a clenched fist.

“Look at me,” Christopher murmurs. Dark eyes flick up. Rare tears sit there, held barely back by long lashes. A blink. They spill over. Christopher breathes in deeply like one might seeing a natural wonder. In another circumstance he’d call him beautiful. But beauty is not what this moment here is about.

His fury is not a fire that can be doused with something as easeful as beauty. It’s a burning thing that turns his ribcage white-hot, generates its own energy.

He uncurls Cassius’ hand mechanically, when the tears have just started to make constant, glistening tracks down his cheeks, when the thin trails of blood have started to rundown his wrist, converging at the vein. He plucks the glass from his boys hand. The blood wells in that perfect little dip of the palm.

Cassius keeps his hand perfectly in place as Christopher sets the shards on the side-table, arm trembling, eyes fixed on the rivuleting blood. 

Christopher trails a line up 

There’s a faint little mark on the inside of Cassius’ left wrist. A small, smooth, circular thing that could pass off as an old burn, or a birthmark. Pink and glossy. Practically embossed. His brother has the same one. He flinches as Christopher runs his thumb over it, smearing blood like he’s decorating the little mark.

“It’s been a while. Hasn’t it, my love?” he says, a whole history laid out on the words.

“Yes,” Cassius replies, through a husky throat. His shoulders hitch up, tense and protective. And then he echoes, “Been a while.”

Christopher presses his thumb to the circular mark.

It takes almost exactly six seconds.

It’s a fascinating thing, to watch the body heal itself in real time. Or, not real time perhaps, but rapidly. To watch it stitch itself back together cell by cell, cut by cut, piece by piece. A wildly intelligent dance of recovery, executed by perfect machinery. And then all that’s left for evidence of harm is the small puddle of blood in the centre of his palm, the blood streaking down towards his elbow. 

Meanwhile, Christopher knows, somewhere deep in the back rooms of East Wing, Henri Drake’s palm will be opening up in tiny lacerations. He’ll feel the sting of glass that never touched him biting through skin that was never directly wounded. A punishment for a crime he never committed. He’ll spend the next week with the mistakes of his brother cut into his skin, and then he’ll wear the scars. Poetry, really.

Cassius looks at his blood-stained hand with hollow eyes, looking less wounded and more like he somehow knew this was coming. Maybe he did. He’d known exactly the sort of mood Christopher has been in this week.

“I’m ready for my apology now, Cassius.”

Cassius, as ever, knows all the right steps to the dance.

He shifts forward, hands going to Christopher’s thighs, knees slipping off the pillow and onto the tiny shards of glass still decorating the carpet. Those cuts he could keep, Christopher decides. A nice two-fold reminder.

The touch, expertly competent, does wonders at easing the rest of the tension sitting along his spine. Cassius’ eyes on him, tears still drying on his cheeks, make it even better. And that mouth… that lovely mouth.

After a long, hard day, a tense and frustrating week, what was better?

Relaxation. Alleviation. Relief.

Cassius takes him to the base. How sweet.

[ushiwakaout]

parings: Ushijima x reader , Iwaizumi x reader and Sakusa x reader 

warnings: NSFW (under the black lines) daddy kink w hajime, Timeskip Haikyuu. language? jealousy? fannon sakusa? anal w sakusa. bad grammar :)

a/n: as a compressed woman myself, i don’t think there is enough compressed content out there, or maybe i haven’t found any. 

Ushijima Wakatoshi

this man LOVES you, you cannot put it into words

let’s start with being in public 

he isn’t touchy feely with you in public, never. he think it looks bad and does’t wanna make you uncomfy

does hold your hand... kind of. You def. have smaller hands than he does so you grab his pinky most of the time, he thinks its really damn cute.

leaned down to kiss your forehead.

if you’re ever out to go eat at like a stand or sum, he sits down and he’s basically looking at you or at your chest depending on the chair.

ONLY PDA THING HE WILL DO ONCE IN A WHILE IS LEAN HIS HEAD ON YOUR CHEST AND PUT HIS HANDS ON YOUR BUTT IF HES FEELING ADVENTUROUS.

i know id love this- HIM LOOKING UP AT YOU AND ASKING FOR PERMISSION TO LIKE CARESS YOUR LOVE HANDLES OR HIPS BC UR SO THICC AND HE FUCKING LOVES EVERY SINGLE INCH *sigh* im touch starved

When it comes to being at home, he’s legit the most handsiest airhead in the freaking world

He could be laying on the couch, he makes you sit on his lap and your like “mmm, no” but he reminds you that he’s legit full nelsoned your ass while standing in front of a mirror and you like “..... y-you don’t need to remind me!!!” so you sit on his lap

y’all start talking and he’s like really distracted with you chest, doesn’t matter the size he just want his hand on your boobs.

very touchy man in private, this man was touch starved until you came in and now he can get enough.

“Toshi? What are you doing?”

Hes caressing your boobies and he just smiles like the big dumb idiot he is and whispers something about being in love with your chest and he sits up a lil and just shoves his face in ur tits, like not even in a sexual way.

let’s also add a lil nsfw in this fluff

when you guys first did the deed you hesitated in taking of your clothes, you did not want him to see you naked, not yet at least. he didn’t mind at, but he made you wear his shirt.

you kissed him and changed in the bathroom and when you came out wearing his shirt like a dress, he got embarrassingly hard 

that day he realized that his favorite position w you (only when you wear his shirts) is doggy style bc he’d ruin all his shirts and ball up the hem of it to pull you so deep into his cock and holy shit he’s never felt so much euphoria

he’s got you screaming his name, drooling over the bed sheets, covering his cock with your orgasm. god he loves the sight of your body giving out due to multiple orgasms.

also loves eating you out, wow

he’s told you that he’d be happy if he suffocated in-between your thighs

you had to let out a giggle but like it turned into a moan

cocky bastard

loves leaving marks on you, there’s so much skin to cover, and he wants to do it all.

Iwaizumi Hajime

I 100% believe that this boys mother is compressed as well and you cannot tell me otherwise

loves public pda especially at night

has to be touching you in some way shape or form

either holds your hand, your waist or your ass, just depends how you’re feeling and how he’s feeling

kisses your hand or the crown on your head

say if your ever standing in line and your in front of him, he will lean his head down and put his chin on top of your head

slaps your ass when he think no one is looking BUT SOMEONE IS ALWAYS LOOKING and he just makes you really embarrassed

i think he’s definitely an ass guy so he pinches your butt a lot

when he went to Irvine in Cali, he just had to take you with him, he couldn’t just leave his baby all alone without him.

you guys had a free day so y’all went to laguna beach, lucky it wasn’t as packed as it usually was or so you heard

at this point iwaizumi has given you enough confidence to wear a two piece, (obviously high waisted)  

half the time at the beach you felt like he wanted to bark at the guys who stared at your ass while you sun bathed.

he’d bother you a lot for kisses and low key make out sessions

and let me tell you when he pulled away from the kiss and saw how plum and fucking red your lips where, he was hard, he’s never wanted you to wrap you mouth around his cock so bad

he calmed down for a bit, went into the water and cooled down, while you still laid on you belly enjoying the sun

at some point he was the one sunbathing and you where in the water

and now he believes that he picked the wrong pair of short to wear bc he got hard while watching you walk back to your spot, water just dripping down every curve and in every crook of your body

“We’re going back to the hotel now.”

you don’t complain, it’s not like you didn’t fucking notice how hard his cock was, it made your mouth drool

god getting to the hotel, he wasted no time at all what so ever.

kissed you all around, you skin tasted salty and fresh on his tongue

you broke the kiss to tell him that you guys should probably get into the shower or sand will be everywhere. 

SHOWER SEX

Hajime has a love/hate relationship with shower sex but today he didn’t care, he just pounded into your pussy like it was the last time he’d ever feel you

He loves pulling your body, you back close this his chest while he’s ramming into you, whispering the naughtiest things in your ears.

it either “you’re so tight, fuck, you’re twitching. Does it feel that good, hm? You’re pussy wrapped around my cock, taking me in so well. You love this don’t you, filthy little thing you are.”

he also likes teasing you, god he loves just holding your hips just to fuck you so slowly, edging you. “Are you gonna be a good girl and cum on my cock? You’re gonna be daddy’s good girl and cum all over my cock, right?” 

he’s such an asshole, i need to stop writing bc i legit wont stop. i love hajime so much omfg

Sakusa Kiyoomi

Oh boy Sakusa is def hard to write about, but i love him so ill do it

I think is he dated a compressed reader, he’d def tease them about their height, never their weight

Although he’s always been iffy about touching, there’s just something about you

he always has to be touching you somehow

his teammates at MSBY are really surprised to figure out that he has an S/O and that he lives and breathes the same air as their Oomi

They are really surprised when you come one day after practice and he doesn’t immediately go to the showers, go goes straight to kiss you just to say a quick hello and then he rushes into the shower. 

Atsumu’s like, “how you do dat?” you shrug it off bc you have no idea either bc ever since you’ve started dating he gets a lot more comfortable with you

his teammates love you by the way especially bokuto and hinata (ima say u used to be karasunos co manager w yachi)

thicc boys and girls hang together

anytime bokuto tries hugging you, you’re ready to accept him with open arms but Oomi is just like NO. BIG NO

Pouty boy sakusa doesn’t want bo accidentally feeling you up bc thats his job

Obviously atsumu is the comic meme where it’s like “are you sakusa’s new girlfriend! Dude! He told me you were hot but i didn’t believe him, bc like have you seen him? out of his league. Like, btw, fuck him, dude. Lets elope- I AIN’T DOIN NOTHIN!”  atsumu thinks you’re hot always flirts w/ you bc he low key has a thing for thicc girls (probably gonna write something about that bc i know for a fact people believe that he’d call a big girl “pig” but i think he’d be the type of asshole to hide the fact that he’s dating you bc he’s called people pigs and what not but during his time at MSBY bokuto def. rubbed of on him.

atsumu high key doesn’t remember you but YOU DEF REMEMBER HIM

you bumped into him while refilling waters and he’s like “watch it pig”

sakusa heard what you said and atsumus like “oh shit....”

you can’t tell me sakusa did not grad his usual cute scarf and try to suffocate him with it bc he insulted his s/o before he was their s/o

“we barely knew each other then stop trying to kill him Oomi!”

high key sakusa saw you that day and was like wow.

you can out of the bathroom with ur cute hand towel and hand sanitizer, you were low key sick but didn’t wanna put anyone at risk so u had a mask on too

you caught his looking and you just waved, you don’t really remember that day but he def does bc he fell i love with u then and there

his cousin had to drag him away from following you down the hall and ask what was you cleaning regimen bc he knew id freak u out a lil but it really wouldn’t have.

sukusa is only public handsy if he’s tipsy or when he’s at home w you and the three boys (atsumu, bokuto and hinata) he says he hates them but he doesn’t and you know that bc he wouldn’t let them into their house if he did

they WILL NOT LEAVE IF THE MISS THE TRAIN OR ARE TOO DRUNK TO WALK YOU FORCE OOMI TO LET THEM SLEEP OVER

You’re like covering them with blankets any everything and lightly waking them up to put a pillow under their head, hinata low key starts crying bc he says you’re so sweet and that oomi should be feel so lucky that he’s got someone like you

okay hinata almost makes you cry but u like just boop his nose and giggle it off 

while you’re covering up atsumu, he starts flirting with you and u just laugh but tell me why sakusa will come behind you and just wrap his arms around you, puts his chin on your shoulder and glares at him

basically saying “leave my woman alone.” 

atsumu is high key (even if sakusa doesnt realize but you do) enticing sakusa so you can get a good fuck tonight bc he feels a lil bad for intruding.

TELL ME WHY IT WORKS THO

Sakusa will like drag you to bed, tease you. tie your hand behind your back so you can’t touch him and all you can do is watch him strip for you

god his body is sculpted by Himeros himself because his body is so damn sexy 

after hes down to his boxers he covers your eyes with a cloth and he gives you a good face fucking,

you cannot tell me that he doesn’t get so fucking hard after taking off the cloth and seeing how red a watery your eyes are

also this motherfucker is so dirty in bed i’m sorry (cannon him will not touch u tho like mmm sakusa cannon is a pillow prince, its still hot, def will write about it soon)

he would lick up you salty tears, and kiss your plump lips after he made you swallow his cum

he fucks you in front of the mirror that day but not on the bed

he makes you lean into your vanity so you can see up close how much of a drooling and crying mess me make you

you’re gipping onto the vanity and you’re on your fucking tippy toes, you’re twitching and so close to breaking the fucking vanity bc this isn’t your first orgasm, its probably the third or fourth

he’s covering your mouth with one hand and the other on your hip for grip as he pounds you

he might stick a finger or two in your mouth 

OH GOD I JUST THOUGHT- I JUST THOUGHT OF HIM LIKE spreading your ass too see how much you’ve cummed on his cock and he get’s the sudden urge to put this thumb in you ass, so he just runs his thumb around and it surprises you but he sees how you just tightened around his cock

he gives you a cocky look and just leans into your ear AND WHISPERS SO MANY DIRTY FUCKING THINGS WHILE NIBBLING AND LICKING YOUR EAR

“You’re such a dirty whore baby, I haven’t even put it in and you just tightened around me so good. I think- god you feel so tight... I think you might just cum from slipping my thumb into that cute ass of yours”

FILTHY , SAKUSA IS A FILTHY WHORE AND ITS FUCKING HOT

a/n: i wrote too much for sakusa when i was like wtf am i gonna write AND I ENDED UP WRITING THE MOST FOR HIM JFSIBFBSDFSKFHS IM NOT SURPRISED do i smell favoritism? yes. i’m not ashamed. 

[reifromrfa]

Surprises: Vanderwood x MC | Mysme RBB fic

Hi guys! I’m sure you’ve seen this project in the fandom, there are a lot of talented artists and writers who are a part of it ^^ This piece is for the @mysme-rbb and it was such a thrill to write it! I’ve missed writing for the fandom and I’m glad I got this opportunity to do so <3 Even luckier that I got paired with two amazing artists! 

For this first collab, I got paired with the wonderful GLX ! Please check out their instagram HERE!  We’re super lucky to have collaborated on a character we both love: Vanderwood! So I hope you enjoy the story and I hope I can write for everyone again soon ヾ(@^▽^@)ノ PS: I’ll edit this post with the link to the art once it’s out! ^^

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Surprises

In collaboration with gl.artsy 

"Hurry!"

Vanderwood chuckles and closes the car door, hoisting bags and baskets on his arms and shoulders. MC laughs and hugs the beach towels to her chest, grinning widely.

"Sorry...I'm a little excited," her grin turns sheepish but Vanderwood shakes his head, his smile mirroring her own. Seeing her this happy makes him feel things he hasn't felt before --pleasant feelings. Feelings...that a secret agent just doesn't have the luxury to be thinking about, much less feel. But he's not a secret agent anymore --he has a legal job now, one where he doesn't have to risk his life everyday or dirty his hands. Hell, the dirtiest his hands can get with his new job as Jumin's bodyguard is cleaning up after his cat.

With his free hand, he reaches for hers and weaves their fingers together.

Today is their one-year anniversary and Vanderwood wants everything to be absolutely perfect. He's not one for grand gestures and romantic stuff, but he knows celebrations like these matter to girls.

In the past year he's been with MC, he's gotten used to watching those cheesy romantic chick flicks. Never in his life did he imagine he'd be forced to watch those kinds of shi--stuff. But he's braved through The Notepad, A Stroll to Remember, Crazy Silly Love...and he's learned a lot from those movies. For one, his girlfriend ends up crying every time they watch the shows together.

Every. Single. Time.

But he'd see how immersed she is in the scenes where the guys make a big move for the girl. Vanderwood would notice how she heaves a deep sigh and wipes her eyes, a dreamy smile on her face.

Ha...he's new to this relationship thing but he's not stupid; Vanderwood knows how this works. The bigger the gesture, the happier MC will be...

...right?

He's startled out of his thoughts when MC tugs his hand, pointing at a spot on the beach. "Over there! There's a free spot there!"

Vanderwood follows after MC and starts setting up their towels and beach umbrella. This is the first step in his grand surprise for MC today: spend the morning at the beach, a place MC rarely went to. The excited look on her face is all the confirmation he needs; he did good, choosing this as the start of their date.

MC sits on the towel under the shade of the umbrella and takes off her wide-brimmed hat, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. When she opens them, she turns to Vanderwood. "Baby, this is perfect. The skies are clear, there's a breeze and there's not much people; it's almost like we have the beach to ourselves!"

Vanderwood chuckles, sitting beside his girlfriend and reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ear. "You like it?"

At his touch, she blushes and smiles, nodding her head. "I do, Vanderwood. I really do."

He leans forward, lips quirking up into a smirk. "Good...that's real good, MC." Vanderwood can see the blush on her face deepening as he inches closer and his own heart races, eyes darting to her slightly-parted lips. As he draws nearer though, he hears a whooshing sound through the air and a distant yell: "LOOK OUT!"

His reflexes kick in and Vanderwood pulls MC against his chest then pins her against the ground, using his body to shield her from whatever it is --MC doesn't even have the time to process what's happening. But she feels herself warming, eyes fixated on Vanderwood's tense expression, at the way he's hovering on top of her, holding her protectively against him.

A second later, their umbrella is knocked over and a spray of sand flies across Vanderwood's back. He turns away and shields MC's eyes, a million thoughts already flying through his mind.

"Could it be that some agents found me? How many are there? How am I gonna get MC safely to the car? The taser's in the bag, if I could just reach it in time

"Vanderwood turns his head to look for the target-

-when his eyes fall to the white volleyball lying on the sand near them.

"Sorry! I'm so sorry, that's my fault!!!" A kid with blonde hair is running up to them, waving his hand and trying to bow at the same time. Vanderwood's eyes narrow. Wait a minute...isn't that-

"Yoosung?" comes MC's voice.

Sure enough, Yoosung's purple eyes widen as recognition dawns and he laughs, running faster. Right behind him is the silver-haired actor and Jaehee Kang, all dressed in their beachwear. Zen smiles when he spots the two familiar faces but it only lasts for a second --the moment he realizes the position the couple are in...

"YA!!! Vanderwood! What are you doing!" Zen glares at Vanderwood, pointing an accusatory finger at the Silver Spoon's bodyguard. Vanderwood narrows his gaze at the actor but hurriedly straightens himself, his face feeling warm.

"Baby, are you okay?"

"I am...what was that all about?" MC takes Vanderwood's hand and he pulls her up just as Yoosung stops in front of them, a sheepish smile on his face.

"Sorry! Zen hit the ball too hard and I received it wrong so it went flying...I didn't know it would end up here where you guys are! I didn't even know you two were going to be here too!"

Vanderwood rubs the back of his neck, wishing they'd leave him and MC alone. It's not that he doesn't like them, but today he'd like MC all for himself. "Ha...yeah, what a coincidence."

"Ya, you!" Zen jabs a finger at Vanderwood's chest, eyes blazing. "What the heck was that!"

Vanderwood looks at Zen with a deadpan look on his face. "I thought there was a threat, so I was defending my girlfriend. Will you stop having perverted thoughts?"

MC giggles. "It's true, Zen! He was just trying to protect me~"

"That's very quick thinking." Jaehee pipes in, picking up the ball. "I suppose that's what makes you a great bodyguard, Vanderwood."

"Ha...thanks." Vanderwood feels awkward still, but for an ex-agent with no family and no friends...his life's shaping out real good. Still, friends or not, he wants these people to go away and let him pamper his girlfriend. "So, now that that's settled-"

"OH! Why don't you two join us in a game of volleyball? Please!!! I'm tired of picking up the ball all the time!" Yoosung begs them, hands pressed together in front of him.

"Aww, that sounds fun! We're game, right, baby?" MC says, winking at Vanderwood. To the others, she says, "The two of us will be in a team against you guys! You'll see, Vanderwood will carry our team!"

Vanderwood can't help but feel proud at MC's words. Okay...maybe one game of volleyball wouldn't hurt. After that, they'll go back to their spot and maybe he can go swimming with MC, or get some cool drinks.

~

Yoosung, Jaehee and Zen stayed with them the entire time. After volleyball, they took MC and Vanderwood to their rented cabin and shared their meal. Vanderwood and Zen ended up grilling meat and seafood for the rest but it was actually fun. The non-stop chatter and laughs, the volleyball games, seeing MC enjoy herself --okay okay, it's not so bad that their first date got interrupted. But of course, Vanderwood has more tricks up his sleeves.

A long drive and a shower later, Vanderwood and MC change into more semi-formal attire as he drives them to one of the fancy restaurants in town. The restaurant is situated atop a building, with the entire floor encased in glass windows so guests can dine with a view overlooking South Korea. It's fine dining and Vanderwood has never been to a classy restaurant while off-duty; to be honest, something like this kinda suits Jumin Han more...but Vanderwood doesn't want to take MC to their regular dining spots. No, for this special day she deserves something special too.

As they're led to their seats by the hostess, Vanderwood once again intertwines his fingers with hers. "I heard this place has the best seoullangtang."

MC tugs at his hand, looking at him with narrowed eyes. "Baby, this place is really expensive...you didn't have to."

Ha...oh no, doesn't she like it?

"It's our anniversary," he tells her, lifting their hands and then turning hers so he can kiss the back of it. "Don't even think about that, baby."

MC turns red at Vanderwood's blatant display of affection. Usually, he's more reserved and careful when they're in public; she assumed it's because of his past and she didn't mind. But today, he's been more touchy and showy...MC has to admit, it's giving her heart a pleasant workout. They're seated right by the window and Vanderwood is the perfect gentleman, pulling her chair out for her and helping her onto her seat. MC feels shy all of a sudden as Vanderwood slides into his seat across her. With the dim lighting from the restaurant, the candle in the middle of the table casts Vanderwood's face in a warm glow and MC unconsciously swallows, entranced by him.

Their previous dates were never this fancy and she's not complaining --she loves wherever they are, be it the beach or the supermarket, a fancy restaurant or McFonald's. As long as they're together, she's happy.

But seeing her boyfriend all dressed up in a crisp button-down shirt and a coat, hair tied into a half-ponytail, brown eyes staring at her --she can't help but feel the depth and seriousness of their relationship. Today is their anniversary, which means she's spent 365 days with this man...more than that, of course. Ever since they met, her days have been full of color and life. MC reaches across the table for his hand and holds it tightly in hers.

"I love you, Vanderwood."

Vanderwood's glad it's kinda dark because his heart does that weird little thing and he feels his cheeks burn as a smile spreads across his face. "I love you too, MC."

She mirrors his smile and it's strange but MC feels like she did the first time she met him in person, nervous and intimidated, but at the same comforted by his presence and intrigued. This once mysterious man is hers and though she knows she's barely scratched the surface of all that he is, she can't wait to learn more about him everyday, for the rest of their lives.

"Baby, order whatever you like, okay? Haha, don't be worrying about the prices." Vanderwood says as they open their menus. MC's eyes are skimming through the dishes (half of which she can't even pronounce because they're in different languages) when she hears the sound of a familiar voice.

"I didn't expect to see you both here this evening."

Vanderwood tenses. No freaking way...

But he's been hanging around that voice for months now and he'd recognize it anywhere --his boss, Jumin Han. Vanderwood reluctantly looks at the man standing beside their table, the leader of the RFA at his side. Jihyun at least looks apologetic for barging into their date.

"Jumin! Jihyun! What a coincidence!" MC exclaims happily, smiling at them. Truth be told, she was looking forward to spending more alone time with her boyfriend, but she also doesn't want to be rude to her friends. "Did you guys just arrive?"

"Yes. A business colleague recommended this place. I would have asked for a private room but Jihyun preferred to stay close to the windows."

Jihyun laughs good-naturedly at Jumin's words. "This place is popular for their stunning view of the city, after all. We should get going to our table, Jumin, let's not bother them..."

"Have a good time, boss, Jihyun." Vanderwood gives them a little wave. "Nonsense. We haven't seen MC in a while. Perhaps we should ask for a bigger table and dine together."

You've got to be kidding me.

"Jumin-" Jihyun tries to interrupt, but Jumin is already gesturing for the host. In mere minutes, Vanderwood and MC are seated with Jihyun and Jumin. Of course...it's not all that bad. He didn't have to be so formal with his boss since they're outside of work, and Jumin knew his way around the menu; the meal Jumin ordered for them was mouth-wateringly delicious. Vanderwood had no idea which ones were good, so he's grateful for that part, at least.

But seriously...this was starting to get annoying. Would the RFA be popping up at his planned dates with MC? Vanderwood represses a sigh though, and fights the itch for a cigarette.

They enjoy their meal and, realizing he has no choice but to endure it, Vanderwood relaxes and allows himself to enjoy the company.

All of a sudden, they're bathed in a hue of colors and MC's eyes turn to the windows, widening with surprise. The sky is lit up by fireworks --something Vanderwood had arranged for. Her eyes are bright and her smile is priceless. As the fireworks paint the night sky with streaks of brilliant color, MC feels a peace inside her, knowing that's exactly what she was thinking of moments before. Vanderwood is like the scene outside, illuminating her life with the most dazzling colors.

And while MC gazes at the beautiful display, Vanderwood stares, enchanted, at the woman who brought light to his life.

~

The last stop of the evening is the last showing of the latest romance movie, a movie MC has been waiting for. Vanderwood settles into their comfortable lazy boy couches, glad he paid for these seats.

"I'm so excited, I've heard a lot of good reviews already!" MC whispers to him, leaning close. Vanderwood chuckles.

"Baby, it's gonna be amazing." He leans closer to her, stealing a quick kiss in the dark theater. MC bites her lower lip as he pulls away, wanting to tell him how much she loves him. But the movie starts and MC has to stop herself from squealing in excitement. She keeps her hand locked with his, eyes focused on the screen.

Vanderwood feels relaxed now, knowing no one can interrupt them, knowing he can enjoy this moment with his girlfriend and sneak glances at her cute reactions.

But just thinking those thoughts has jinxed the situation. The doors to the cinema creak open and Vanderwood picks up the sound of popcorn bags and two hushed whispers. He glances at the empty seats beside him and sighs.

"Oh! If it isn't Mary and MC!"

Vanderwood curses inwardly and almost slaps his hand to his face. No. No freaking way. No damn way.

But after some shuffling sounds, Saeyoung plops down on the seat beside Vanderwood with Saeran occupying the other.

"Ohoho, I didn't know you were into romance movies, Vandy~" Saeyoung whispers before leaning forward in his seat and waving at MC. "Hi, MC! Thanks for restarting this guy's heart! If you ask me, you should have used a tase-"

"Ya! Shut up!" Vanderwood says, a little too loudly. The audience shushes him and Vanderwood slinks into his seat while Saeyoung covers his laughs with a hand.

For the duration of the movie, Vanderwood has to put up with Saeyoung's reactions and his hushed side comments. At some point, popcorn starts to fly towards the brown-haired man too, bouncing off his hair. Saeran shakes his head, heaving a sigh as Saeyoung takes another popcorn and throws it subtly to Vanderwood. The ex-agent was ready though; he catches the popcorn and throws it back to Saeyoung, who slides down his chair dramatically.

"I've been hit...Saeran ah, save yourself~~~"

Vanderwood glances at MC's face to watch her reaction and he's surprised to see her eyes fixed on him. She's biting her lower lip, trying to stop herself from laughing. Vanderwood smirks, reaching out and freeing her lower lip from her bite.

"You want a shot at the idiot?" Vanderwood murmurs near her ear. MC nods and takes a piece of popcorn then tosses it to Saeyoung, who's crawling up his chair as quiet as he can.

Saeyoung gasps and flops back down on the ground, holding his chest as though he's wounded.

"Sneak attack! Saeran, help m-"

"No."

"Okay no ;;;;"

~

Vanderwood stirs, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn.

Damn, what time is it?

Yesterday felt so long --with all that happened, Vanderwood feels exhausted and a little disappointed at himself for failing MC. Everything should have been perfect, but as luck would have it, the RFA just had to meddle in all his plans.

He lays in bed, blinking away his sleepiness, wondering if he can do anything today to salvage their anniversary. Absently, he reaches beside him, wanting to pull MC to his side and wake her up with kisses --but his hands come up blank.

"What the-?"

His head whips to the empty space beside him and Vanderwood sits up just as the door opens. MC comes in, balancing a small tray table filled with food.

"Baby, what are you doing?" Vanderwood asks, bewildered. He starts to move from the bed but MC makes a sound and continues moving towards him.

"No no, you stay right there," she says, eyes staring at the orange juice sloshing inside the glass. "Don't get off the bed, baby!"

Vanderwood freezes, unsure what's happening. Finally, MC lays the tray table on the bed and beams at Vanderwood. "Happy anniversary, baby!"

The brown-haired man blinks, surprised. Then a soft chuckle escapes his lips. "MC, baby...did you do all this for me?"

MC shrugs, her smile wide enough to light up the room. "Maybe~"

She carefully sits on the bed closest to Vanderwood, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Baby, yesterday was amazing! I wasn't expecting those surprises at all."

Vanderwood's brows furrow. "What do you mean..? MC...I...was gonna apologize-"

"What? For what?"

Vanderwood awkwardly scratches his cheek, not sure what to say. "Uh...ha, 'coz I didn't intend for the RFA to show up. And I mean, anniversaries aren't supposed to be celebrated like that...right? The movies we watched, the celebrations ain't like that."

Giggling, MC leans towards her boyfriend and kisses his cheek. "Oh Vanderwood, it was perfect. I had so much fun, even more so because our friends were with us celebrating our special day with us.

Without the RFA, you and I would have met in a different way. But I like our love story, because everything that has happened so far has led us to this moment, baby." She holds his hands, cheeks turning red. "I loved watching you play volleyball and grill our lunch, I loved listening to you talk with our friends, I loved catching my boyfriend all dressed up to take me on a fancy dinner, and I loved that you sat through another romance movie with me, all the while having a popcorn battle with Saeyoung."

MC squeezes his hands and all of Vanderwood's doubts vanish; his eyes fix on her, his heart beating loudly against his chest.

"Vanderwood...the girls in those movies we watch get one big gesture per movie but I got three amazing dates in one day. My friends were there to celebrate a special day with me: the anniversary of the day I promised forever to the love of my life. And I-"

Before MC could finish her speech, Vanderwood closes the gap between them and meets her lips for a kiss, pulling her close to him without toppling over the tray. MC's hands clutch the front of his shirt and her eyes close, her body tingling as he pours his emotions into their kiss.

"MC," Vanderwood says breathlessly, leaning his forehead against hers, "I love you. I'll keep takin' you out for dates, keep celebrating this day with you every year. 'Coz it's the day you and I got together, the day my life started to make more sense..." He gives her another peck and pulls her closer, stroking her cheek with his thumb. "But every day you remind me that there's more to life than fighting and running. Every day, I wanna see you smile and hear you tell me you love me."

MC giggles and wraps her arms around him. "I love you, Vanderwood." She lays her head on his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart, a heart that's tied to hers. "Yesterday was amazing but today I'm keeping you all to myself."

Vanderwood chuckles, reaching for a piece of bacon and holding it near her lips. MC takes a small bite from it and Vanderwood takes a larger chunk. "You and me all day, huh?"

MC nods, reaching for her phone. "You and me, all day, everyday." She holds the phone away from them, opening the camera app. "Happy anniversary, baby~"

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Thank you so much for the opportunity to participate, @mysme-rbb :) I had fun and kudos to the mods for an amazing project! 

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

Check out my other Mysme writings here!

Mango Shake/Ko-fi is always very much appreciated (ᵔᴥᵔ)

I’d be honored to write your story <3 (Commissions are full and closed atm ;A;)

[goldafterglow]

hold me in the meadows

Summary: You are Ezra’s dreamcatcher and he is your burrow.

Request: “The sleepy prompts!! Lovely! Can you do “I have had nightmares every night for the past three weeks and now they’re gone because of you, how did you do that?” with (can you guess??) EZRA” - the love of my life, @opheliaelysia

Pairing: Ezra (Prospect) x Reader

Word Count: 4.6k+

Tags: angst?, fluff, more metaphors that don’t mean anything, weird touching lol idk what the fuck this fic is, this is also not beta read so send the flood send the flu

Author’s Note: If you left a like or comment or reblog on Dissolve Me I’m telling you with as little shame as is humanly possible that I definitely reread it at least 3 times. Feedback means the word to me! also this was supposed to be a 500 word drabble and now it’s over 4.5k words if that tells you anything about me. I apologize in advance I think I’ve really outdone myself w/ my bullshit this time

Gif Credit: @pascvl; Also shout out to @pascalplease sorry I spammed you for nothing dsfgdsg

Ezra is staring at you.

He’d met you on one of those toxic moons, one of those deceitfully picturesque mirages where the dust glitters like lily petals but the air would kill you before you could think to appreciate it. You were a floater; a nomad with no place to call home, but you figured you liked it that way. Homes were permanent. They set lives and futures in cobblestone and trapped spirits in gated properties, keeping just about anything and everything tethered under the farce of security. Homes make paraffin casings around dragonfly wings and turn footprints to concrete. So you never had one, and you never wanted one. Ezra had found you amusing. You had found him to be better company than just yourself. So with great reluctance, you established a partnership. Not one forged in steel or bronze but something still fleeting, its true meaning always escaping your lips like a forgotten thought. It’s too much work to try and think about it anyway.

You had let him invite you to reside in his tent. It took coaxing, required copious amounts of golden honey spilling from Ezra’s tongue to get you to tenaciously stick to him, but you were no match for his silver tongue. He did everything he could to assure that this wasn’t a habitat, but merely a shelter - a thing that could be taken down and built back up somewhere else, anywhere you wanted. So you had obliged. He let you take the cot closest to the zipper door; you liked being closer to the exit, just a rotation away from being back on your feet. He tries to let you truly feel like if you wanted to escape, wanted to elope with liberty and run away from the loose bonds of the canopy, you could.

Three weeks of sleeping adjacent to him and you still don’t want to.

Ezra is used to temporary relationships. He has done his fair share of companion hopping, although he wasn’t really making an effort to do so. It scares him a little - why can’t he make anyone stay, make anything last? Partners passed him by, either to traverse on their lonesome or to stay with that greedy man in the eternal sky. Teams disbanded around him like glass castles shattering in his wake. Ezra, whether he liked it or not, was accustomed to transience.

He is not, however, accustomed to fearing that sharp brevity. Ezra is constantly on his toes around you, frequently wondering if he’s pushing you away or pulling you closer. You aren’t skittish, don’t constantly question everything he says or get offended by the sound of his voice, but he’s still scared of losing you. Every time he looks into your eyes he sees wonder, a certain fascination with life that he tries so hard to match because he wants to find things as beautiful as you do. As beautiful as you are. He wants to mis-quote your favorite novels that you force him to read so that you’ll scold him so affectionately and tell him that perhaps he had garnered a little brain damage from his previous escapades. He wants to trip over tree roots that have herniated through the soil so you can laugh at him, maybe lay there on the grass with him for a little bit. Just a little bit.

In your own mind, you are guarded. You try your very best not to get too personal, too deep, too much. Because you don’t like it when people can see your flushed, bloody insides. You just know that the moment you open your chest, someone will steal your heart right out of your rib cage and like the pass of a hummingbird, all of your secrets will be free to float in the breeze like the ashes of your lost quintessence; it’ll all be gone and then you’ll really be empty.  So how could you ever know what you mean to Ezra?

He knows what a truly locked up person looks like. He’s spent hundreds of cycles with people that don’t make a noise. He’s sat in bustling pods of people and felt like the only man in the room, like solitary confinement for his mind. No, you are not some warning-covered steel box, padlocked and duct-taped and glued shut so that even if he’s sitting right next to you, he’ll have nothing more than his own voice bounce to off of your walls and fly right back to him. You’re a music box, a gold-trimmed heart-shaped sound bottle, and he learns that if he winds you up the right way, you’ll sing so pretty for him.

He has spent so long talking, nonsensically making those arbitrary noises burst out of his throat until they lose all meaning, but finally, for the first time in so fucking long, Ezra gets to listen.

He listens to you tell him you think his hair is stupid and that sometimes he smells bad. He listens to you lament about barren dig-sites and wasted time, about how it’s so fucking hot in your suit. He listens to you fantasize about touching the trees, burying your face in your flowers and squeezing the moss in your hands. About drowning in the river so that your body is filled with the water and then rolling in the sand so that it all sticks to you and you have to dive back in to clean off. About feeling something.

Sometimes, Ezra just wants to hear something other than his own voice. And you’re the cold towel to his inflamed skin, refreshing and addictive. You’re much braver than you think, so much stronger than you give yourself credit for, because for once, Ezra can talk into the forest and know that there’s someone to listen besides the leaves. He doesn’t feel alone.

Every night, when the moon has turned its back on the narcissistic Sun and opened its arms to the thousands of other stars, each just a prick of light but understanding of their place in the tapestry of the darkness, the two of you retire to that tent. You both redress into comfortable clothes, backs turned on each other under the guise of respect, and climb into your respective cots. Ezra would turn off that shitty lantern that illuminated the enclosure, and your shadows would dissipate into the darkness.

Except Ezra’s shadows don’t disappear; they hide. They blend into the black and mold into one man-engulfing untamable beast to possess Ezra’s throat. And they manifest again in his mind. They poison that movie that plays once you slip consciousness, instills fear into his bone marrow until he doesn’t feel safe in his own body, his own thoughts.

These slumber illusions haunt Ezra. His right arm waves at him in his sleep, the souls to which he was the conduit bridging life and death haunt his diaphragm with toothy grins to mock him, screeching into his cavities. They remind him that he was never really alone because he has the suffocating embrace of those spirits that are sewn so tight to his eyelids. Every night he somehow manages to pull himself from the darkness only for his own demons to pull him back by the throat. He is always oscillating between consciousness and unconsciousness, being tossed around like a helpless rag with no hope of liberation. Nothing scares him more than his own thoughts.

And you know. You know all of it. How could you not? You were born a tumbleweed, wandering across desolation, so of course you’re a light sleeper. And you can hear Ezra’s choked cries, his tossing and turning as he drains himself of any sense of safety. But this man is a stranger to you. He is just a person you reside with, talk to all the time, nudge gently and tease and smile with. He is just the person that you wake up wanting to see, whose attention you always crave. A stranger.

So every night you turn your body to face the zipper of the tent and pretend that you can’t hear him cry. Pretend that you don’t sometimes cry with him. A pretty lavender lie that smells sweet, tastes sweeter.

You, in your cowardice, let him destroy himself. Watch as the bags under his eyes get bigger and greyer and the strings holding his shoulders up lose their tension.

Ezra, in his flawed cratered embodiment, is only human. And he had gone so long without holding anyone, without being held. He knows what he wants, knows who he wants. But he also knows how jittery you are, how fluttery your heart is, and he doesn’t want to approach it too fast lest he startle you and you fly off into the stars. But he can’t keep doing this, can’t live with himself when he knows he’s not the one in control but those horned, slimy creatures that claw at his maxilla with their venomous grins.

The lights are out in the tent per usual, so Ezra can’t really see you. His careful eyes can trace the outline of the curves of your body - or is it that his delusional eyes are envisioning some arbitrary glow around you, convincing him that what he’s seeing is real? Reality is a concept with which he is no longer familiar.

You, laying in your cot, decide that you just can’t take it anymore. You can’t stand to let this intruder of your life break you down the way he is without even trying. How dare he look into you, how dare he listen to you without passing judgement, how fucking dare he make you feel like a flower in bloom?

Ezra hears your breaths - they’re uneven. You haven’t gone to sleep. What are you waiting for?

“Ezra?” you practically squeak into the void. His ears perk up immediately; your cotton candy voice is enticing to him, flossing its way through his veins.

“What are you doing up, birdie?” Ezra asks softly, the air of his lungs floating on top of his words. He doesn’t mean to keep you awake, but he isn’t mad that you are. It’s stimulating his nerves enough to keep himself awake, and that’s something he probably won’t ever be able to repay you for.

“I-um….” Shit. You hadn’t expected to get this far. What would you say to him? How could you tell him that you wanted to help cleanse him, that you wanted to grovel in lime-coated thumb tacks with him and absorb his pain into your tissue paper skin? “I can’t sleep.”

Not a lie. Ezra knows you mean it. He just doesn’t know why.

“Well that won’t suffice,” he decides, outstretching his left arm blindly off the edge of his cot until his fingers brush against what he’s looking for: that goddamn lantern. With a little more fumbling, a weak but good enough orange glow is emitted on the floor between the two of you. You both catch each other’s pitiful gaze. You want to take care of each other, want to shield each other from the red sprites that nip angrily at each other’s hearts. Ezra holds his left arm out to you, tentatively. He’s never been more unsure in his life. He watches you glance at his arm, and then quickly to the side. You’re trying to decide if you’ll let him add another tether to you. If you’ll let him become something sewed so tight to your bleeding skin that to leave would rip you apart.

You slowly get up and walk over to his cot.

Ezra lets out a soft breath and his lips turn to a soft smile. He’s soft.

“C’mere, dandelion” he mumbles to you, and he hasn’t missed his right arm so much as in this moment. He wants to hold you properly, wants to keep you as close to him as possible. You’re hesitant, and he can tell. You’ve never been this close to him before, and you want to savor it. When your head finally touches his shoulder, it’s like a catalyst ignites underneath the two of you. You mold into each other the way the gods intended, like lake water seeping into the smallest of crevices of an empty river bed. Like the opposing poles of two magnets, like a key penetrating a lock. Like you were made for each other. Your arms immediately wrap around him, his neck now a fixture of your body, and his arm leads you to lay down on the cot. Without words, without that candid discourse that Ezra was so fond of, his face is buried into the warmth of your chest and he feels like you’ve cast an ethereal shield around him.

Ezra doesn’t need to hold you tight because you’re holding him tighter, like you’re trying to cling to something invisible and foreign before it can even think to leave you. Before it realizes that it doesn’t want you. Don’t leave. He can feel you breathe him in, face smashed against his wild hair, and he can’t blame you because he’s breathing you in too.

“Sweetheart-” he breathes, fanning against your skin in a way that sends a deep shiver down your spine and shakes your shoulders.

“Shh.” And for once in his cursed life, he’s speechless. There’s so much, too much that he wants to say to you, but his mind is shouting all of it at him at once and he doesn’t even know where to start. So he shuts the fuck up. He feels you. He feels your heat melt him until he can barely control his own muscles because they’ve gone limp, unable to perform a single contraction because his fibers are relaxed, are at peace.

He doesn’t know when he falls asleep.

When Ezra wakes, you’re still sweet and motionless around him. The lamp was still on, still shining pathetically on the ground. He doesn’t feel the need to look around or squeeze his lids closed in an attempt to wring the bad rest out of him.

Rest?

He thinks fucking hard. When had he woken up last night? When had his banshees infiltrated his thoughts and cried into the void of his packed mind? All he can recall are caramel dreams, whipped cream clouds and berry trampolines for him to jump high into the cotton candy sky. He thinks he might like it that way. Maybe every night can be like that, every morning can feel this transcendent.

He hears you moan quietly as you stir not long after him, breaths shuddering on their way out of your nose as you slowly come to your senses.

“Good morning, birdie,” Ezra finally says. He doesn’t know what to say to you, what he can say to you, without making you flip a switch and realize that it’s all a mistake, that he is a mistake. His eardrums smile as your sleepy whining settles.

“Morning, Ezra,” you whisper, throat not ready to talk yet. It’s okay; you’d rather hear him talk to you anyway.

“Did you…were you able to achieve some sort of comfort?” Ezra asks. For a second you’re confused until you remember what you’d told him last night, and you realize that you’re holding him the same way you were when you’d gone to sleep. He hadn’t woken up.

“Yeah, Ezra,” you finally say after letting yourself simmer in the silence for a second. “Thank you.”

He smiles wide against your skin, the blunt tip of his excitement the battering ram that beats against his racing heart. He’s given you something worthy of your gratefulness, and the feeling of being worthy light his chest with blue flames.

“It’s not my intention to blow you away, dandelion,” Ezra says, his nerves manifesting into his characteristic breathy laughs, “but I can’t deny how direly I want to just touch you.” You feel the air get knocked out of you as your diaphragm begins to spasm; what is he asking? You’ve thought about it before; god, of course you’ve thought about it before. To lay back as you let him study you, memorize you and then let you do the same. Analyze the sculpted marble of his body to remind yourself why you love it so much.

“Please.”

It’s barely a whisper, a secret told to the wind, but Ezra hears you. Ezra always hears you.

So Ezra’s fingers begin to wander along your skin. He wants to map out the scars on your body, wants to learn the shape of you so intimately that he could remodel you if he wanted to. He wants to know your body the way he knows when you’re disappointed or frustrated or amazed or confused. He wants to just know.

You feel the calloused pads of Ezra’s fingers put a little pressure onto that dip of your thoracic vertebrae, draw circles above your hip right under the fabric of your sweatshirt, caress your shoulder. He’s slowly exposing your skin to the humid chill of the dank enclosure, carefully making your top cover less and less of you, but you’ve never felt warmer.

As Ezra’s mind begins to really warm up and the cogs begin to grease themselves, his words begin to flow out the way you’re used to. The way you’ve learned to love.

“Sweetheart, I have had nightmares every night for the past three weeks and now they’re gone,” he blurts. Fuck. His hand stutters against the small of your back. He’s done it now, he’s really gone and blown it, because now you know he’s fucking broken and you’re smart enough to know when to avoid damaged goods. You have to know that if you were to take your hands and try and feel him you’d just get bumps and ridges and cracks. But Ezra is selfish, can’t help himself or his thoughts, so he keeps rambling. “It is not my intention to come off as presumptuous, but I just know it’s because of you. How did you do that, birdie? You never told me you were sent to me as a dreamcatcher.”

You can’t help but smile into his scalp a little at his words. You didn’t mind taking all of his bad dreams and refracting them far away into the space between the stars for him. A light, breathy laugh rolls off your tongue like a huff, because fuck, if you were going to be embroidered to something it might as well be him.

Your breath hitches again as the back of his hand runs flat along your stomach. It travels back around and up to the nape of your neck, tracing your shoulders and then over to your clavicles, paying close attention to the dips. You can’t help but wonder if this means as much to him as it does to you; it means everything to you.

“You’re right. I’ve been holding out on you all this time,” you say, and he can hear you smile through the roses of your words. He slowly and with purpose lifts his head from your embrace so that he can look up at you, maybe even catch a glimpse of that pretty grin of yours and burn it onto his lenses.

“I’m not confident that you’ll ever know how fortuitous I was the day I met you.” Ezra’s voice is low as he speaks, his drawl stretching and fraying the ends of his words, and you soak in every last syllable. You soak in the meaning of his words. He feels lucky to have you.

You look down at him, bringing a hand to run through his hair. That stupid blonde streak snatches your attention for a moment and you thumb at the strands. You want to tease him about it, mock him a little, but you don’t. The moon marine in your arms holds so much unbridled beauty, and it’s all yours to look at.

Ezra is all yours to look at.

Ezra’s hand travels up to your face, cupping your cheek while his thumb toys with the corner of your mouth in a way that makes you bite your lip through a smile. Throwing all caution to the wind, you turn your head and press a shy kiss to the heel of his palm. Ezra’s skin burns where you’ve sanctified him. His hand begins to crave your touch in other ways, he is craving something more from you, but he knows he does far too much taking. He’s already taken so much from you, has already stolen so many moments from you out of sheer gluttony, but it’s not always his fault because you’re so giving. He knows you were a little hollow from the start, knows you were a little frayed in the first place, but still you share your thoughts and companionship with him because whether you know it or not, you’re a little taken by this space mutineer. If you fled this little thing you’ve built with him, you’d be leaving the prettiest parts of yourself behind for him to keep taking care of the way a mother makes her son’s bed after he leaves for college because what if you want to come back?

But you haven’t left, haven’t abandoned him and in turn, yourself. You’re right here, letting him bask in your reverent lavender radiation, and as he looks at how you’re giving off your own intrinsic glow because the shitty orange light on the ground isn’t enough, he knows he hasn’t earned it. He doesn’t think this is a very fair transaction at all, but he’s too selfish to stop you from paying a little extra. You’ll let him keep the change.

Ezra wordlessly lifts his head, nosing at your wrist so that you’ll bring it lower and let him kiss the delicate skin there. He looks up at you with wide, eager eyes of adoration. His feelings for you are beginning to bubble underneath the surface of his silk-lined thoughts and he is willing them to stay at that low simmer because he doesn’t want to think about anything except how fucking gorgeous you look in the lamplight.

“I’m growing rather fond of the way you feel against me,” Ezra finally says. Everything is so foreign now, so new, so he tries to do the one thing you both know, the one routine you can both dance without needing to think about it: talking.

“I like it too Ezra,” you giggle. Not a long, flittery one, but a pass of air with a note under it. You’re a little nervous too.

“I reckon I could get accustomed to this,” he whispers. Your lip betrays you, curling itself to reveal your reply before you even say it. Your teeth capture your lower lip for the act of treason, but it’s too late. “But I’d just hate it if I made you feel like you’re bearing my baggage.”

“Ezra, you don’t have crippling baggage,” you insist. What is this man talking about? You were the one with issues. You were the one that had to be convinced to stay with him, you were the one that insisted on the right cot, you were the real coward here. You were broken. “Everyone has their demons. There is so much more inside of you. You’re so full.”

Ezra’s eyes go a little wide at your words. You didn’t think he was half a man? Some incomplete mosaic that would never find his missing pieces?

“You flatter me,” he chuckles; no, he giggles.

“Well…I just figured there’s no way a broken man could handle his broken partner the way you deal with me.” His expression melts into something more than pity and less than ignorance - confusion. The tap in Ezra’s tongue pops loose and his words begin to cascade from his lips like some majestic phenomenon, like holy water spraying the filth off of your brow.

“I need you to look at me, firefly.” His voice is more stern now, his words more articulate as he shifts up the bed slightly so that he’s eye level with you. He’s still on his side, his left hand is still gripping the flesh at your hip. “I don’t think you’ll ever truly comprehend how much you’ve done for me these past cycles, but this life is quiet and toilsome. You’re capable of recognizing beauty in things I wouldn’t have even taken note of in the first place, and I hang onto your every utterance whether you’re aware or not. It’s easy for me to sit here and tell you how bad I always want you because you fill my thoughts, pretty dandelion. And if someone came here and regurgitated your exact words to me, it still wouldn’t hold a candle to the way you sing when you wonder out loud. I don’t need to ‘deal’ with you, sweet rose. I want you.”

Your lip quivers a little; you know Ezra likes talking to you, he’s told you before. But you couldn’t help but assume Ezra just likes talking, period. That he liked having you around about as much as he’d enjoy the company of any other talker. To think that someone wants you, your passions and afterthoughts and pondering notions, meant more than anything you could articulate.

“Ezra-” you start, but you cut yourself off. You want to let his words turn into condensation on your skin, to form little rain clouds above your head so that they pour back down on you in delicate drops. You want to let him linger, to sit and hang above you like the sky hangs above the ocean.

You look straight at him, deep into his inquiring brown eyes as you both begin to breathe the same air, scents mingling between you like the heat between two stars. His nose is right up against yours and you can feel his lashes caress your cheekbone. He’s so close, but you want him closer, need him to move his hand or blink his eyes or do something, because you can’t take the nothingness anymore when you’ve got everything pressed right up against your face.

Ezra decides he wants one last thing from you.

“My rose, I don’t want to ask too much of you, but I suppose if that were true I wouldn’t have invited you to stay with me anyway. In the tent, of course. Not the cot.” Fuck, what was he saying? He lets out a soft laugh as he tries to reorganize his thoughts, a blushing mess under your gaze because he’s so used to knowing exactly how to get what he wants, but he’s really pushing your boundaries and bending your fence posts now. You’re turning him into a man who fumbles, a man who doesn’t always have to know what he’s about to say, and he doesn’t mind being a little less talk around you and a lot more touch.

Suddenly, he’s reminded of what he wanted to ask you.

“Sweet creature, could I kiss you?”

You don’t miss a beat in this soft ballad you’re playing with him, letting out a gentle “yeah, Ezra.”

You don’t like homes, don’t like to be told that you’re forever nailed to walls and wood. But maybe, as Ezra’s scruffy chin leans up to slot his lips against yours, you could build a tent in him. Maybe this leaky soul was your permanent, your unyielding, your perpetual.

As Ezra tilts his head towards you with a soft moan so he can kiss you the way you deserve, speak to you through the blinding sensation of his mouth telling you how he wants you, needs you, loves you, without using a single word, he is confident that his hollow cavities are beginning to be filled by your amber essence. He can tell you’re letting yourself finally take root in him, clearing out the wretched foliage so that you can curl up in the meadow of his soul and rest your bones within him.

Yeah.

You’re home.

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[breathings-of-the-heart]

Imagine Levi Confessing his Love for You

A/N: THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT PLEASE READ THE TEXT BELOW BEFORE PROCEEDING THANK YOU :))

HERE IS A TIMELINE /  EXPLANATION / BACKGROUND INFORMATION BECAUSE CASE THE TIME SKIPS OF THIS STORY ARE CONFUSING: I’m sorry for that everyone, I know the dates are sloppy and as a whole this fic doesn’t make too much sense; I tried to edit this piece as best I could to make the story as easy to follow as possible, but seeing as I can’t unpublish part 1 or 2, the cleanup still leaves things bit unclear. These imagines were originally chapters of a longer Levi x Reader fic that I decided to discontinue, which is why there are so many loose ends. Here was my original intention for this story, broken down for the few who choose to read the Author’s Notes lol.

We are going to do this in the order of the 3 part fic (I also put attached all the links to the titles)

Part 1: Imagine Relating to Mikasa About Loving Someone in the Military

The scene is set during the events of SEASON 1 of Attack on Titan, BEFORE the Female Titan Arc. (Y/N) was also hand selected by Levi to be part of the original Special Operation Squad; she bit her hand at the dinner table along with Petra, Gunther, Eld, and Oluo to show their dedication and understanding towards Eren wayyy back in the beginning of the series. The Survey Corps is making preparations for their first attempt to go to Shiganshina since the Fall of Wall Maria and not only uncover the mole who killed captive titans Sonny and Bean, but also to get to Eren’s basement.

Part 2: To Love Another

The flashback and opening scene in the beginning of this writing piece (where (Y/N) and Hange are talking to each other) occurs shortly after (Y/N) wakes up in the infirmary room, before anyone breaks the news that she, aside from an injured Levi, is the last surviving member of Squad Levi after Annie killed the others in the Forest of Giant Trees in her female titan form. Hange’s intentions were to bring the (Y/N) and Levi together so they would be able to support each other during this mutual loss. But alas, (Y/N) accepts his rejection and the two suffer the aftermath of this tragic news alone. To read this arc for context/bonus content to get a better understanding of this mini series, see my posts (as a sort of prequel, if you will) Imagine Levi Finding you Injured on an Expedition and Imagine Being the Last Member of Squad Levi To Survive to fill that time gap :)

In real-time, all of Season 2 and Season 3 Part 1 have gone by with limited interaction between (Y/N) and Levi. This part of the story is occurring during Season 3 PART 2, (spoilers) after the Coup D'etat, and after Historia becomes Queen. (Y/N) is no longer an active soldier, having sustained injuries too severe to be reliable in combat. She remains useful to the Corps as a battle strategist, however, which allows her to stay. The Scouting Regiment is currently preparing to go to Eren’s basement in their second attempt, knowing Reiner and Berthold will be waiting for them there.

Part 3: Imagine Levi Confessing his Love for You (YOU ARE HERE)

This part takes place pretty much a week or so after the events of “To Love Another.” It is revealed how much (Y/N) has isolated herself in the months between Parts 1 and 2 from not only Levi, but Hange, the only one besides Mikasa who knew about her feelings for Levi prior to their falling out. (Y/N) confesses her feelings for Levi before the mission to Shiganshina in Season one, and the fic parallels itself and comes full circle once their final interaction occurs before the second and final mission to Shiganshina, for which, (Y/N) is unable to go for her death would be almost certain. She seen to be more valuable inside the walls, where she can carry on the duties of the Survey Corps should the entire regiment collapse during the mission. This is the final part :)

I HOPE THAT CLEARS THINGS UP!

requested by @a-single-uwo @dracq and @little-diva-gurl and a lovely anon who def isn’t the happiest that this took so long. Deepest apologies! Hope this was worth the wait. I also hope this post finds everyone safe and in good health during these crazy times <3

~~~~~

Dread bottled up in the bottom of your stomach, which threatened to fall down to your knees. Even Hange’s eyes brimmed with concern when she informed you that Levi requested your presence in his office; all of which was out of the blue, uncharacteristic, after months of him being accustomed to giving you your space.

Feigning annoyance, you stared at the soldier dummy two paces ahead, dented heavily with the marks of your punches. The sun was beating down on the early autumn day, and heat waves rose from the ground. It illuminated the glistening perspiration sliding down your figure, torso rising and falling in short breaths of exhaustion.

Hange watched you carefully from a distance. She noticed your tense muscles, clad in a sports bra and boxing shorts; the lack of attire made it impossible to hide the sudden tension and stiffness embedded in your lean muscles, a tell tale sign of distress. As a creature of observation and analytics, the Squad Leader could sense your discomfort as if it was written across your forehead.

The brunette watched you wipe the sweat off your forehead and yell in frustration, turning towards her direction and moving to land a kick at her head.

Unfazed and in possession of sharp reflexes, Hange took a step back, only to watch as you twisted mid-air and landed a 360 Crescent kick to the dummy-shaped bag, which broke open on impact under the force of the blow. Sand poured out of its opening and spilled onto the ground in a steady stream that grew less heavy as the seconds passed.

“I’ll have to admit, you are getting better, but (Y/N), don’t get your hopes up,” Hange cautioned. “The problem does not reside in your muscles. No matter how well you learn to fight like you used to, Annie crushed your ribs and threw you to the ground: it's your lungs that will never recover. You can’t come with us to Shiganshina tomorrow like this.”

Hunched over with hands on your knees, you regained a regular breathing pattern and began to feel the explosive pain in your chest. Airways blocked, you began coughing, willing the oxygen to enter your body.

“Let me humor myself, Hange-san. If I don’t try, I might go insane.”

It was almost tragic that such a young soldier was out of commission; you were full of promise, rivalling Mikasa in skill. Hange knew you were itching to do what you trained for your whole life: Coming to Shiganshina and putting it all on the line had always been your number one goal. You didn’t want to be left behind again, to die bitter and alone without the only people you cared about.

“Regardless, (Y/N), you’re stalling,” Hange smoothly shifted the topic of conversation back to what brought her to you in the first place. “He still has that power over you, huh?”

"It'll pass eventually," you sighed, hoping the words were true.

You bowed towards the tall female. She smiled in return, shaking her head softly.

Whilst pacing away, said person stopped you once more.

“(Y/N). For what it’s worth, I stand by what I said before. Don’t look so nervous, okay?”

Her words replayed in your head, a haunting ghost of the not-so-long ago past. Time was strange, that way. It seemed like everything happened yesterday yet in another lifetime, all at once. “He loves you, more than he’s ever loved anyone. Surely you know that.”

Stupid, you thought, how I might have believed it once.

As you made your way down the hall, numbness crept into your body once again. You were too proud to admit you were afraid, especially with the Section Commander’s radiating sympathy, but everyone knew the once friendly dynamic between you and the Captain transformed into one more distant and cold. With each step towards the door, you felt the icy chill grow and that fact alone shook you to the core. 

But it didn’t matter, seeing as Levi was of superior authority. There was no way around it.

Your hand shook as it raised to knock.

~~~~~~

“Name and business,” Levi spoke, voice muffled by the closed door.

“It’s (Y/N), sir. I was hoping to speak with you.”

There was a pause, and in that time you considered the option of fleeing back to your room and retreating back to a life of emotional safety, normality. It wasn’t too late to forget.

It had been a week since you spoke to Mikasa on the rooftop, after realizing the deep shit your heart decided to put you in. You didn’t think Levi would notice the distracted nature of your behavior-- tried to make it as subtle as possible whilst you figured out what you felt for him. 

But before you could explore other options, Levi muttered a stern “enter.” You knew with the first expedition back to Shiganshina tomorrow, and the prospect of death closer than it has ever been on a mission, it was now or never. 

The room was dim, small, warm, and thick with building tension. Shadows danced across the Captain’s face, sharp features lit by an orange flame. Only candlelight, sourced at his desk, assisted your adjusting eyes. 

Your nose was hit with the smell of tea and cleaning products upon entry. This fact made you smile despite your bundling nervous energy. It was a familiar place, filled with memories of late night conversations (granted, of mostly you speaking and him listening), witnessed only by the large piles of paperwork. It started here and resulted in a natural, growing fondness kept secret to all except you two and the moon looking in from the window. 

This man was your squad leader, your commander, your trusted comrade. There was no need to be afraid-- Not unless of course, you held the potential to shatter such damn a delicate relationship.

And you did. 

Was it worth it?

Your gaze gravitated towards the center of the room where the Lance Corporal sat. And in that instant, your smile evaporated instantly. He placed his pen down, gracefully resting his cheek on his fist and lazily tossing the raven locks out of his eyes-- they landed on you, piercing yet drowsy and indifferent upon first glance. He was beautiful, as always. The allure was nearly sickening; unfair to the rest of the world.

Looking closer, however, he was anything but relaxed. The observant eye could see his countenance stirred something different. He seemed sharp and focused, ready to dart out and wrap himself around your heart, squeezing tighter with every breath you took. And you felt it-- the heart palpitations, which got worse at the sight of him.

He seemed… different. Dangerous, like a storm stirring in the distance, and the inevitable downpour that comes with it. The dark circles under his eyes told tales about the insomnia; a fresh cup of caffeinated black tea even rested on his left, steam rising out of it. And whilst attraction was undeniable, your concern always came first.

Levi was never quite good at getting proper rest before a mission.

“(Y/N),” The word was breathy, yet his voice was rough.

You shuffled in your spot, your name on his tongue making your stomach churn with desire.

Levi seemed to pick up on your affliction, getting out of his chair and gliding towards you. Everything happened fast and slow all at once, starting off with a momentaneous rush of air and  the collision of your back with the office wall. A small shriek filled the air, out of place against the silence; was that your voice? The pain should’ve been there, but it wasn’t.

Then the seconds dragged out. Levi was a new person, setting your skin aflame as he gripped your wrists and pinned them against the wall. His lips brushed your eartips, which turned red the instant the raven’s breath fanned over them. This normally reserved, disciplined man unleashed something you had never seen before.

“Finally ready to talk to me about why you’ve been acting so strange, brat?” he whispered.  

This wasn’t supposed to be so dirty. He was angry, but the mood was established in layers: something more sinister existed beneath.

The scent of fresh pine filled your nostrils until your brain went foggy. Levi was close--so close, and with the fact that you’ve been avoiding him mixed in with the fact that you missed him for it, all bets were off: there was no stopping the words that came out of your mouth next.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” you whispered back, looking him dead in the eyes, no fear this time.

His grip on your wrist slackened.

“Hm?”

You took in a deep breath, ready to leave it all on the line, and spoke.

“I like you a lot, sir. And not in a comradery type of way. I-I just thought I’d tell you before, you know, we leave tomorrow.” Your gaze found the floor again, too timid for your own good. But the statement was said, and it was finite; there was no turning away from it.

The Captain’s eyes went wide and gleamed brightly at you. His chest felt lighter and as he looked down at you in speechless awe, staring at anything but his face in your adorable embarrassment, he realized exactly why your absent look irked him those days ago. Why your lack of enthusiasm and lighthearted-ness gave him a strange sense of frustration. 

Levi never felt more awake, more hyper aware of his surroundings. 

The feeling of your chest pressed against him, the heat of those rosy cheeks, the pounding within his ribcage, the moon hitting your pretty face. With your figure in his arms, after the blissful seconds passed, everything felt, for once, okay.

Until it wasn’t.

Gaining the courage to look back up at him, you all but tore apart at the scowl on his face as demons flitted through his beautiful brain and polluted the image of happiness. Levi grew more indignant by the second, all but throwing your arms he held back at your sides like they were poison to the touch. 

Tears pooled in your eyes as the soft expression you didn’t get to see turned sour, disgusted-- the Captain’s lips curling into a snarl as he imagined what he could lose if he opened up his heart for this girl in front of him to take. The risk and pain of falling for someone, in the world the two of you lived in. And all the stoic man could think was how he allowed this charade to come so far.

No, he wouldn't allow it.

“Get out, (L/N)” he commanded, harsh and unforgiving.

You were trembling, body feeling detached from reality as it moved, convincing itself that it was simply a nightmare. Levi’s cruel demeanor all but shattered you as you looked wide-eyed and his anger grew, the short man pacing behind his desk and bringing a hand over his face. His free one crumpled into a fist, knuckles turning white as he slammed it on the wood, the loud bang making you jump; the fear, grief, confusion coming all at once until it choked you and your vision spotted black.

“I said GET OUT!”

The room stilled and Levi looked up to face you cowering near the door, a single tear rolling down your cheek. He stilled at the sight, the weight of his words dawning upon him.  

“I-I’m sorry,” you gasped before racing out of the room.

Had you looked back, you would’ve seen Levi’s outstretched hand betraying his body, desperately reaching out for you, gray eyes filled with pain.

But you knew now you’d never be dumb enough to spare him that second glance-- and maybe that was the right call, seeing as his feet moved in the direction you left, only to shut the door left askew in your wake.  

~~~

The Captain’s gaze was on you more than necessary, but it was clear the two of you had the same thought: You focused everything into this discussion, melting into the emotionally-detached soldier your duty commanded, just like Levi did. His words had no ulterior motive, no deeper meaning. They were monotonous and empty.

Or so you thought.

Levi stood up the second you came in, but your gaze fell to the ground in submission.

“Hange said you needed to see me, Captain?” your voice was small and weak; you kicked yourself for it. How pathetic.

“Damn you...”

The man said nothing more, brushing his fingers along your cheekbones and you everything hit you like whiplash, the memories. Levi ran them along your face, down to your chin to lift it gently, so that for once you’d let your eyes meet instead of looking at the ground like a coward.

When they did the man’s breath hitched in his throat, because although your (eye color) orbs were no longer as vibrant, they were still beautiful and entrancing; why hadn’t he ever appreciated them before? 

"I missed you, brat," he spoke firmly.

You felt a churn in your abdomen as you watched his eyes study the details of your face and take in every feature, committing it to memory painfully slow. You were paralyzed, his face inches away from yours and forcing buried emotions to resurface as months of restraint came undone. He didn’t speak, holding you delicately after not being this close for far too long and discerning what he’s been missing.  

“Um, Captain? What are you...?"

You bit your lip, feeling puzzled and confused as you remembered the hate in Levi's orbs the last time you saw him like this.

All you could see now was how quickly his emotions shifted from serenity to fury that fateful night, and as you recollected the way Levi lashed out, all chaos and fury, he retracted his hand.

And you flinched away.

The Captain froze.

“Don’t-- don’t fucking do that,” he growled, his urgency startling. “I would never hurt you, (Y/N).”

Your eyebrows furrowed, all inhibition thrown out the window the second Levi’s countenance flashed with hurt at your response to his touch. You let your fear go and emotions free at the irony of the raven’s statement. Your mind went into overdrive, recounting every instance you wanted to give up and leave, drown in yourself, give up on finding purpose in the aftermath of rejection and Squad Levi’s death and your permanent injury changing your way of life. Things you faced alone, because instead of rekindling any semblance of a relationship, Levi tossed everything away and berated you for feeling.

The man who resided here cut your heart expertisely like the countless swords he wielded then disposed. He did not have the right to look at you so kindly; did not have to right to fan the flames of false hope. But here he was, procrastinating until the very last day to take initiative regarding those actions.

“Why are you doing this?” you whispered, forgetting your composure.

“I’d advise you not to speak in riddles,” Levi spoke in a low and even voice, no real malice as he addressed you and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You took a deep breath and fought to remain calm, grabbing Levi's wrist to keep him from touching you.

“Please don’t toy with me, or mock my feelings like this. Why did you call me here? You made it plenty clear how you feel about me, Levi. What else is there to say?" you begged, the lack of closure driving you insane.

This was the first time you used his name, an unprecedented amount of spite and pain expressed through it, because you wanted Levi to remember this moment. It was over: that time of feeling sorry and ashamed of yourself for being nothing other than human. The remorse was gone, and the heartache was fleeting.

“Tell me, dammit!”

His was overflowing.

“You want to know how I really feel about you, (Y/N)!?” the Captain shouted, voice rising because for a man who relied on impulse and action on the battlefield it was fucking frustrating, watching the woman in front of him live this way for the simple reason that he was not good with words. "The thoughts that go through my head when you can't even bear to look at me?!"

"No, that's not what I asked. I already know that you don't--"

"--Fuck this."

Relying on instinct to guide him, Levi leaned forward and kissed you.

The second his lips met yours, you melted on the spot, knees giving out beneath you. Tongue sliding into your mouth, Levi simultaneously lifted you into the air, feeling lightheaded as you moaned into him, eagerly returning the kiss. His hands were everywhere, grasping at your waist, clutching the back of your head, running down your thighs. You were in such a state of euphoria that nothing else existed.

Your own digits threaded through Levi’s raven locks and pulled needily, emitting a growl from his throat as he bit down on your lower lip. He reveled in the feeling of your legs around his waist as your soft lips worked against his own, hungry and relentless. The kiss was passionate and you’d imagined it a million times over, but this-- Levi successfully ruined you for any other man.

The need for oxygen pulled you apart, Levi’s strong arms keeping you in the air as his eyes remained shut; he pecked your lips once, then twice, savoring the moment until it mournfully passed.

He was hesitant to break the silence, but you deserved it. You waited long enough to hear the truth, and he knew his time was running out; you weren’t going to wait for him forever.

“(Y/N)...” he began to speak, forehead resting on yours as he panted softly to catch his breath. “I dreamt of you last night. I have been for days.”

“Levi--”

“--Just listen,” he interrupted, unable to stop himself from kissing you softly once more. “Neither of us are running away this time.”

You fell silent as the man let you down, pulling you into his solid chest as you buried your face in his shirt, patiently listening. His calm heartbeat thrummed soothingly in your ears like a metronome.

“Isabel, Farlan, Oluo, Petra, Gunther, Eld. They all knew that what they meant to me. And I them."

One of the only things that made it easier to say goodbye, you thought with a bittersweet pang in your chest.

"With us, it's different. I died in every dream, (Y/N). Every one. And in every single one, you lived on believing I never loved you. Call me selfish, but I...”

You pulled away from the stoic man, searching his gaze as he trailed off. Shyly, you interlaced your fingers, his larger hand enveloping yours and you prayed to whoever was listening upstairs that all of this was real.

“I just can't leave until you understand...”

He clutched you impossibly tighter, eyes squeezing shut.

"...that you, are everything."

~~~ Extended Ending ~~~

A soft hum filled the air, the tune dreamy and sweet as you repeated the melody once again. You smiled warmly as hands wound around your waist, pulling you closer to a toned and shirtless Captain Levi, silken sheets tossed haphazardly on top of the two of you. His breath sent goosebumps on your neck as he kissed your shoulder gently, warmth deliciously intoxicating. 

Giggling now, you turned around to face him, the man’s onyx hair ticking you softly. You captured your lips in his with one smooth movement and snuggled closer, taking in the small slice of heaven that was home in his arms, legs tangled together. Feeling unbelievably content, like your heart might burst, you leaned forward and rubbed your nose against Levi's. 

Although he wasn't smiling, the look he was giving you revealed his own sensation of happiness.

“I never thought you’d be the cuddling type,” you remarked devilishly, scrunching up your nose as you teased him. 

Though your tone was lighthearted, you were painfully aware that the moment was ending. You internally cursed the sun as it started to set, orange light peeking in through the window shades to signal the coming of night. Levi said nothing, looking deeply into your eyes, and like always, it felt as if he could read the contents of your soul. 

But it wasn’t vulnerability you felt: on the contrary, you knew you would never find as safe a place as here. With him. Finally.  

“Levi...” you swallowed, humor all but gone. “Now you have to come home.” 

To emphasize your point you sat up on the bed, legs tucked neatly underneath you as you stared imperatively at your lover. 

“Mhm. We’ve wasted enough time,” he agreed, taking you by the wrist to pull you back on top of him, to bask in this personal paradise if only for another minute. 

[cavalierious-whim]

Sylvain's wholly unprepared for Felix to ask him to slather sunscreen upon his pasty (well-defined) back.

#

Happy Sylvix Summer. Take my dumb beach fluff rife with Teen-aged Tropey Rom-Com bullshit. Read here on AO3 for better quality, and follow me here on Twitter!

#

Despite his long-harbored crush, Sylvain never thought much of a half-naked Felix until one fateful beach trip.

They’re past their high-school years and well into college. Young enough to not be tied down by relationships. That’d be boring to Sylvain, who has a new flavor every week and happily so.

Mostly because it’s easier to be casual than commit to something that’d mean more.

Felix is just an old friend, he tells himself. A second glance, really. Okay, well, maybe not second-- that’s a cruel thing to say. Sylvain would give his left arm for the guy, literally, but he’s never really considered the why behind the thought until then.

And sure, he’s always liked him, even if Sylvain’s never thought much about it. Felix is kinda cute in a deranged cat sort of way.

But now, it makes a lot of sense. Stares him right in the face, a visage of gleaming pasty white skin and deceptively toned muscles. Sylvain’s just fucking blind and stupid, and now it can’t be unseen.

Felix is no longer a scrawny and gangly thing; now he sports lithe and supple muscle. Defined shoulders and a slim waist that tapers into what’s probably the finest ass Sylvain’s ever seen. Pert and shapely, perfect in every way.

Sylvain stares long enough for his ice cream cone to melt all over his hand.

“I’d tell you to take a picture,” says Ingrid, her laugh pealing through the air from behind her hand. “But that’d only piss him off.”

“Ingrid,” says Sylvain panicked. He shakes the melted, sticky mess from his hand as he continues to gawk. At least they’re in the shade under his umbrella, so it’s only a minor mess. “When on earth did that happen?”

Ingrid raises an eyebrow. “When did what happen?”

Sylvain groans. Of course, she’d make him say it. Ingrid’s the worst (or the best) when it comes to forcing others to make fools of themselves. She’s already adopted a devilish smirk, waiting for Sylvain to dig himself a hole deep in the beach sand.

A grave might be more fitting, considering what Felix would do to him if he ever caught Sylvain staring.

“I mean, what’d you expect?” asks Ingrid, sparing Sylvain from further embarrassment. For the moment. Sylvain knows better than to think that she’s done with him. Ingrid’s only biding her time. “When people play sports, they get ripped.” She points to Sylvain. “Look at you. Look at me.”

“I play baseball,” says Sylvain in a low hiss. “I can throw a pitch as fast as a car on the highway and sprint the length of an entire field. Fencing is barely a sport when compared.”

Ingrid just looks at him, her face flat and unimpressed as she sips at her drink and twirls the tiny decorative beach umbrella within it. “I dare you to tell him that.”

Sylvain flounders the tiniest bit. Absolutely not. He likes living far too much. Ever since Felix picked up a foil and learned how to bout, he’d been considerably more dangerous than the crybaby know-it-all they’d all grown up with.

“But, like… how?” says Sylvain as he wonders, persistent in his confusion as to when Felix suddenly became handsome. Like, model handsome. Like, Sylvain would take him around and then pound him into the sheets handsome.

Sylvain never thinks about sleeping with men. Except for Felix, but that’s something that he usually pushes to the back corner of his mind because it’s really fucking awkward to think that way about your bestie.

And Ingrid knows, she’s known for a stupidly long time because of one shitty night where he’d drunkenly blubbered his feelings out to her. In rare form, she didn’t laugh at him that night, she’d only combed her fingers through his hair and called him the world’s biggest idiot.

He’s good at that. Being dumb. Probably his best quality.

Sylvain can’t stop looking, his eyes grazing over Felix’s perfect form. My wet dreams are never going to be the same again, he thinks, his mouth going dry.

“Disgusting,” says Ingrid, making a face. She knows what Sylvain’s thinking, what he can’t help but agonize about. But then she waves her hand dismissively. “Also, he does squats from sun-up to sun-down. No wonder his ass looks so good.”

“Wait, are you looking?” asks Sylvain a little too quickly. Accusatory. He watches her through a shrewd gaze.

“Oh, Goddess, no. I’d rather choke.” She makes another face, this one cross-eyed as she cuts across her neck with a finger dramatically. “I’ve just been watching your sorry ass moon over him--”

“I’m not mooning--”

“Who’s mooning over what?”

Both Ingrid and Sylvain freeze at Felix’s voice. Then, Sylvain laughs, high-pitched and incredibly awkward.

“Nothing--”

“Sylvain and how he’s--”

Sylvain kicks her and Ingrid curses. Felix watches on, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Sylvain’s rarely rude to Ingrid (okay, so that’s a lie; he’s rude to her constantly, but she’s Ingrid, and she deserves it every time), but he shoots her the meanest look that he can muster.

Which, admittedly, isn’t very threatening.

“Is there a reason you look like a fucking five-year-old trying to threaten a classmate who stole your juice box?”

Sylvain nearly congratulates Felix on his brilliant use of imagery. Instead, he starts with, “Felix--”

“Oh, don’t mind him,” cuts in Ingrid. “He’s just annoyed that I called him out on his bullshit.”

With that, Felix perks up because if there’s something that he loves more than anything else, it’s watching Sylvain getting dunked on. Which is more often than Sylvain likes to admit.

“So,” says Felix, “The usual.”

“Felix, why are you even here?” Sylvain doesn’t mean for it to be so biting, but it comes out sounding quite like Felix himself, an absolute feat.

“We’re at the beach, and together at that if I must remind you,” says Felix, cocking his head to the side. “The sun’s high and blazing, and I’m pasty as hell. Help me with this.”

A demand, not a request. So incredibly like Felix. Sylvain barely catches the bottle that is thrown at him. “Sunscreen,” he reads aloud rather dumbly.

“Yes, you dimwit,” says Felix. “Not everyone tans like you. Some of us come out looking like lobsters, and I don’t mean in a tasty kind of way.”

Sylvain disagrees. Felix looks the tastiest he’s ever seen, and Sylvain’s known him for nearly two decades.

“So what, like rub this all over you?”

Felix rolls his eyes, replying slowly like he’s speaking to a child. “Yes. My arms are short and you’re conveniently there. Even if I’m flexible--” Sylvain super doesn’t need to think about that, “--there are parts of my back that I can’t reach.”

Sylvain would rather burn in Ailell than do this because this is now his absolute worst fucking nightmare. A unique hell, tailored just for him. A test of the Goddess.

Or a memory he’ll wank to for months to come.

Definitely the latter, knowing Sylvain.

Ingrid, bless her shrew-like and ill-tempered soul, shoots Sylvain an amused glance. Soaks the entire thing up, her mouth tipped to the side as she delights in Sylvain’s discomfort. This kind of thing fuels her; juicy gossip feeds her for days and then some.

Especially when it comes to Sylvain.

“Ingrid, fuck off,” says Sylvain. Felix, who didn’t see her look, reaches out to swat Sylvain in return. “Ow!”

“You fuck off,” says Felix. “Stop being rude.”

“She’s the one--”

“Alright, I’m leaving,” says Ingrid abruptly, “Before this lover’s spat gets any worse--”

“This isn’t a spat--” starts Sylvain.

“Lover’s?” exclaimed Felix, pink in the face.

That catches Sylvain’s attention as he turns to him. What an odd reaction-- the embarrassment as he refuses to look either of them in the face. Sylvain’s mouth falls open in surprise and Ingrid’s clamps right up. Then, she smiles, the sly little grin that she gets when she’s up to no good. Never bodes well. Sylvain’s about to say something when she speaks.

“I’ll come and check on your boys later, yeah?” Oh, Ingrid’s up to no good, about to throw Sylvain to the sharks. Wholly intent of leaving him behind with Felix and his newfound discovery that his crush is probably more than a crush.

“Ingrid--” starts Sylvain, but before he can properly beg her, Ingrid’s gone, leaving behind nothing but a trail of footprints in the sand.

Felix plops onto the towel in front of Sylvain, his back facing him. Sylvain looks at the expanse of it, far broader than he remembers. He swallows thickly as his hand hovers awkwardly over Felix’s skin.

“Insufferable, that woman. What my brother sees in her I’ll never know.”

“Even people with terrible personalities have matches,” says Sylvain in humor. A decent attempt at distraction that usually works with others.

Felix grunts. “Yes, well, you’d know that best of all, wouldn’t you?”

Ouch, thinks Sylvain. Nasty little stinger right out of left-field but incredibly on-brand for Felix. His favorite thing to do is remind Sylvain about his habitually shitty dating habits.

“That’s a little cruel, don’t you think?” Sylvain uncaps the bottle of sunscreen and squirts a generous amount onto his palms.

“What, can’t handle the criticism?” Felix snorts. “Sylvain, you’ve slept with the entire volleyball team, minus Ingrid.”

“Have you seen them, though? Legs up to here, literally. Except for Ingrid of course, because that’d be so gross--”

“Ridiculous,” says Felix, snorting again. “Utterly predictable. And you wonder why you’re always dead last.”

Sylvain frowns at the strange wording. “I’m top of our class.”

Felix doesn’t immediately answer. “That isn’t what I mean,” he finally says, tilting his head back slightly to look at Sylvain. Then his expression hardens, turning aggressive again. “Are you going to lather me up or should I go ask Ingrid instead?”

“No,” says Sylvain, “Just… yeah, okay. I’ve got this.”

“Sylvain, it’s just sunscreen.” There’s a tiny frown on Felix’s face.

Sylvain’s a confident man, able to woo anyone into his bed. Rubbing sunscreen into Felix’s skin should be easy. It isn’t. Sylvain hesitates and hesitates, fingers hovering over the smooth line of Felix’s bare shoulders.

Nothing explains Sylvain’s sudden dry mouth or the inkling that this is a terrible idea.

“Sylvain,” says Felix, clearly waiting.

Felix’s skin is warm to the touch and soft under Sylvain’s calloused fingers. He starts at his shoulders, massaging the liquid in, squeezing at Felix’s tight muscles.

“Tense?” asks Sylvain, teasing him.

“Tired,” says Felix, sounding-- well, just that. Exhausted, even.

Sylvain’s hands pause as he leans forward slightly. “You train too much.”

“You don’t train enough. You could be on the national team if you gave a shit.”

Sylvain laughs and leans even closer, his mouth near Felix’s ear. “Yeah, well, that’s the difference between us. I don’t want to be on the national team.”

Felix harrumphs and crosses his arms over his chest. “That just makes you dumb, then.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Sylvain smooths his hands across the top of Felix’s shoulders, then sweeps them down and under his blades, thumbs digging into the meat of Felix’s back.

Felix lets out a low moan, a sinful-sounding thing that makes Sylvain bite at his lips and look to the sky. He’s never really prayed before, doesn’t believe in the Goddess, but he asks Seiros for strength.

“Shit, Sylvain,” says Felix with a sigh. “That’s--”

“Seriously, Felix, you’re all locked up.”

Felix whines when Sylvain raises his hand to press into the muscles at the base of his neck, his fingernails just barely scratching across Felix’s skin. “Sorry,” murmurs Felix, pink in the cheeks again, hands shifting awkwardly in his lap.

“You need to cool down properly after your sessions,” says Sylvain. “You’re working yourself too hard. Nothing but knots and bone back here.”

“Sunscreen,” says Felix suddenly.

“What?”

“The sunscreen. Your hands are dry.”

Right. The sunscreen. Sylvain isn’t supposed to be giving Felix a massage, he’s supposed to be oiling him up and readying him for the sun. He slicks his hands up again, murmurs an apology, and finds the lower part of Felix’s back this time.

“Sorry. Can’t have you burning to a crisp out there.”

Felix sighs at the touch, leaning into it slightly and Sylvain nearly dies on the spot. So, maybe he’s just now noticed how handsome Felix is, but it’s not exactly the first time Sylvain’s thought about him like this. Usually, when he does, he tucks it away deep-- not because it’s embarrassing, or Sylvain has reservations about men, but because Felix would slaughter him if he knew.

Sylvain lets out a long breath as he rubs the sunscreen into Felix’s skin, making sure not to miss any spots.

“What’s Ingrid doing?” asks Felix, nodding to where she stands fifty paces away in the sun.

Sylvain looks up, squinting at her. Ingrid flashes him a grin before pressing her thumb and forefinger together on one hand, and then taking her pointer finger with the other and--

“Is she--”

Ingrid makes the crudest gesture known to man, and then, wiggling her eyebrows, points directly to Felix, then Sylvain right after.

Sylvain’s going to kill her. Absolutely murder her in her sleep. He’s got a spare key to her place and he knows where she keeps the sharp knives. Glenn might forgive Sylvain for it if they properly explain. Even though Glenn’s nearly thirty, he still thinks it’s his job to protect Felix.

Especially from Ingrid’s never-ending teasing.

“She’s dead,” says Sylvain. “Next time I’m within a few feet of her.”

“Not if I kill her first,” says Felix.

Sylvain leans over Felix, shooting Ingrid the finger with both hands. She, naturally, shoots him one right back. “So fucking rude,” says Sylvain, leaning back again and slathering his hands with sunscreen once more. “And the things that she implies. Don’t listen to her.”

Strangely, Felix is quiet. Twiddles his thumbs in his lap. Sylvain watches him for a moment before resuming his requested task, catching the spots of his back that he’s missed.

“Would it be so bad?” asks Felix.

Sylvain’s hands pause. “What?”

“The idea of being with me. Is it such a terrible idea?”

Sylvain laughs because that’s what he does when faced with awkward questions. “Felix, we’re too old for gay jokes and Ingrid knows that. She’s just picking on us because it’s how she asserts dominance.”

Felix doesn’t even scoff which is a red flag, so Sylvain grasps him by the shoulders and looks at him from the side. “Hey, wait, are you worried about dating? I thought it wasn’t something you’re interested in?”

They’ve known each other since they were practically in diapers, so of course, they’ve talked about this: girls and dating. Well, more so Sylvain who always talked at Felix. Felix is relatively tight-lipped about it, even now, into their college years. Always says that he’s just not interested.

Never bothered Sylvain one bit.

“I mean, I know some cute girls--”

“Sylvain, I don’t want to date women.”

Oh. Oh. Sylvain’s mouth shuts tight as he absorbs this information. This puts a lot of things into perspective; Felix’s disinterest in women and how he’d roll his eyes whenever Sylvain would talk about them. His lack of celebrity crushes and such. Felix has just never said it so bluntly.

“Felix, it’s totally cool if you’re gay. I know some cute guys--”

Felix lets out a frustrated groan, rubbing at his face. “Sylvain, I’m not-- that’s not-- That’s not it.”

“Felix, you have to throw me a bone here, what on earth are you talking about--”

“I like you, you absolute imbecile,” says Felix very suddenly. And loudly. Entirely red-faced with embarrassment as he digs a hand into the sand beside him. “And Ingrid’s known for years because Glenn fucking told her, and that’s why she’s been so incredibly insufferable this entire time--”

Sylvain bursts into laughter, which in retrospect, probably wasn’t the best reaction. “Wait, no, no, that’s not why I’m laughing,” he says when Felix starts to pull away. Felix pauses, looking at him with barely contained aggravation.

“This isn’t funny, Sylvain,” he says quietly.

“Ingrid’s making fun of both of us, so yeah, it kind of is.”

Felix blinks very slowly, his face contorting into supreme confusion.

Sylvain sighs, rubbing at his chin awkwardly. “So look, here’s the thing. The shitty dating’s always been to fill a void because I’ve always been afraid to like, date someone properly. No commitment is so much easier than actual commitment and--”

“Sylvain, what on earth are you blabbering about?” cuts in Felix impatiently.

“I like you too?” Sylvain doesn’t mean for it to come out sounding like a question, so he clears his throat and tries again. “What I mean to say is, I’ve always liked you, I guess, but I’ve never really noticed you and--”

When Felix laughs, it’s always a bitter-sounding thing which is why Sylvain never wants to hear it. Means he’s about to lose his shit. This time though, he’s chuckling softly, rubbing at his face tiredly. “Let me guess,” he says quietly, “Ingrid knows.”

Sylvain swallows thickly, sitting there awkwardly with sunscreen-covered hands. “She, uh, might.”

“So, I didn’t have to resort to this, then.”

Sylvain shoots him a confused look. “Resort to what?”

Felix sighs, pink-cheeked with embarrassment again. “Parading around without a shirt on. The whole sunscreen thing. Ingrid’s blasted idea, of course, and now I see why. Glenn agreed, saying you’re the type to be visually stimulated but because I didn’t think that you liked me--”

“Wait, wait, back up,” says Sylvain, trying to process everything that Felix is trying to say. “What do you mean Ingrid’s idea?”

Felix finally looks at Sylvain’s face, annoyed with the entire situation. “She was tired of me not saying anything and told me to do something about it. I said it wouldn’t matter, that you didn’t like me but--” He pauses and waves vaguely between them.

“She’s known that I’ve liked you for years,” finishes Sylvain quietly. “Oh, Goddess, I’m going to kill her.”

“Please don’t,” says Felix. “Because then Glenn would kill you and that would mean I’ve made an utter fool of myself for nothing.”

Sylvain looks at the sunscreen again. “Felix, I hope you realize, rubbing you down in this nearly ended me. Like, I won’t be able to move from this towel for at least ten minutes.”

At that, Felix smirks slightly, his mouth tipped up at one corner. “Well, I’m sure there are spots that you’ve missed.”

Sylvain groans at the idea.

“I’m joking,” says Felix quietly, reaching out to touch Sylvain’s shoulder, thumbing over it with uncertainty. “So what--”

“I mean, the answer’s yes, obviously.” Felix looks at him, his face carefully schooled into something bland. Obviously trying not to get his hopes up, so Sylvain continues. “I mean, I didn’t collapse onto Ingrid’s bathroom floor one night, wasted to only say no--”

“You what?”

“Okay, so forget about that--”

“So you were truly serious about liking me?” asks Felix, his voice cracking slightly.

Sylvain’s expression softens. “I mean, it’s never been so clear until today but--”

“Why today, of all days?”

Sylvain’s done a fantastic job of looking at only Felix’s face so far so he finally looks down, eyes sweeping over his chest. Sylvain swallows thickly. “I mean, look at you, you’re--”

“Save it for the women who warm your bed,” says Felix acerbically. He moves to get up properly and Sylvain reaches out to grab his wrist.

“Felix, wait, don’t do that.” Felix does. Waits for him to say his piece. “I’ve always liked you, but it never really clicked that you’re-- uh-- look, there’s no delicate way to say it, so I just will. You’re gorgeous. Handsome. I can’t stop looking at you because you make me feel things, and that’s something that’s just... Ingrid told me to take a fucking picture, Felix.”

Felix snorts at that, hiding a smile behind his hand. Then he plops back down to the sand.

“You realize that I expect to be more than a bed warmer,” says Felix finally, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’d never ask that of you,” says Sylvain, seriously. “Unless you wanted to, because trust me, I’m certainly not opposed--”

Felix reaches forward with lightning-fast speed, pulls open Sylvain’s swim trunks, and dumps a handful of sand directly into them. Sylvain looks down dumbly. Dreads the inevitable itchiness that comes with getting sand in the bits where you don’t want it.

“Okay, yeah, I deserved that.”

Felix hesitates and then says, “Insufferable.”

“Yeah,” says Sylvain in agreement.

“It’s part of your charm.”

Sylvain grins at him. “Oh, my charm? Does that mean that I won you over with my bewitching demeanor?”

Felix’s expression sours the slightest bit. “Don’t push it.”

It falls quiet between them, as they sit on the towel underneath Sylvain’s umbrella, but it’s a comfortable silence. Sylvain rubs the leftover sunscreen into his own shoulders as Felix tries not to stare in return.

“So,” says Sylvain finally. “Dinner on the pier maybe? Without Ingrid and Glenn, I mean.”

“Yes, nothing says fantastic first date like shoveling buttered crawfish into your mouth like a slob.” But Felix’s face is soft and fond when he looks at Sylvain, and Sylvain knows that it’s a date sealed for later that night.

Things are going to be weird, supposes Sylvain, but there are worse things. At least they’ll be figuring it out together.

“Who gets first dibs on dunking ice-cold seawater all over Ingrid?” asks Sylvain.

“I think that I can get Glenn to distract her long enough for you to fill the pail. Or, we can tag team her-- grab her and throw her in the ocean itself.”

That’s a better idea and Sylvain says as such, much to Felix’s entertainment. “Maybe we shouldn’t,” continues Sylvain. “We do owe her some credit.”

Felix snorts. “Are you going to give her the satisfaction of it?”

They both look at each other, then Sylvain says, “Absolutely not.” He pauses, reaching out to Felix, wanting to grab his hand and hold it. But he hesitates.

Felix sees and watches silently. “We’re dumb,” he finally says. “It’s taken us so long. We’re nearly done with college.”

“Yeah, well, late-bloomers and all that.”

“Sylvain, you’re the opposite of a late-bloomer.”

“Not where it counts.”

Felix sighs softly and reaches out, taking Sylvain’s hand, linking their fingers together. He doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t have to. He and Sylvain have always been like that; silent in most of their communication because they just read each other so well.

Except for when it comes to their wants, apparently.

Still, better late than never supposes Sylvain when he squeezes Felix’s hand back.

[theawkwardterrier]

Fateful Friends

The surprise part 2 of my Steggy Secret Santa gift for the very cool @sagesiren​/@theeleganteuropeanwoman - a Peggy POV modern AU avec Bucky and Angie because they wouldn’t allow me to fit them in last time. A somewhat belated Chanukah gift for you - or I guess a very early one for next year?

Summary: An afternoon of helping out Angie leads Peggy to a chance encounter. 

Read on AO3

“Carter,” Angie says, tapping a finger against her wrist even though she isn’t wearing a watch. “I love you, and it’s because I love you that I don’t mind telling you that you’re a big liar. You promised 11:30.”

Peggy sighs but saves the document she had been working on. Angie is right. Peggy had said they would leave at 11:30 and it’s already 12:15.

“We can stop at the bakery on the way,” Peggy offers, swiveling her chair around to reach for her purse and coat. “My treat to make up for delaying us.”

“Perfect,” Angie says brightly. She’s a bit flushed: she had refused to remove her parka since she got here nearly an hour ago as a pointed reminder that Peggy had promised only five more minutes, though she had unzipped it after about a quarter of an hour, and she’s also wearing a beret she keeps adjusting even as she insists that it makes her outfit. Still, she hops to her feet readily, hooking her arm with Peggy’s. “And this won’t be a drag, I swear. Just a girl’s day out, the two of us on the town, cleaning out my dead grandmom’s place.” She considers as they stop in the doorway to let Peggy flip off her office lights. “Okay, maybe we’d better get extra of the lemon pound cake to keep things fun.”

Peggy sighs. “Lead the way.”

There had been a bit of extortion involved in the whole business. Six months ago, Peggy had agreed to allow Angie to start setting her up. But after multiple mediocre dates (and one which ended in a well-deserved black eye for the man in question) she had begged off and refused to be convinced otherwise, even when Angie complained that this would ruin her credibility as a romance columnist and swore over and over that she had actually found the absolute perfect guy this time, the one Peggy would truly regret not meeting.

It isn’t that Peggy doesn’t want a relationship. She isn’t being too picky, and she hasn’t decided that her career should be her focus just now. But planning, the precise thing which has served her well her entire life in so many areas, seems to have failed her now. Online dating, singles mixers, allowing herself to be set up by friends, all the tried and tested strategies - nothing has led her to anyone she would even consider as a lifetime companion, and just this once, she has decided that she will leave things up to chance.

Standing firm on the dating question, however, apparently meant that Peggy was required to join Angie whenever requested and to do whatever favors she required in exchange for reneging on their original agreement.

In the end, though, spending a Saturday with her best friend is always enjoyable, even if they’re sorting the belongings of a recently deceased ninety-eight year old woman who Angie refers to as “the old bat.” They try to one up each other for the oddest item found in their cleaning, and eat their way through altogether too many pastries. As they trade off picking playlists, Angie even provokes Peggy’s competitive spirit enough that they both end up showing off their dance moves.

After eight hours of work, Angie decides that they have done enough for one day, even though they’re nowhere close to finished.

“Sixty years of crap isn’t going to shift itself in one try,” she shrugs cheerfully, searching within one of the scattered “keep” boxes for her other glove. “And I was forced to do all this out of oldest granddaughter sexism. I’ll come back next week and make my cousins help.”

Peggy laughs, retrieving the missing glove from beneath the once-fancy living room settee. The two of them gather the rest of their belongings, making certain the lights are turned out before they weave around the boxes to get to the front door.

On the threshold, Angie digs for the keys to lock up the brownstone, a beautiful Brooklyn property which her family couldn’t have bought with the help of a fairy godmother if they had wanted to try today. Peggy breathes in the sharp cold of the night air, turns to comment on it to her friend, then spins immediately back around as a snowball whizzes past her ear and explodes on the façade of the house just beside her.

A man’s voice from somewhere out on the darkened street shouts, “Bucky, what the—” Cutting himself off before actually verbalizing whatever curse he clearly wants to, the man changes tone, calling, “Peppermint hot chocolate for anyone who hits Bucky in the next five minutes.”

In the next second, the street comes so alive with childish chatter that Peggy can’t believe she didn’t notice the apparent army of little ones nearby. Over their whoops and cries, another man yells, “Not my fault that your shot went out of bounds. I just ducked - self preservation instincts, Rogers, if you’ve ever heard of them.”

Squinting into the dim streetlight, Peggy pinpoints where the second man’s voice is coming from, just as the thickly swaddled shape of him is tackled by several smaller forms and pelted with snow from all sides. Another shadow breaks away from the place on the street where last night’s half foot of snow has turned into haphazard forts on either side of a snowy battlefield, jogging toward where Peggy and Angie still stand on the steps.

“I’m sorry about the snowball attack there,” he apologizes as soon as he’s close enough. “We don’t usually drag strangers into our fights, or at least not before we’ve learned their names.”

Peggy hasn't been in a snowball fight since she was twelve - well, fourteen, if she’s being honest - declaring war on her brother Michael back at their house in Hampstead when they were both home from school for the term holiday. Perhaps she's been a bit infected by the lively afternoon or the stress of the past several weeks is finally catching up to her, but she finds herself turning and saying to a man she has never before met, "My name is Peggy Carter, and I'd be delighted to be recruited if there's room for one more, considering that hostilities have already been accidentally declared."

Apparently he didn’t expect a response like this, a strange woman deciding to take a chance. His eyes widen, but only for a moment before he says, "Well, sure, there's plenty of snow."

Glancing back at Angie, Peggy tells her, "There's no need to wait for me while I indulge myself in a bit of winter warfare, of course. Go off home and put your feet up."

But Angie instead looks delighted in a way that's almost outsized for her best friend taking her recommendation to relax a bit. "Oh, I'd never miss this," she says. "I'll just watch our things and spectate from over here." And she unhooks Peggy's purse from her shoulder and shoos her off toward the battlefield.

"Steve," the man says as they set off up the street together. "I'm Steve. Steve Rogers. By the way."

"Lovely to meet you," she says politely.

She isn't particularly prepared for this sort of activity - her boots are fairly practical for walking from apartment to subway stop to office though clearly are not meant to do much heavier lifting - but she ventures that it can be forgiven considering how spur of the moment the entire thing has been. However, Steve is not, Peggy notices, exactly dressed for the weather either. It’s a bit too cold for a waist length peacoat, thin gloves, and a loosely hanging scarf, and he seems to have half soaked through everything. When they pass under a streetlight, she looks up toward him and observes that his cheeks are flushed red, though it actually suits him quite well, making the blue of his eyes shine.

"Were you pulled into this under similar circumstances?" she asks.

He laughs a little shyly. "No, Bucky—My friend, Bucky - you'll meet him in a minute—Anyway, his mother invited a bunch of their family over for the afternoon, and between all the cousins there are a dozen kids running around these days. We just volunteered to keep them occupied."

She wants to ask exactly where he fits into the structure of his friend’s family, but they are nearing the place where the children are still shouting and pelting Steve's friend.

"I've brought someone else to even out the teams," Steve calls, and the kids leave off, coming to surround the newcomer instead.

After introductions have been made - Steve's friend Bucky gives Peggy a look which is strangely appraising but completely without objectification - Peggy is informed of the rules (no faces, no sand or rocks mixed with your projectiles, ten seconds of reprieve after you've ducked behind the walls of your team's fort) and assigned a team (Steve's, which sends a thrill running through her which she doesn't care to examine, settling for a decisive head nod and a small smile in his direction).

She had forgotten, in the years since she had last participated in a snowball fight, exactly how exhilarating it could be. Her careful plans for methodical stockpiling and adherence to ideal technique are soon thrown out the window in her haste to simply get the next missile prepared and launched at the opposition. As she and a small girl named Iris fling nearly loose snow at the other side of the street, she finds herself laughing more freely than she has in ages. At one point, she and Steve end up huddled against the wall of the fort next to each other.

"Your hands must be freezing," he comments, and when she looks down in surprise at her red fingers, she realizes that he is right. He strips off his sodden gloves and wraps his hands around hers, trying to press some heat back into them. It’s futile, considering that his hands, while larger, aren’t any warmer, but she doesn’t stop him. When he tries to pass his gloves over to her, however, she declines with a smile.

"Oh, I could never allow anything to interfere with my process."

"Right." He unwraps his scarf instead, offering it to her. "Maybe this way at least some of you will be warm, and you won’t lose your edge either."

She won't swear that it's feeling the wool still toasty from his neck which allows her to jump back into the fray with renewed vigor, but she certainly wouldn't swear otherwise.

Her watch and phone are buried within her coat, but it cannot be much later when the door to what Peggy guesses is Bucky's mother's house opens and a group of people starts to stream out, each member gravitating over to collect particular children. Peggy stands at the sidelines as Steve and Bucky are kissed on the cheeks and thanked for their babysitting efforts. Angie ambles over just as the last of the kids, little Iris, is taken off with a wave of her cheerfully red mitten.

“Enjoy yourself, English?” she calls, grinning as she picks her way down the sidewalk around the disarranged clumps of snow. “Haven’t seen you have this much fun in ages, although it’s also reminding me why I’m never playing laser tag with you again.”

“My skill doesn’t only apply to snow. I’m a bit of a laser markswoman,” Peggy tells Steve who has returned to her side, apparently having finished being showered with familial affection by Bucky’s relatives.

“Laser sharpshooter,” Angie corrects. “Laser sniper. Laser no-holds-barred, take-no-prisoners—”

“Angie?”

Bucky has joined them, looking at Angie with surprise which turns quickly into a smile and a hug.

“Bucky Barnes!” Angie says after they’ve broken away. She’s still framing him with a hand on each arm but she lets go to give him a friendly whack on the shoulder. “I should have known there couldn’t be that many Buckys in Brooklyn.” Stepping back so she can face Steve and Peggy fully, she says, “Bucky and I are...I mean, Bucky’s mom and my mom are...Well, we’re...We must be—” She glances up, clearly trying to mentally map out a family tree.

“We’re cousins, somehow,” Bucky fills in smoothly. “Just like me and half the neighborhood.”

It occurs to Peggy that the situation might be awkward - they had just seen a number of Bucky’s relations leaving a gathering to which Angie clearly hasn’t been invited - but Bucky says, without apparent unease, “I guess you’re in the area to clean out your grandma’s place?” and then adds as an afterthought, “God rest her.”

Angie rolls her eyes, though not, Peggy suspects, at Bucky’s insincere tone. “My mother kept making noises that Jersey was too far to come for just the day and couldn’t I just take care of it, so I finally gave in.” She loops her arm through Peggy’s. “Carter here has been the perfect assistant - without her, I’d have either tried to keep everything or just backed the garbage truck up to the front door and set up a funnel.”

“You’d never - you might miss out on some heirloom to hold over everyone’s heads,” Peggy says with an affectionate elbow to Angie’s side. “And I certainly had my fill of fun sorting through objects from decades gone by, along with that snowball battling which capped things off perfectly. But I think it might be time that I started making my way home.” She truly has had a wonderful afternoon, the sort which will live fondly in her memory (including the feeling of Steve’s hands wrapped with such gentle and precise strength around hers), but the idea of a steaming bath and freshly laundered pajamas sounds absolutely heavenly at the moment.

“Oh,” Steve says softly. He extends a hand. “Well, it was nice to—”

“No,” says Bucky, shaking his head, and “No!” Angie adds with hasty vehemence.

“I’m sorry?” Peggy angles herself to try to see Angie’s face, but it’s Bucky who answers.

“You’re soaking wet, and I’m guessing that you don’t live on the next block. My mother would kill me if she found out I didn’t at least give you something dry to get home in.”

“It’s a lovely offer—” Peggy starts to demur, although she is now noticing that she’s quite chilly and it is going to be a bit of a slog home. Before she can get any farther, however, the door to Bucky’s family home opens up and a woman stands silhouetted in the spilling light.

“James Buchanan Barnes, I hope that you weren’t thinking of leaving these two young ladies out here in the cold without inviting them in to warm up.” She walks carefully down the steps, arms crossed over her chest, but she throws them open as she spots who is standing there. “Angie Martinelli, is that you? Wonderful to see you, sweetheart, come here!”

Angie releases Peggy to submit to a hug and a rapid-fire back and forth of greeting. Peggy suspects that their chances of making a smooth escape have just decreased rather dramatically.

“I’ve known Mrs. Barnes all my life,” Steve says quietly from over Peggy’s shoulder. “She’s never going to let you get away with leaving before you at least have on dry socks. And anyway, I promised hot chocolate to whoever managed to hit Bucky, and I definitely saw you paste him at least once.”

She smiles despite herself. “I believe it was peppermint hot chocolate which was promised.”

He laughs as their eyes meet, though his flick downward just after, a new flush filtering through his cheeks that she suspects has nothing to do with the cold.

“And who do we have here?” Mrs. Barnes asks, clearly finished cooing over Angie.

Peggy turns, smile still on her face. “Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Barnes. I’m Peggy Carter.”

“Get out of here while you can,” Bucky whispers fifteen minutes later, and Angie nods, telling Peggy, “If I ever need you to take a bullet for me, I expect you to remember this moment.”

“Why on earth would we be standing beside each other with bullets flying?” Peggy asks, eyebrow gracefully arched.

Before either of the others can reply, however, Steve takes Peggy’s hand from behind and tugs her away, whispering, “They’re not wrong,” as Mrs. Barnes returns with arms stacked with twenty-year-old photo albums.

“I promised Peggy something hot to drink,” he tells Mrs. Barnes more loudly. She waves them off, probably half from good hostess instincts and half eagerness to force the remaining two into a walk down memory lane.

It doesn’t escape Peggy’s notice that Steve doesn’t relinquish her hand until they’re safely in the kitchen, although it’s quite apparent where it is. She can’t say that she minds, however. With neither of them wet and frozen any longer, it’s much easier to appreciate the gentle solidity of his fingers, the press of their palms against each other.

Too soon for her to have cataloged the sensation entirely, Steve lets her go and starts moving around to the pantry and cupboards. Peggy stands watching him, curling her toes against the floor in the borrowed socks she is now wearing along with an absolutely divinely plush gray cardigan loaned to her by Mrs. Barnes. The lady of the house had insisted on adding the wettest items to the dryer - “As if I would let you back out into the street like that to freeze. My mother would come back and haunt me!” - which had included Peggy’s blouse and coat, though luckily not her singlet or her jeans (damp, but dark enough to have avoided scrutiny, so Peggy hadn’t needed to strategize a polite objection to wearing someone else’s trousers).

“I hesitate to offer considering my skills in this area, but can I do anything to help?” she finally asks.

Steve shakes his head as he sets a saucepan on the stove. “This is about the only thing I can make, but I can do it with my eyes closed.” He gestures her over to a seat, which she takes.

“Why was peppermint hot chocolate the one recipe you ever learned?” she wonders as he lights a burner and adds together milk, cocoa powder, chocolate chips, and a bit of sugar.

“I learned plenty,” he says, angling himself to see her and stir at the same time. “This was just the only one that stuck. My mom worked a lot, and plenty of night shifts. It was just the two of us, so I wanted to make sure she would come home to something warm and good after all of that. She passed a while back, but I still make it for Bucky’s family when I’m around - they’ve always been great to me.”

“Ah,” Peggy says, trying to sound normal and satisfied with his answer instead of a bit overcome by his factual sweetness, the way he seems completely unresentful of the multitude of Barnes relatives while he apparently has no family left. She clears her throat. “And what is it you do, other than distribute homemade hot beverages?”

He flashes a bit of a smile at her, tucking his hands into the pocket of the sweatshirt he had borrowed from Bucky’s old bedroom upstairs. His hair is adorably mussed from pulling it over his head, and Peggy can’t quite tear her eyes away.

“I run the art program over at the community center,” he says, turning to add a few drops of something to the chocolate mixture. From the scent which suffuses the air, Peggy guesses that it’s peppermint flavoring. “Afternoon classes, activities with the schools, workshops. My under-twelve group just put up a display at the local library if you want to go visit.” He sounds absurdly proud.

“How wonderful.” The words come out even more softly than she had thought they would. She tries to pull herself together with the crispness of tapping straight a stack of papers, but doesn’t quite manage it. The soft smile won’t leave her face and she wonders if it might be a permanent fixture now. Oh, they’ll certainly go their separate ways shortly, but she feels that there was some amount of luck involved in her having had the chance to meet him in the first place.

Blinking a little, he turns away and unwraps a few of the peppermint candies Mrs. Barnes has set out in a dish on the counter. “What do you do?” he asks, crushing the candies with the handle of a knife.

Feeling her smile fade a bit into something more businesslike, less touched by gentle joy, Peggy says, “I’m the policy director for a non-profit.” It’s her standard response, the beginning of a slow wade into the more detailed answer. It is also, she has to admit, the beginning of a test, one which nearly all the potential partners Angie had tried to set her up with ended up failing.

“Which one?” Steve asks, gliding unknowingly through the first level of scrutiny as he scrapes the crushed peppermints into a palm and deposits them into the pot, beginning to stir again. (Peggy still sometimes finds herself surprised at how many people are so eager to turn the topic back to themselves that they accept the most simplistic answer and move along.)

“The INRJ,” Peggy says. It seems that she’s holding her breath just a bit as she gives her usual pause. She finds that she does not want Steve to make a misstep in this. She thinks she might forgive him if he did.

“The International Network for Reproductive Justice, right?” The way he gives her a look, double checking, deferring to her knowledge: if there were truly points, he would have earned himself a bonus just then. “Back when it was the International Pro-Choice Network, my mom used to bring me along to play under the table while she was stuffing envelopes or phone banking.” He tilts his head to the side and adds, “Bucky actually reminded me of that a few weeks ago - he saw an ad for the symposium you were holding and thought I should check it out.”

“Oh, yes,” she says, using the reminder of work to shore herself up a bit from melting. “I was meant to speak about the effects of the global gag rule, but I ended up sitting on the tarmac at Heathrow instead.”

He makes a commiserating face. “They did say that the talk about adoption and foster care in eastern European countries was a last minute replacement, although the speaker was really good. I hadn’t realized that was supposed to be your spot. I’m sorry you didn’t get a chance to speak; I would have liked to hear what you had to say.”

“Yes,” she says, slightly dazedly, the word nearly lost in the sound as he snaps off the burner. “Natasha is quite talented. She always gives a good presentation.”

“The community health initiatives to reduce parent and child mortality in Sierra Leone sounded like amazing stuff too.” He’s still talking as he reaches into a cabinet for a pair of mugs, apparently not noticing her reaction. “I ended up donating to the hospital building fund after I got home.”

She’s told dozens of men over the years what she does for her job, and the responses have run the gamut from indifference to confusion to polite questions, from furious rants about the sanctity of life to pompous assurances of allyship. This is the first time she’s heard one of them discuss her organization’s projects with true interest, the first time everything seems to have been said genuinely and unprompted and without the aim of impressing her.

Which is why it does all the more.

“I was glad Bucky suggested it,” Steve tells her, setting her mug in front of her. He takes a seat across from her, his own mug in hand. “He’s been trying to get me to go to all of these random places lately, and the symposium was one of the more interesting.”

“I’ve actually been experiencing the same thing with Angie,” Peggy says, seizing on the topic as a way to keep her equilibrium. “In the last month she’s taken me to a wine and cheese tasting, a Broadway play, and an art showing at the Sage Gallery, which I actually think I would have enjoyed if I hadn’t needed to spend most of it in the stairwell on a conference call.”

Steve, who had been about to take a sip from his mug, lowers it back to the table. With care, he says, “Bucky tried to get me to go to a wine and cheese night but I had to fill in running a watercolors class at the senior center. We went to a Broadway play but ended up switching seats with mom and little kid so they could be on the aisle.” Voice dropping a bit, he adds, “And I had a showing of some paintings at the Sage Gallery three weeks ago.”

They glance in unison toward the living room, as if they might establish some facts by merely turning in the direction of their friends, but all they hear is the low sound of chatter and laughter.

“Angie has arranged so many dreadful dates for me in the past,” Peggy says, leaning over the table to speak to him quietly. “I told her she wasn’t allowed anymore.”

Steve nods. “When Buck sets me up, they always think I’m going to be just like him, and it’s awful to see their faces when they realize I’m not. I just wanted a break from having to sit through dinner with someone who was disappointed that it was me there.”

The mug is hot against her palms, and she finds herself taking in deep breaths of peppermint-scented steam. “One of these days, he’s certain to find you someone who isn’t an utter bloody fool, then,” she says, and though she truly means the words, they come out soft instead of sharp, an outstretched hand.

“I sort of think,” Steve says, tipping his chin up so his eyes catch the light even as they lock with hers. “I sort of think that he’s been trying.”

Later that night, once she’s tucked away in bed, she thinks about fate and design, the overlap between them, and decides that it doesn’t matter how the moment comes to be if she doesn’t do anything with it. She takes a deep breath and texts him: Your hot chocolate was quite good. Perhaps we could meet sometime so you can show me how to properly prepare it?

Not even a minute later, he responds: I think we can come to an arrangement.

Angie only gloats a little when she hears that a hot chocolate making lesson and a week of texting has led to the arrangement of an actual date. Bucky is not as gracious. Peggy can’t quite bring herself to care, and by the undeniable flicker of Steve’s smile, she suspects he feels the same.

[sdwolfpup]

I honestly believe JB have more of a chance at a happy ending together than A*ya/Gend*y or S*nSa* since the former reads as a first love than than a life-long love while the latter is creepy to me. And to be honest, George not doing the time skip probably killed these ships happening in canon and not just as a note in an epilogue.

At this point, I feel the ships that have the most chance at being canon (and possibly a happy ending) are JB, Asha/Whichever Boy Toy She Choose Though I Think She Should Choose Alysane Mormont, Theon/Jeyne Poole, Arianne/Daemon Sand, Edmure/Roslin, J*n Sn*w/D*ny (:/, you did a whole incest is bad thing George, why backtrack here) and either Arianne/fAegon or Elia Sand/fAegon (Aegon super doomed though). I’ve heard arguments about Tyrion/Penny so I’m interesting in seeing where that’s going.

I would like to see Loras find a second love because I think he deserves to be happy and not devote his life to a celibate service that will force him into ethically comprising positions.

Let me lead off with: thank you for this ask! It’s been really interesting to think about. It’s been sitting in my box for a few days because every time I think about it, my mind kind of skitters away from how to respond and I realized this morning it’s because I think that in a lot of ways George doesn’t care about shipping in terms of the romance being the point beyond how it affects his larger plot. Yes, even Jaime/Brienne. I know that’s not a popular opinion in this fandom, but my sense of the books (YMMV, IMO, etc. etc.) is that he is writing to the plot and the relationships drive parts of that plot but they are stepping stones to get everyone where he wants them. I think Jaime and Brienne’s relationship is important to him because of the changes it causes for each character, but then I also think he’s taking that next step to use those changes to further drive plot. This isn’t a criticism of George’s writing on this front, btw, just that I don’t think George thinks about the time skip or how he’s going to shape things in terms of “is this going to get JB together towards a happy ending” so much as “is this going to get Jaime and Brienne to where I need them to be to accomplish the things I want in the story.” 

So the question I ask myself is: are they being together in the canon before an epilogue something he wants for this plot, and I think it is. To what purpose, I honestly can’t say, but the Long Night and their swords are significant. Beyond that, I truly don’t know. I have seen so many theories that I just throw my hands up at this point. It could go several different ways, but it all depends on what George has in his head and he’s, unfortunately, the only one who knows that. 

But that original question is the one I ask myself for all of these pairings - does GRRM want Arya and Gendry together before the end of the book for some reason that will serve his larger plot? I could see it, if Gendry being a Baratheon does becomes a significant part of his story. Although Arya is a child in the books so I don’t anticipate that being consummated exactly. Same for Sansa and Sandor - I think Sandor’s love for her will be a plot-relevant thing, but especially given the age problem with them (she’s SO YOUNG in the books), I don’t see that being consummated in any way in the series itself. Unless he shoves the time jump in somewhere else, which again: who the heck knows.

For the others -- I could see them all, but only in passing and only as they become relevant to the sprawling plot he’s trying to bring together. He doesn’t have space to spend time on shipping, so “making it canon” is going to be limited at best, and anything extensive is going to focus on major POV characters, and is going to be how it impacts the plot (which is why I could see Jon and Dany being a Thing). 

I DO honestly think the response to the end of Game of Thrones might be affecting him, and he might change some of the ideas he’d had before to fit a new and (I suspect) better path. But then again he may just be a stubborn fuck and double down. I love everyone’s speculation, but I have come to this calm pool of “only GRRM knows what GRRM meant, and we’re not gonna know unless he tells us.” That doesn’t invalidate people’s meta, btw, just that in a sense of “being canon,” that’s on George. Seeing as we’re never gonna get ADWD at this point (and also probably not TWOW let’s be real), canon is quantum and all things are possible and frankly I love that for fandom. Tyrion’s your valonqar and Sansa marries Jon and Bronn gets skewered by Brienne’s sword? Great. JB end up on Tarth and Arya lives a roving and restless life occasionally meeting up in nameless inns with Jaquen when she’s older and Sansa becomes queen in the north and eventually marries her long-time guard Hyle? Well. Some of us think it happens like that. *shifty eyes* 

Though personally I think Loras is gonna die. I have no snippets or plot-based reasons to back that up, it’s just a ~feeling~. I don’t want him to (or not to), but it feels like he will. Grandly. 

[philliamwrites]

Cor Cordium

Fandom: Kingdom Hearts (3)

Pairings: Riku/Sora, Roxas/Sora (one-sided), Axel/Roxas (hinted), Vanitas/Ventus (Hinted), Aqua/Terra (mentioned)

Tags: #character study, #relationship study, #post canon, #post kh3, #spoilers, #mourning, #multiple pov, #little dialogue

Words: 6.9k (nice)

Summary: O heart of hearts, the chalice of love’s fire, Hid round with flowers and all the bounty of bloom; […] It is not the end of his story, only the beginning, but everyone is too occupied with mourning to understand.

Cor Cordium

Tell me, Atlus. What is heavier? The world or its people’s hearts?

        Sora remembers the phantom feeling of sand under his palms, warm little crystals pressing into his skin. He can’t tell if this is really a memory or just a wish. Lately, it’s been difficult to tell them apart, their lines blurring together. Or maybe since he arrived Here, it’s never been clear from the start, and he’s just clinging to shadows dancing in the back of his mind. He is floating. Or at least he thinks he is. A strange sensation tingles through his body, it feels like thousand ants are crawling on his skin, and yet he knows that his body isn’t really here. Wherever Here is. Sora is passably conscious, not asleep but not quite awake either.

         Darkness surrounds him. He can’t see it— it’s more of a feeling, a gentle brush of air against his mind, but it doesn’t scare him. This darkness isn’t the end, it isn’t the beginning either. It is nothing, this blank space between existing and disappearing, and somehow Sora managed to get caught in there. How is he supposed to explain that to Kairi and Riku? And just like that, the warm feeling dissipates, and Sora thinks of his life and his friends, and how both are so closely linked together. One cannot exist without the other. But with each passing moment, Sora feels bits and pieces of him crumbling into dust, scattering like sand swirled by a breeze on a warm summer day.

         Sora is alone. He is cold. He is afraid. He is dimly aware of pain, but mostly of a tremendous fatigue, as if he has been covered in layer upon layer of impossibly heavy blankets. It takes a moment for him to realise the wet drops on his face are his own tears, and he curls into a small ball, clinging to himself. He would give anything to see his friends again.

         Minutes, hours pass. Maybe only seconds. Time is a foreign concept, a construct not applicable to Sora. Oblivion is grey, it eats at Sora’s mind, at his heart, and he wants to fight it because they can take anything from him but his heart; his heart, a place for so many lives; a prison? A fortress filled with light of hopes and promises he’ll never be able to keep. Maybe now he is paying for the sins he doesn’t remember, for the dreams he’s failed to fulfil, hunting him like hungry beasts with sharp claws.

         He’s always known that his most powerful trait was his heart, and so in the end it was only natural that it would be his demise as well. O heart of hearts, beloved of all beloveds is a line from somewhere Sora can’t remember, but he feels it quite fits. He is the core of a small universe in which everyone stretches their hands out to touch him, to take something from him— and Sora wants to give, to give so much that in the end nothing will be left of him. Somehow he thinks that is quite alright, for he is the heart of hearts.

☆

         When Sora disappears, Roxas bolts awake from a restless sleep, tears blurring his vision and burning like acid on his cheeks. He isn’t just crying; Roxas is wheezing, sobbing as his heart breaks, and he realises Sora is gone. He can’t breathe. It feels like something vital is missing—a limb or a sense, and he wonders if this is how Ventus is feeling all the time since Vanitas’ disappearance. He doesn’t hear Axel’s worried voice calling his name over and over again; he doesn’t feel his long, heavy arms around his waist. Roxas only feels this boiling, parching anger at Riku, because out of all people, he must have known what was coming. And he let Sora go.

         Roxas jumps out of bed, long legs tangled in the sheets, and lands face first on the carpet. His cheek burns from the friction, but the pain is nothing compared to what is raging inside his chest. Ever since he’s become his own person, everything has become a little too much. He remembers his first week back in Twilight Town. When he saw Hayner, Pence and Olette, Roxas was so overwhelmed, he thought for a moment he would die because beside all the happiness swelling inside his chest, there was also some sense of immense grief. He mourned for the hours spent without them; he mourned for the person he could have been if he’d been a normal boy, his own person from the very beginning, and he mourned for all the stories and adventures he’s missed because of that.

         And yet, he’s never felt anything like this—not when Xion crumbled into little shards of light in his arms, not when he learnt he’d have to disappear because he didn’t exist in the first place. Roxas has had a front row view to many dire times in his life when happiness was a foreign word he couldn’t explain. But this is something else entirely, something so overwhelming that Roxas is afraid; he’s one raw nerve, burning and sensible to any kind of contact. He’s unsure what exactly he tells Axel, but it’s effective because he helps dressing Roxas, and they’re immediately off to Destiny Islands where they are greeted by the sun blasting down on them. Roxas shields his eyes, scanning the beach for a flash of silver hair. He knows this place like the back of his hand even though he’s only been here once after their victory over the Seekers of Darkness. But every place Sora has visited is engraved in the back of Roxas’ closed eyes, familiar and a second home to his heart.

         “Maybe no one’s home,” Axel says somewhere behind him. He’s looking out at the sea, watches as the waves curl against the white sand. The sun reflecting on the clear water draws bright shapes on his face, catching in his radiant, green eyes.

         “No. He’s here,” Roxas says with a solid certainty, for Destiny Island was always and will always be the place connecting everything. It’s the knot where all strings come together, where each destiny is carved in some way.

         They follow faint footsteps left on the beach, when Roxas notices movement in the corner of his eye. Near the seaside shack, he can see two figures close to each other, but the voices drown in the sound of ocean waves. Roxas speeds up, and when Riku turns, eyes wide and red-rimmed, Roxas doesn’t think twice. His fist connects with Riku’s jaw and hot pain explodes in Roxas’ hand. It’s enough to send Riku to the ground. Roxas follows him.

         “You knew!” he screams, swinging at Riku for a second time. “You fucking knew, and you let him go anyway?!”

         Distantly, he hears Axel calling his name, but Roxas ignores him. He’s very adamant on punching his fist through Riku’s face who puts insult to injury and doesn’t fight back. It only confirms Roxas’ suspicion: Riku knew he’d come for him. It does nothing to diminish Roxas’ anger.

         “Give me one damn reason why I shouldn’t drop you in the darkest pit I can find,” he hisses, grabbing Riku’s collar. Blood runs from his nose over his mouth and chin, but Riku only blinks. The tip of his tongue darts out to clean it from his lips. When he doesn’t answer, Roxas begins to shake him. “Why didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t you tell me?” Someone grabs Roxas’ shoulder, pulling him back, but with more vigour than before, Roxas pulls himself free, and lands another good hit in Riku’s face. “Why didn’t you stop him?” Too many thoughts race in his mind, and he can’t grasp any of them; they slip like sand through his fingers. Finally Axel, that traitor, pulls Roxas off, and Roxas fights with flailing arms and legs. His elbow finds its way in Axel’s side, winning Roxas an opening. He bolts for Riku, stumbling and shaking uncontrollably.

         “How could you?!” Roxas’ voice breaks. He’s grabbing again for Riku’s collar, but his hands betray him as well and search for purchase on his jacket, begging to have a grip on something solid, something that won’t disappear like Sora. “Riku, how could you? Don’t just stare at me, say something. Say something, Riku!”

         He’s still met with silence that is so loud it drives him insane, and Roxas doesn’t know what else to do; what else will make Riku talk and explain.

         Someone tugs on the hem of his west, and Roxas feels Oathkeeper and Oblivion seconds away from finding their way into his hands, ready to cut through anyone trying to stop him from unleashing another wave of fury. But when he sees it’s Kairi holding onto him, that rage dissipates, and makes way for a different feeling he is far more scared of: grief. Seeing Kairi standing in front of him only confirms this reality Roxas refuses to accept. He wants to beg her to let him go, to stop looking at him with those big, teary eyes so similar to Sora’s. Instead he collapses in front of her, and wails a small, painful sound so inhuman it tears through his own ears. Roxas cries.

         She can’t take away that anger from him because without it he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel, and feeling itself becomes too much. He knows there is an emptiness waiting for him after all of this, and he’s too afraid to face it.

         Riku’s hand curls around his arm, and then he is kneeling beside Roxas, leaning his forehead against Roxas’ shoulder. Roxas feels more than he hears the sob rolling through his body, and he wants to push Riku away, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He’s cried himself tired already. Hours pass as they stay like this, holding hands and weeping with rasping sobs, as if trying to force air into lungs crushed by grief, until Roxas passes out at some point.

         The next time he wakes up it’s with less tears, but grief is still a cold hook sitting deep under his skin. His face hurts, but no matter how much he splashes cool water on it, the swelling around his eyes doesn’t go away. He finds Axel outside sitting on the big trunk facing the setting sun. Kairi is beside him with eyes fixed on the red horizon, unblinking. Roxas has noticed it before. Since their arrival, Kairi hasn’t said anything.

         “Roxas.” Riku is standing behind him, and Roxas catches the fruit thrown at him with little elegance. Riku’s face looks awful. A dark, ugly bruise colours his right eye purple, rivalled by another one forming on his left, swollen cheek. He’s too smart to ask if Roxas is okay, so instead he settles on a wordless observation. Roxas ignores him. He feels too vulnerable and exposed in front of those keen, cyan eyes. The fruit explodes with a sweet taste in his mouth, reminding Roxas of how much he loves this place. He’s adopted it from Sora; that and many other little traits he still has to sort out who they belong to. Knowing this place will never be the same without Sora opens up a new, fresh wound Roxas knows no Cura or potion is able to heal.

         “What’s the plan?” he asks, wiping his fingers on his pants. When Riku doesn’t answer immediately, Roxas’ fist burns with the need to punch him again. “You do have a plan, don’t you?” he presses further, feeling his irritation grow.

         Eventually, Riku drags a hand over his face, and sighs. “We’ll talk to Mickey. And Master Yen Sid,” he says, avoiding Roxas’ eyes. “Hopefully one of them knows something.”

         “That’s it?” Roxas barely manages to contain his anger from sipping into his voice. “You just hope they know something?”

         “They’ve always helped us, so yes.” Blatant challenge flashes in Riku’s eyes when he finally meets Roxas’. “We will go and see them.”

         A muscle twitches in Roxas’ jaw. “I don’t remember them doing anything to help me, so maybe revaluate who you’re going to ask for help.”

         Riku gives him a sharp glare. “Careful.”

         But Roxas has had his fair share of depending on old guys who used him for whatever ulterior motive they had, and frankly he can do without it. “Sora needs us now. You can sit around if you want, but I’m going to look for him.”

         He’s almost down the gangplank when Riku calls after him. “And where do you think you’re going? You think visiting world after world will bring you closer to find him?”

         Roxas exhales audibly, and wills himself not to turn around, but he’s always been bad at containing all the rage that’s accumulated over the past years. It is this anger that has always set him apart from Sora; that hate towards people who hurt him always drew the clear line between them. This simple black and white was easy to grasp and understand, and even easier to identify with until Sora plunged Roxas’ world into vibrant colours and complex structures, and brought with him so many people Roxas didn’t know and yet meant so much to him. He hates how this even applies to Riku, despite this envy, a churning black storm hidden in his chest. Riku and Sora are inseparable, and Roxas loathes it.

         The only comfort lies in how he loves Sora, for Roxas has loved Sora in a way only Ventus and Xion might understand; in a way that is so unfair to Axel who’s trying his best to become everything for Roxas. But Roxas doesn’t want this. He wants Sora. He wants the world, the heart knowing every part of him. His home. Roxas remembers when he returned to Sora. Trying to do the right even though he knew it would mean his end, but once he found peace within Sora, Roxas understood the meaning of home, and the meaning of people’s destinies intertwining.

         “If aimlessly searching for Sora will eventually lead to find him, then yes.” Roxas says, voice lacking any heat he’d hoped would burn Riku. Instead a strange resignation shackles every breath in his lungs, and he knows he will only be free when he finds Sora. “I will visit world after world, until the end if I have to.”

         Riku drags his eyes from Kairi and Axel back to Roxas, and considers him for a moment in which Roxas tries to see himself through Riku’s perspective— the boy with Sora’s eyes; the Nobody who long ago took something important from Sora, the little piece necessary to complete something far bigger than all of them. A small sighs escapes his lips, and somewhere in there Roxas hears the unspoken You’re just as reckless as Sora. When he closes the distance between them, all muscles in Roxas tense with intuitive caution he can’t get rid of, no matter how often he’s seen Riku by now.

         “I want to get him back more than anything else,” Riku says, and in that small moment Roxas sees his vulnerability for the first time. Something tightens in Roxas’ chest, and he takes a step away from Riku. “It’s been only a couple of hours since Kairi returned. And still, I already see him in everything, and I try to be kind to everything because maybe …” His voice tears on the last word, a ragged note of grief like ripped paper. Riku turns his head away from Roxas, but he doesn’t miss how Riku’s lips close into a tight line. “Stumbling through world after world might end up losing him even more,” he finishes. His calm mask is back, and Roxas just can’t understand how Riku is capable of that.

         “That didn’t stop Sora from looking for you and Kairi,” Roxas throws back, chin raised stubbornly.

         “No, it didn’t.” Riku looks back at Kairi, and that’s when Roxas understands that he’s searching for the right words to tell her that he will leave the Island.

         “Then forget your pride for a second,” Roxas says. “And let us help.”

        ��Riku looks like he wants to say something, but then he just gives Roxas a little, tight-lipped smile, and turns to join Kairi up on the trunk. Roxas stares holes into his back. He’ll never understand what Sora sees in him.

         He retreats to the shore until cool water sloshes against his feet. A biting cold settles over Roxas, but he knows that doesn’t come from the ocean. Sora has always said how it is a part of the human experience to feel pain, that it is part of a heart, and how it strengthens you, how it connects you, but Roxas dully registers he’d rather have it ripped out of him if it means he’s spared the missing and longing. When he lowers his gaze unto the water, his reflection stares back at him, showing a pale face and golden hair sticking to all sides. His radiant eyes are a beacon, the colour of the sky. A sharp throb drives like a spear through Roxas’ ribs. Everything hurts, he thinks and waits a moment, but his only companion is silence. Sora was a mirror to Roxas, like Ventus to Vanitas. When Roxas said, everything hurts, Sora whispered, but everything can heal. He’s learnt from Sora that hate is a lazy thing, heavy, a burden; but not as heavy or difficult as love so many carry around but are unwilling to practice. Roxas will try better. It’s the least he can do to pay for everything Sora did for him.

         Under the water’s surface he spies a Thalassa Shell. Roxas picks it up, and hopes Xion is doing okay. They will all go and look for Sora, and they will find him. They’ve all deserved their happy end. Standing in the dawn, Roxas vows it on the shell, closing his hand tight around it until the edges cut into his skin.

☆ ☆

         When Sora disappears, Ventus fears Vanitas is also gone forever. There’s a strange tug in his chest, like his heart knows there is a place he’s supposed to be, and wonders why Ventus doesn’t follow this call. It’s different from when he longed for Aqua and Terra. During his search for them he was constantly followed by this certainty that they’ll be reunited. This is different. This is Ventus closing his eyes to a darkness he knows his keyblade won’t be able to slice through. He’s afraid to fall asleep, the only place where he’s had at least a small connection to Vanitas. If that is gone as well, Ventus would rather not wake up at all. It hurts even more since their return to the Land of Departure because Ventus expected only good things to happen from that point on, admittedly now a naive hope quickly quenched by Sora’s fate.

         Ventus is sitting on his bed, a heavy blanket around his shoulders. Thousand stars twinkle above him like tears, and he wonders if the other worlds feel that Sora is gone as well. He wonders if somewhere Kingdom Hearts is crying, having lost such a pure, eminent light. Out of his window he can see the training grounds. In a couple of months, they could be occupied my apprentice keyblade wielders again. Aqua has shown her determination to become the steward and rekindle the original purpose of the castle, and both Terra and Ventus are as eager to help her; Terra even more so. He’s adamant to repent, ignoring Aqua’s and Ventus’ claim that his return is enough. But Terra had shaken his head at that. “It is a debt I will never be able to repay,” he’d said, standing in front of Master Eraqus’ grave. “But I will try. Until my last breath, I will try to set this right.”

         It was difficult to explain how none of this had been Terra’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. They were victims of a game no one held control over— pieces on a lethal board with cruel rules no one really knew. It’s a wonder they made it out alive, together and unscathed, and still, they paid a price for that happy end, some more than others. Ventus hasn’t heard from Riku and Kairi in a while, but his comfort lies in how Aqua and Terra keep looking at each other. Strangely, now more than ever before Ventus notices how close they are. It is probably true what they say about being separated. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and if Terra and Aqua think he’s too chaste to figure out the meaning behind the dark spots on Aqua’s neck or below Terra’s ears, they underestimate him severely.

         Once he’s asked Aqua about them, but she only gave him a little, sheepish smile before pushing a loose strand behind his ear. “You’ll learn soon enough,” she’d said. Terra had avoided his eyes, his hands busy with pulling on his keychain, a habit whenever he’s embarrassed. Ventus had just looked at Aqua with a careful, blank expression, and let her believe that he doesn’t touch himself under his blanket to quiet whispers of boy’s names. Ever since he woke up, and spent time with everyone else, he’s noticed how certain things jump right to his attention like a beacon. Terra’s muscles moving during practice. Hayner’s incredibly beautiful eyes, filled with wonder and excitement. Riku’s smooth, flawless skin. Then again, he’s spend so much time inside Sora’s heart who grew up beside Riku, and for Ventus to develop his attraction to boys was only natural. Ventus doesn’t want to remember when he saw Riku for the first time. Dozens of images from Sora’s fantasies flashed before his eyes, and he kept his distance to Riku, unsure how to handle the emotions. It isn’t something bad, that he knows. His friends would never judge him for liking boys. They all love each other too much for such a trivial think to matter, and why should it? It is love nonetheless, and every single one of them is just as much starving for it as they are ready to give.

         And still, Ventus is so insecure, because he always ends up thinking about Vanitas. Vanitas is his mirror, reflecting unspoken pieces of Ventus he himself is afraid to face. If Ventus starts thinking too hard about it, he’ll probably stumble upon answers he wouldn’t even know what to do with. And so he tries to turn away whenever he spies glances of blue turning into intimidating gold, and buries the questions deep into his heart where he hopes they’ll suffocate from the silence.

         A soft knock stops Ventus’ thoughts. His body tenses, and he waits for more to come. Instead, Terra’s voice carries through the door. “Ven? Ven, you awake?”

         He could lie and pretend he isn’t but after days of locking himself in his room, Ventus started missing his friends. His only fear is that if Terra sees his sketches of Vanitas’ key chain and the logo of the Unversed scribbled on paper, he will take them away and burn them between his fingers like Aqua did. Behind the door, Ventus hears shuffling, and the fear that Terra leaves bolts like a hot spell through him. He sits up, and tells Terra to come in. The door opens with a soft click. Light from the outside hall streams into the room, casting away shadows, and once Ventus sees Terra’s broad shoulders filling the door frame, breathing becomes easier.

         “Hey, champ.” Terra gives him a little smile. “Thought you might be hungry.”

         Ventus isn’t, but nods anyway, just to see the little hope in Terra’s eyes— the very first sight of progress he and Aqua managed since Ventus’ withdrawal. He makes room on his bed, and turns on the star shaped lamp sitting beside his bed on a narrow table as Terra crosses the room. A plate with fruits, cheese and meat lands between them while Terra takes a seat on the edge, watching Ventus eagerly. Just to make Terra happy, Ventus picks one grape and puts it in his mouth.

         “How are you?” Terra asks, much more straightforward than Aqua with her careful, quiet words. Ventus thinks about how he doesn’t want to get up forever. How this feeling weighs on him like an anchor pulling him deeper and deeper into darkness. He thinks about lying, but Ventus never wants to be separated from his family ever again— physically and emotionally, so he settles with a neutral, “I don’t know.”

         Terra nods. He leans back on his arms, the skin pulling tight where his muscle tense. Ventus looks away, and stares at the faintly glowing star stickers on his shelf Aqua gave him on his birthday. He wonders if Vanitas ever got a present from Xehanort, and has to bite his lip to conceal a laugh because that is just too ridiculous.

         “—us? Hey, Ven?” Fingers pop in front of Ventus’ eyes, making him flinch. “Just where are you with your head?”

         A strange smile pulls Terra’s face into an expression Ventus is unfamiliar with. Another pang of guilt settles in his chest, and he misses those times when he understood Terra and Aqua without a word.

         “I’m thinking about where Sora is,” Ventus lies. Terra frowns. He must know Ventus isn’t telling the truth but decides to go with it anyway.

         “Don’t worry,” he says, stealing a piece of cheese from Ventus’ plate. “We’ll find him. Since Aqua can’t reach Riku or Kairi, they might have left already.”

         Ventus hums, but somehow he doesn’t think that’s the case. What Sora, Riku and Kairi have; how they are is much more complicated. Ventus even doubts the word love can grasp what they feel for each other. At times, he’s jealous of that connection, and the next moment he is afraid of it. He’s felt it in Sora’s sacrifice back then for Kairi, and in Aqua’s never ending believe in Terra, and what is love if not an immense power capable of pushing people to their limits and beyond, a weapon justifying any sort of destruction. Tightening his blanket around his shoulders, Ventus dugs his head and shuffles closer to Terra.

         “You know, I always keep thinking that maybe … we could have done something,” he confesses. “That if Sora trusted us a little more, he’d asked for our help.”

         “Do you really think Sora didn’t trust us?” Terra asks, leaning back until he’s lying next to Ventus, arms crossed behind his head.

         “Well, what other explanation is there?” Ventus hates that he sounds like a sulking boy, offended because a friend didn’t ask him to join the playing. But he’d always thought the connection between him and Sora was something special, something untouchable and set into stone. He’s protected Sora just as much as Sora has protected him all those years, and Ventus hasn’t thought of stopping once.

         “You don’t really believe that.” The sound of Terra’s little laugh snaps Ventus’ head up. “I know you don’t.”

         “Huh?”

         “We’re not that different from him, Aqua, you and I. We all love too much, but isn’t that better than to have none of it?”

         “So better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all?” Ventus remembers this line from a book in the library he’s read long ago, and back then he didn’t quite understand its meaning. Now, he wonders if love truly is Sora’s greatest fault, but that is hard to understand as well.

         Terra sits up, and ruffles Ventus’ hair, just like the old times when everything was simple and clean. It tightens Ventus’ chest, but this time it’s not a bad feeling at all. “You’ve been in there all this time,” he says, pointing at Ventus’ heart. “So you know the answer to that. Now eat up. And think about joining us sometime. Aqua really misses you.”

         Ventus nods, and takes another fruit. Terra’s smile widens. When he heads for the door, Ventus summons all his courage. It’s time to stop running.

         “Terra,” he calls. Terra stops, and turns around. “You really think we’ll see Sora again one day, right?”

         Terra doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. Our destinies are intertwined. And besides, you never stopped believing in bringing me back home. Now it’s my time to light someone’s way.”

         “And do you think … I’ll see Vanitas again as well some day?”

         That brings Terra’s smile to a full stop. He isn’t happy. Ventus sees it in the way Terra presses his lips into a thin line, and squares his shoulders. He avoids Ventus’ eyes for a split second, a tiny fracture of time in which Ventus stops breathing and waits for the final judgement. Eventually, Terra quickly turns around, checking if someone’s behind him, and Ventus wonders if he’s looking for Aqua.

         Quietly, Terra finally says, “If that is what you wish for, then I will do anything I can to help you fulfil it.”

         The hot sting behind Ventus’ eyes is a clear indicator for tears waiting to escape, so Ventus quickly hides his face in his blanket, shuddering with a silent sob. Only when he hears the door closing, Ventus dares to look up again. His room is dark, and the glowing stars stick out more after bathing in light, capturing Ventus’ attention. He wonders if Vanitas might like them as well.

         Ventus curls into himself and closes his eyes. Into the darkness, he whispers “Vanitas” three times.

         But nobody comes.

         The missing is the worst. All Ventus wants is to crawl inside Vanitas’ skin and stay there. He wants every piece of him to crush into every piece of Vanitas, and become whole again; to become one. He doesn’t want to keep wondering how everyone just can go on as if Vanitas never existed, not when he to Ventus is the world. His heart is still split, an open door ready for darkness to invest, and yet he knows there will only be one certain shadow his heart will allow entrance.

         Ventus blinks through the wall of tears, looking at the stars. He has to focus on Sora first. If he can’t bring him back, then certainly he’ll fail to guide Vanitas home as well. A shooting star splits the heaven in two, burning on its way down. Ventus closes his eyes. In this endless night, he has only one wish: Ventus wishes a shining light will guide Sora through a starless sky, and hopes his journey home will be soft and peaceful.

☆ ☆ ☆

         When Sora disappears, Riku doesn’t cry because he knows once he starts, he won’t be able to stop.

         His only comfort is Kairi, though she doesn’t talk, and only spends hours upon hours writing letters to Sora, all starting with my dearly beloved. Those lines remind Riku of a bittersweet melody he’s heard in a dream once, each wistful tune pulling at his heartstrings. Back then, it had also felt a lot like a farewell to a story he wasn’t yet part of, and now his chest throbs with a low, persistent rhythm of that song.

         But it’s difficult to believe this is the end. Riku is in a strange, blank space between hope and desperation, where it’s hard to look for the light, but also impossible to drown in darkness. Finding home in both, Riku is an unusual dweller cheating through life. He knows it’s more than most people get, and he’s aware of how lucky he is. Maybe that is why the universe decided he’s run out of it now, and Riku thinks how unfair that is. That they live in a universe that doesn’t want them to be together any more. It’s either him gone or Kairi, and now Sora. And so when Roxas and Lea prepared to return to Twilight Town, and Roxas had asked him, “Do you even believe that we’ll find him?” it wasn’t difficult for Riku to be honest. “I believe in a universe that doesn’t care,” he’d said. “And people who do.”

         After that, Riku started avoiding Roxas, Ventus and Xion even though it is not what they deserve after everything they’ve been through. But he can’t see them, and not think of Sora with how many of his habits they’ve inherited. Roxas carries all the anger Sora has swallowed throughout the years. Just thinking back to how Roxas had punched him, his thumb tugged into his fist like Sora always did no matter how often Riku tried to correct him, hurts like a sudden light striking his eyes in the dead of the night. Ventus is the source of Sora’s broad grins and gentle smiles, laughing at everything— a blazing sun casting away any shadows. They both know the power hiding in being soft and kind, to love and forgive. Xion is part Sora, part Kairi with her love for everything that is bright. She uses everything she can find as bookmarks: cups, little stones, little replicas of everyone’s key chains. Just like Sora she wants to be close to anyone, her happiness lies in those of others and nourishes her. They all love fruits, they all hate carrots, they all can fall asleep in the most uncomfortable places like a cat that finds home everywhere. Riku would rather gouge his eyes out than see another pair of those exact radiant, blue eyes, and so he sticks around Destiny Island, and takes care of Kairi, while she takes care of him.

         They live in a strange dynamic, part symbiotic and part parasitic. Riku tells Kairi stories about Sora both remember fondly, and she pays him with a rare smile that dissipates dark clouds in his heart. But Kairi can never truly tell him what exactly happened when Sora brought her back, and Riku is sure she can read the irritation on his face like an open book. Just seeing her is a reminder that someone is missing, the third party in their strange constellation of two, and yet more than ever before, they stick to each other like two pieces of the same soul dwelling in different bodies.

         Riku misses Sora. He misses Sora so much, it physically hurts him. He misses his easy smiles, the jokes. The reassurance that no matter what mistakes Riku has done, it’s fine. He is a good person, deserved of being a Keyblade Master. He misses how Sora was capable of turning every pain and sadness into something bright. Sora was given the rare gift to make gold out of every pain. A purer blessing doesn’t exist. But it’s not only the words Riku misses. He misses Sora’s soft skin, his parched lips mapping Riku’s body. He misses how in Sora’s arms he felt safe and at home, that there was no past, and no future. Just the present with them both as the sole habitants, a population of two and no one else was allowed between them.

         Riku remembers their first kiss. It was in the Secret Place and they were 15. It was nothing but a chaste, quick peck, lips briefly brushing against each other, and yet Sora had giggled so helplessly, cheeks red and happy like it was the most powerful experience he’s ever felt. He didn’t hide his smile, he’d always been so willing to share it with everyone. Riku remembers the jealousy he’d felt, how he thought Sora’s willingness to open up to everyone was so unfair. He made it look so easy, so effortless, like he didn’t need to think at all who might deserve his smiles. His heart was an open door, never closed, never locked. They’d kept their relationship a secret, or rather they tried. Kairi knew. She must have felt something going on between them. Riku never dared to underestimate a Princess of Light again, but it was like a noose being lifted from his neck whenever she gave him this soft, knowing smile.

         Now he tries to think back to the last time they were alone together without any responsibilities weighing on their shoulders. After defeating Ansem and returning to the Island, Mickey’s letter didn’t leave much time to catch up after the year of their separation, and after that, during their Mark of Mastery exam, Riku was everywhere but beside Sora. Now, Riku tries to ignore the little voice telling him that he’ll never see Sora again because he doesn’t believe it. He can’t believe it. Hope has been his constant companion for the last two years, and he’s grown too fond of it. Leaving it behind means to let go of the only rope of salvation Riku is clinging onto, and no matter how much darkness he’s learnt to embrace, he just knows that he will drown in those dark waves crushing upon him with what he can only describe as loneliness.

         But if life is lonely for him, it is far lonelier for Sora. When he tries to imagine in what place he must be now, Riku is quite simply angry. Martyr lies on everyone’s lips, and yet no one dares to speaks it out loud because that would be to acknowledge everyone’s fault. He knows this anger won’t bring him anywhere, but it is just hard to accept a fate that robbed the universe of someone vital to so many people.

         Sora loved like few ever could love, with all and everything; unrepentant and with a passion that burned holes in anyone’s doubt. The sea and the sky will never stop holding his ghost: in each wave Riku can hear the wisp of Sora’s laughter, in each cloud he can see the remnants of Sora’s eyes. So whenever he waits until Kairi falls asleep, trying not to dwell too long on the tears hanging on her wet lashes like dew in the morning hours, Riku then returns to his room where he mourns with the moon and the stars, and it is a bittersweet feeling to share this grief with the world.

         Five days pass, then six. On the seventh day, when he enters Kairi’s room and doesn’t find her sitting on her bed with a stack of papers resting on her thighs like usual, dread sinks in his stomach and he closes his eyes. If he loses her as well, Riku himself will burn down the Islands and start another war. On her table, Riku finds more scribbles of Sora, Donald and Goofy, all three huddled inside the gummi ship. His fingers shake when he takes the pen and draws Sora’s crown necklace in a corner, just focusing on breathing with each stroke on the paper. When his thoughts start to run in painful circles, Riku pushes the tip hard enough to rip the paper. Trying so hard to stay calm, not to cry, he doesn’t notice door opening behind him, until—

         “Riku.”

         He freezes. Behind him, Kairi looks at him with worry and something else in her eyes, but Riku doesn’t read further into it, too occupied with reaching her, holding her, holding her.

         Kairi takes one breath, then a second. Her small hands on his back feel so warm, so secure, and Riku allows himself to be weak for a moment in her arms.

         “It’s time for us, isn’t it?” Riku starts, and just the approving hum from her draws a shudder from him. “We can’t let him wait any longer.”

         “Don’t worry, Riku,” Kairi says, and just like that, the world is tiled back to its original position. “He knows we’re already on our way.”

         Riku leans back, his arms still around Kairi, and he is astonished that someone looking so fragile is so much stronger than him. Kairi considers him for a long moment. She takes Riku’s hand and squeezes tightly, leaning her head into his shoulder. Riku understands, and presses his lips to her forehead. “We’ll find him.”

         It’s not a promise. It’s an oath.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

         Sora opens his eyes. His face is wet, everything is wet and cold, and he faintly remembers the phantom feeling of something warm against his palm. He doesn’t remember what it was. When he tries to get up, his body is there, not broken, not hurt but somehow he hurts inside, and he can’t explain what it is. All around him, the artificial lights of a city illuminate the streets, but wherever he looks, shadows wait in the deepest corners to plunge on him. Something on his left palm burns, and when he looks down, numbers blink up to him in an angry red, running down.

         Instinctively, Sora closes his hand into a fist, so tight that his nails bite into his skin. His mind is foggy, but there’s a feeling that he needs to be somewhere; that he has to return somewhere he can’t name. The closest thing it reminds him of is home, and he will do anything to return. Sora has to go back, to follow this tugging inside his chest aiming for a place he doesn’t remember, for he is the heart of hearts.

               Most importantly love              Like it’s the only thing you know how              At the end of the day all this              Means nothing              […]              Nothing even matters              Except love and human connection              Who you loved              And how deeply you loved them              How you touched the people around you              And how much you gave them

             — rupi kaur

[linkspooky]

Ten Favorite Female Characters

I was tagged by @midnight-in-town​, so now I have to show them how much I love my favorite women. 

Name your favorite female characters from 10 different Fandoms and tag 10/or the amount you wish people

Tagging: @hamliet​ @amonmahboi​ @inumaqi​ @thyandrawrites​ @kaibutsushidousha​  @harostar​.. yeah, I don’t know ten people. 

Enoshima Junko 

“Hope is harmony. A just heart, moving toward the light. That is all. Despair is hope's polar opposite. It is messy and confusing. It swallows up love, hatred, and everything else.”

Junko wishes she was a psychopath. She’s spent her entire life pretending to be a crazy psychopath, because living that life is just so much more interesting than the one she’s stuck in. Enoshima Junko is just too smart for the world, and everything is too easy for her, and rather than try to dumb herself down a little bit she’s decided to knock everything else down. She’s a girl kicking down sandcastles because building them out of sand all alone is no longer doing it for her. 

Junko’s interesting because of the weird logic and loops she runs her brain into. There’s a complex character behind the whole “I exist only to spread despair” thing. She’s perfectly capable of forming emotional attachments to people, and genuinely caring. But the people she likes are generally far worse off than the ones she doesn’t care about. 

Junko wants so badly to, just not be human. She does the most inhuman things possible to prove that she’s not human. What really made me love her is the lengths she’s willing to go, to the point in Dangan Ronpa Zero where she basically took a screw to her own brain and started acting like a normal girl only when all of her memories were removed. 

Junkos relationship with Matsuda shows two conflicting sides of her character. How much she's humanized by her love of him,  and also how much she wants to completely destroy that part of herself. It's like she physically can't be a normal girl. Or rather she doesn’t want to be to such extremes she’ll break everything and then herself. 

And if she can’t be normal than Junko decided that self destruction is her next best bet. There’s just nothing that will satisfy Junko, and it’s interesting to watch someone that empty decide the world is going to end, or she’s going to end herself and she doesn’t really care which. 

Ajimu Najimi

“Call to me with affection, Anshin’in-san. Well, I don’t really care what manga characters call me.” 

Hey, I put Junko on this list twice. Both Ajimu and Junko live in a world that is too easy for them, and therefore they have no reason to get emotionally invested in others or try to attach themselves to anything. Which is why it’s fun to see Ajimu attempt the same thing as Junko to kill herself in style and eventually get saved from herself.

Medaka Box is such a meaningful manga to me because they take the weirdest characters and no matter how deranged they are they find the parts of them that are relatable and go, well guess what you’re human too. Ajimu literally calls herself a non-human and she’s just as human as all the rest in the end. 

The best part is it’s not her good points that make her human, it’s all her flaws. It’s easy to feel like the world isn’t real, that nothing in the world is worth living for, to feel no emotional attachment. Those are all human emotions. Not because they’re good and shining, but because they’re petty and terrible. Ajimu is this brilliant character, but she’s also kind of just a petty little girl using a ‘fiction is reality’ lens to cope. She’s not that special actually, she’s just suicidal, and kind of awful in general. It’s nice to see that human side behind the mastermind character. 

Azula

“My own mother thought I was a monster. She was right of course but it still hurts.” 

Azula is someone thoroughly dehumanized by everyone even the “good” members of her family (Uncle Iroh, Zuko, her Mother). I like how Azula in some part seems to be aware that both her brother, and mother seem to kind of consider her the “bad sibling” and she just decides to embrace it. Like it’s... not emotionally healthy in any way and it’s terribly tragic but there’s something about characters who actively make the decision to be a monster that gets me. 

There’s something about Azula’s writing that makes me uncomfortable, and it makes me sad that Zuko like... continually associates her with his father’s abuse, and demonizes her like she wasn’t also a kid going through the exact same situation, but Azula getting increasingly unstable is at least an appropriate response to that. 

Even if her brother, her mother, or her father won’t see her as her own person and they all see her as an extension of her father’s abuse on her, Azula is just so determined to be her own person even if it means burning the world, or herself A common theme I guess, but a lot of these characters have narratives about not being allowed to be their own person or shown any kind of humanity or normalcy. 

Morrigan

“Well, well, well what do we have here?”

Morrigan is mean, and nasty, and grumpy and bitchy and witchy. She’s allowed to be unlikable, because Morrigan never bends to anyone. Her survival, and freedom will become first before anything else. 

It feels like Morrigan is the main character in her own story, and you just happen to be a part of it for a short while. You may even be an important character to her, she may be attached, but ultimately you’ll never be more than support to her. 

Morrigan is such an ambitious an singular entity that her character development is letting you be a part of her life and not the other way around. She'll always survive on her own.  Morrigan is irrevocably shaped by her environemnt, and yet she craves freedom in that too because she doesn’t want to be bound by her past or shaped by her mother. So much of herself is dedicated to being better than the environment that she was raised in that she defeats her mother not by killing her, or freeing herself, but rather by being a better mother than her. 

Raven / Rachel Roth

“Azarath, Metrion, Zinthos...” 

Raven is fun, because a bunch of monks thought the best way to teach her to handle her emotions was to never allow her to feel any emotion ever. So, Raven is eternally running on a zero. She’s terrified even a small amount of happiness will end the world. She’s not allowed to be her own person, neither her bastard father, nor the monks treat her like one.

Raven is so gentle, and selfless, and emotionally perceptive and sensitive to others needs but she can’t ever display almost any of these good traits because she’s internalized the idea that she’s such a bad person. She always believes all the time that she exists to hurt others and that makes it so difficult for her to connect to others. 

Which is why her true friends bond with the Teen Titans is so meaningful, because Rachel found a family in spite of all of that. She has friends who think she’s a good person unconditionally despite the fact that Raven continually tells herself she isn’t. There are people in the world willing to navigate the maze of walls that Raven has built around herself, and that her environment forced her to build and closed up, and she’s so happy to have them. 

Midna

“Some call our realm a world of shadows, but that makes it sound so unpleasant... The twilight there holds a serene beauty... You have seen it yourself as the sun sets on this world. Bathed in that light, all the people were pure and gentle...” 

Midna just steals the show. Her story now. The game’s not called Legend of Zelda anymore now it’s Legend of Midna. Not only is she the most important character in the game she appears in, but she’s also in character someone so selfish she’ll always prioritize herself over everyone else. However, only because she feels that she can’t exist as anything other than the princess of the twilight and has to prioritize her survival for the sake of her people. Midna even says so at the start of the game, she can’t be kind because she wasn’t spoiled like princess Zelda in the bountiful kingdom of the light. 

Midna is so selfish and yet doesn’t really have her own wants and needs as a person outside of the role she has to play for her people, which is why she’s so terribly lost without it and just because this terrible selfish little gremlin. Link and Zelda affect Midna so much because they humanize her. They both sacrifice themselves to save Midna the person and she doesn’t get why. She doesn’t get why two people would help someone who has been so unkind to them and who has failed them this much so far. 

That act of selflessness moves her, and also freaks her out. She even says she didn’t want to be saved by either of them. Which is what makes her redemption in the second half of the game so interesting, because Midna really improves herself so she can become someone worth their kindness. She doesn’t want the selflessness of people like Zelda and Link to go to waste, and because of that begins to care about things outside of her kingdom and her role as princess 

Vriska Serket

“After all of this is over. Do you want to go on a d8?”

Unfortunately one of my top 3 favorite characters of all time comes from a really terrible source material. Vriska is everything I like in a character.  She's a mess. She's really hard to swallow. She's a character that's not meant to be liked.

Nobody really likes Vriska and it's all her fault for being such a horrible person, nobody wants her damage. Which is so interesting because usually main characters get forgiven over and over again. Everyone leaves and if they don't Vriska will burn those bridges herself. No character better embodies what it's like to be stuck in a self harming cycle

Authors are always so obsessed with making characters look good or showing what a good person they are few characters are allowed to be just plain unlikely in ugly ways. It’s what lets Vriskas genuine desire to be better actually seem like a struggle. 

Kocho Shinobu

“Are you angry? Yes, I’m angry Tanjiro. I’ve always been angry.” 

Shinobu is just all pleasantries on the surface, but so full of negative emotions in ways women aren't allowed to be. I love the medicine / poison dynamic to her character and how it rots her to the core. Too much medicine is a poison, while poison can be a medicine when applied to the right situation.

Shinobu is, two faced. She’s beautiful and kind, and full of ugly emotions and empty. She nurses people back from the dead, she sees no point in living herself and purposefully throws herself into a suicide in her plan against Doma. There’s just such a destructive dance between extremes for her because Shinobu is such a unique individual, trying to deal with all of these emotions she just can’t deal with. She can’t be noble, or better than her trauma, she just pretends to be a good person while she slowly rots away inside.  

Shinobu can put on smiles all day -

But she can't be like her sister.  She can't love people like her sister can. Maybe she could once but all that's left now is anger. Bitter, unpleasant, and completely in denial of it and still masquerading as a good person. The most beautiful kind of poison of all.

She’s not her sister, but she’s also not really her own person. She doesn’t know who Shinobu is, doesn’t know who Kocho Shinobu lives for. She just doesn’t imagine herself living past her revenge, and even though she’s surrounded by love she’s just so cracked it all pours out of her and absolutely nothing could be worth prolonging her life after everything she’s lost. 

Toga Himiko

“What exactly is a normal life? I also live a normal life, you know.” 

Himiko Toga is a girl who lives entirely on her own terms. Which is just so rare for a female character, you know? It’s so genuinely subversive to know that Himiko was once a nice girl, who always smiled, always put other people’s feelings first, and that sort of ‘good girl’ behavior drove her completely insane.

Toga deciding to be true to herself is an act of rebellion against the world. 

For Himiko everything is flipped. What others regard as psycho behavior is her normal. She doesn’t let other people define her story as a tragedy, and even murders the one person who tries to control her story. In a story where female characters constantly downplay their own importance to support the male characters Himiko is the only character important enough to be the center of her own story. Himiko’s story is so subversive as well, both of how society treats her, and how the story treats characters like her. 

Himiko is such an excellent yandere, all yanderes wish they were himiko. She comes off as this batshit stabby girl,  but then you find out that shes actually emotionally perceptive. She first comes off selfish, bratty, and self-centered but she turns into one of the most sensitive characters in the manga. She eschews the ideals of being a good girl that was forced down her throat, but that doesn’t mean she’s not empathic, or that she’s not capable of goodness. She’s good to twice. She’s good to the people who accept her. 

Himiko no matter what will always be a deviant. Always be an outsider. Instead of trying to make room for her her parents forced her to lie and wear a mask until her identity became completely shattered. I like Toga because under the knife wielding psycho she's a normal girl. Then under that normal girl there’s also a knife wielding psycho ready to fight back, and both of them are the real her. 

Ihei Hairu

“I saw the reaper, he was very beautiful.” 

Every character from the garden is just fundamentally broken.  Hairu and Rize are interesting foils, because if you think of about it a loveless childhood turned them both into ruthless killers. It’s just they decided to live for different things, Rize lived rejecting love and Hairu lived chasing after love. However, fundamentally they are the same. They are children starved for any kind of love or nurturing.  Hairu is so desperate she devotes her entire life to the first person who acknowledged her. However, the same sort of desperation to live, that tragic need to make the most out of the few short years they have exists in all garden children.

Hairu wants so badly to be a person, but she’s not a person. She’s half ghoul. 

There's just something about a girl who was never meant to be born and never meant to live, still trying.  There's a dark side to her character, she's violent and inhuman exactly like the environment she was raised in but she was also still a child at heart seeking love.

Which is why though her narrative is a thoroughly unhappy one, it does make me happy that there was someone who loved her in the form of Koori Ui. There is someone who wanted her to live longer. Her life was short, but she did live, and it’s that struggle to connect to others that made her truly alive. 

[holy-mountaineering]

This spread is for @mirronx Thank you, as always!

Here’s the full Qabalistic Tree of Life Spread that I do. What I’m going to do is go through and briefly explain each card, its position on the Tree, and then I’ll give you a summary/synopsis of the spread as a whole. You know the routine.

Think of this spread as a sort of quantum map, or even the land of a regular map, everything is happening at once, in each place. It’s important to think of yourself as moving “through” the map but you are also simultaneously everywhere at once. For the sake of this specific experiment, think of this as a map. Maybe as a person, the Qabalistic Adam Kadmon.

Where we’re starting the journey from is Kether, the monad, the first sign of creation. We’ll call this your hometown, since it is where you’re from originally. Here we have XV The Devil OR The Lord of the Gates of Matter, Ayin, Capricorn. 

The Goat-Fish who is half in the mountains and half in the deeps of the oceans, high places and the deep. This guy gets a REALLY bad rap that is very unwarranted. All The Devil is trying to do is Incarnate or materialize by Higher methods.

The card is a giant cock with faceless little white people in the balls looking like they want out, again, possibility is trying to take hold and become a physical thing. The Devil IS a trickster (“you little devil” and assorted shit sayings like that) so that worries some people. Those people are squares and probably have bad taste in music.

Manifest your potential and figure it out when it’s “real” and not just a passing thought or whim.

In Chokmah, which is like your freeway getting you out onto the road out of  your hometown is the 6 of Cups, Pleasure. 

For reasons, I call this the plumbing card. The water is not flowing freely as though it is pouring, it has been pumped through a series of tubes intricately woven together to fill the cups placed in the shape of a hexagram. Emotion and connectedness to life are intentionally being directed by unseen but invited forces. Someone who wasn’t looking closely could see nothing but knots and chaos and even wonder how the damn thing worked in the first place. Those people are squares and should be avoided at all costs. 

Do what gives you pleasure that also instills clarity. Center on the best you can feel even if onlookers can’t appreciate what you’re doing connoisseurs (and you) will dig it.

In Binah, which is ruled by Saturn and for the sake of this reading we will call the first stop on your roadtrip. You haven’t really arrived anywhere but you’re stopping and getting a chance to repack your car in a more efficient way. Sitting in Binah is the 10 of Cups, Satiety. 

This is the emotional peak experience. This peak is a feeling of a connection, a filling up with life’s water and flowing out to all other life. Intuition is raised here if you look from your mountain top where your perspective is different. The accumulated force of the suit of water is forcing its way forward and down and cutting a path as it goes. Be careful you don’t get too swept up and fall from this height.

You’re coming to a peak emotional/relationship(s with those around you) experience. Enjoy the view but descend carefully.

In Chesed which is ruled by Jupiter and again for the sake of this experiment we’ll say involves your influence and benevolence in your current trip is the 5 of Disks, Worry. 

Like all of the 5s in Tarot, this is the microcosmic or human number . Don’t believe me? Stand up, stick your arms and legs out and counting your head, congrats, you’re a pentagram. Lord knows people worry like motherfuckers about how they are going to get by in the “normal” world, so there is a stress and strain in this card that everyone late on a bill can understand. This is the worry that you’ll get your intelligence (Mercury) smothered by the laborious strain of Taurus. This is, like all 5s a human limitation issue. 

Well it won’t unless you only see your limitations and make it happen. Be smarter about you material situation so you don’t have to work harder.

Across the Tree in Geburah, which is Mars Town, where you find your drive and what you’re trying to accomplish/conquer is (another 5) the 5 of Swords, (mental/communication) Defeat. 

Like all 5s this is the microcosmic or human card, if you don’t believe me stand up and stick out your arms and legs, boom, you’re a pentagram. Swords are mind, thought processes, communication and the like, and this is mental growth limited by its mundane focus or dwelling on the limitations of yourself and other individuals. 

Realize your limitations and the limitations of others. You are seriously just a human and so is everyone else. Try to focus your mind on bigger picture things instead of mundane/shitty people, ideas, thoughts, and ways of thinking.

In Tiphareth, the Sun and center of gravity holding all this in place, the heart pumping the blood through this, your heart is XVIII The Moon, Pieces, Qoph. 

This is the ‘Sun at midnight where you stand shines on the other side of the world’. The pull of night and day eventually rising, illuminating what was once dark. As opposed to the old Aeon idea of the Sun dying, this is the cyclic motion of the push and pull of the day and night. The dark gives the light context and vis-a-versa.

See the light in the dark, accept the cyclic push and pull, if you don’t like what “time of day it is” in your life I assure you it will change like the tides.

In Netzach, Venus town, where you have the realization about how this is going to change you as a person with a personality is XXI The Universe, Saturn, Tau.

The Universe is the totality of what we can sense and know. The dance of the Woman with the cosmic serpent and the Eye destroying while everything constantly recreates. We see the Universe only from our position in it. You may send out your satellites to explore unknown areas but you can only process what they might mean from your place. The more we try to take into our restrictive minds and spirits, the more we know about the whole and ourselves and our place in the Universe.

Step back and look at the connections and totality of everything you know and experience. It’s quite a view.

In Mercury Town Hod-ville, where all the Universities are and everyone has real intellectual shit going on is the YET ANOTHER 5, WHAT’RE YOU A TAURUS??? The 5 of Wands, Strife.

Like all the 5s, this is a microcosmic or human number. It’s also the halfway point between two things. This is the drag when you see how far you’ve come and see that you have the exact same grueling distance to go. Your feet will start to drag. The natural friction of motion becomes very apparent here and it is more annoying and nagging than anything else.

You might be stuck between a rock and a shitty place with what you’re doing, but just truck on, it’s not so bad once you get past where you are and get moving at full speed again.

On the Moon in Yesod, the receptive and reflective place that is alot about the feelings that you’re picking up from all this is the 10 of Disks, Wealth. 

This card is intelligence (Mercury) in fertile possibility (Virgo). This is the peak material situation, a good situation, a situation you really want to be in. 

Be swift and mindful of your material task at hand and your everyday experience, it is nearing its end and you stand to profit.

Put your smarts and your communication skills in the most fertile possibilities and cash in before things start to come down from this peak opportune time.

Down here in Malkuth-istan, the everyday life mundane, waking up pooping, and going to work world is the Ace of Disks, the root power of Earth or the material. 

This is the foundation which all your solid structures are and will be built on. This is the very root of your real world/material life situation. While this doesn’t mean you must tear everything down or that there is nothing in your material world that you’ve built, it does mean you must look at the source from which you’ve built your material and everyday world. If you have no foundation you can have no structure. If you have a shoddy foundation, you’ll have a shoddy structure. Look to what things were like  before you began building. Is there sand beneath you? Are you in a swamp, building castles of stone that will bind to the mud and be pulled down much sooner than later? Did you account for the raise in elevation when you laid your foundation? Look down to the base of what you’ve made and what you’ve made it upon.

This is an engineering job, you’ll need tools to measure and level everything out. The occult might not be the best place to find these tools and it is possible that you have issues much more base than you’re willing to cop to. There are many tools you can use to look at your foundation provided in psychology and meditation from other sources. The Universe throws us extreme situations and more often than not, this is the only way people see their basest of instincts and behaviors really act out. If you can, take a look at what connects you and what you’re building to the Earth before an earthquake, tornado, volcano, or other act of G-D forces you to pray everything was fine. Check the strength of your foundations before the strength of your foundations are checked.

Get down to the base fundamentals of what is going on in your material (things, money, living situation, literal stuff) and build from the ground up if you must.

Alright, so, it’s time to make manifest the possibilities, the desires that have gone unspoken, don’t worry about other people’s interpretations of YOU and your wants and needs, there will be those who care to unravel the tangle that is each of us as an individual. You WILL find this, in some way, some how, and that WILL be that big emotional release and connection that you’ve been feeling is around the bend, it’s coming up, fear not!

Seriously, don’t kill your own vibe, or your ability to act when the time arrives by doubt, needless, baseless doubt. Everything is moving for you, or it will be soon rather, and you have to trust that the Sunrise is just over the horizon

And there is a bigger picture here, you’re not only fulfilling your own desires, those longings serve a Greater purpose, do NOT doubt them, or their fulfillment.. And don’t trip yourself up when it doesn’t hit at the time that is most convenient for you. I said it would happen, I didn’t say it wouldn’t be a little messy, but messy is fun. All that being said, you want to bring in those nouns (people places things) that CAN make this happen, the most fertile possibilities  that will be a part of the motion toward this. But, don’t think you’ll be the same, even in the same place when you’re done. You might not physically move, but unleashing desires, longed for moves us… Ever Towards...

Ta Da!

Hit me up with any questions! What a great Reading, I’m really happy for you and I’m excited to hear about your next few months!

-Frater N0VGHT

[dancinginthesliverglow]

Marooned in the Caribbean

By: @art-in-the-sunlight for @comingupwriting in the @friendly-neighborhood-exchange (and a huge thank you to @jelly-pies for beta reading and editing).

Rating: General Audiences. There’s a few depictions of violence and two characters drown (but they survive). No character deaths.

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Morgan Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Morgan Stark, May Parker, Pepper Potts/Stark, a mention of Happy Hogan

Summary:  Peter celebrates his seventeenth birthday with May, Tony, Morgan and Pepper on Tony's yacht. However, trouble strikes in the shape of a horrible storm which sends Peter and Morgan into the ocean. How will they survive?

Prompt chosen: Peter protecting Morgan with a touch of Everyone Lives!Au domestic life of the ironfam.

Ao3 link  Enjoy :)

“... and Happy Birthday to Petey!” Morgan sings at the top of her lungs before jumping into Peter’s arms, barely missing the candles in front of him. 

“Aww thanks guys!” Peter grins looking around at his friends and family. Tony had invited him and May to his yacht to celebrate Peter’s 17th birthday. Peter turns back to Morgan. “Do you want to help me blow out the candles?” 

“Yea!” Morgan turns to the cake, and blows out all the candles in one attempt. 

“Woah! Are you sure you’re not the one turning 17?” Peter jokes, earning a giggle from Morgan. 

“Alright there kiddos, it’s cake time!” May pulls out a fork, takes a piece of icing and holds it up for Peter to taste. As Peter takes a bite, he hears the shutter of a camera and turns to Pepper with a smile. 

“Aww that’s a great picture.” Pepper smiles back at him kindly. 

“My turn!” Morgan jumps out of Peter’s arms.

“I don’t know about that… Did she eat all her vegetables yesterday?” Tony pretends to think about it, turning to Pepper. 

“Hmm.. I don’t remember. But I suppose if she promised to eat all of them tonight…” Pepper mimics Tony’s expression, hiding a smile.

“I promise! I’ll eat it!”

Everyone laughs. “Alright, Morgana. But only one slice. They’ll be more after dinner, if you want.”

Morgan nods eagerly, and impatiently waits as Pepper and Tony cut and distribute the cake. 

May pulls Peter into her side and presses a kiss on his forehead. “Happy birthday, Peter. I love you.”

Peter leans into her and closes his eyes contentedly as May runs her fingers through his hair. “Love you too, May.” 

Pepper hands Peter a slice of chocolate drip cake. Peter finishes it, leans back and looks around at his family. He had really gotten lucky, all things considered. A few months ago - well, 5 years ago really, an alien named Thanos had come to earth with the infinity stones and turned half the population of everything in the entire universe to dust, him and May included. 

A few months ago, Tony and the rest of the Avengers had put together a desperate attempt using time travel - Peter was still spotty on the details - but long story short, they brought everyone back, and survived. It was a close call for Black Widow and Tony, the former was paralyzed from the waist down from a fall on an alien planet, and Tony had lost his arm.

But all of that was in the past. The important point was everyone was alive, they defeated possibly the toughest villain ever and got their happy ever after. There would always be more villains for the Avengers to defeat and more muggers and thieves for Peter to web up in New York but that was normal. 

Peter snapped out of his train of thought when Tony sat down next to him and slung his nanotech arm around Peter. “What do you think, kiddo? Birthday party up to your standards?”

Peter laughs. “Mr. Stark, we’re on a yacht in the Caribbean ocean! This-this is amazing!”

Tony’s expression seems to soften, into a gentle smile. “Anything for you, kiddo.” 

Peter leans into Tony’s embrace but doesn’t say anything. It’s a comfortable silence. Before the blip, he and Tony had grown close. Peter had never said anything but somewhere between patrolling New York City together, training and fighting, and upgrading their suits and working in the lab together, Peter had stopped thinking of Tony as genius, billionaire, superhero, philanthropist and more along the lines of… father. Dad. 

Based on what he managed to piece together from Tony's behaviour, Pepper, Happy, Rhodey and the other Avengers's comments about Tony during the blip, Tony thought of him as his son too. Just the thought of it filled Peter’s chest with warmth. 

“Daaaaaad! Mom says that we have to go inside!” Morgan runs up to Tony and Peter, and points to the left. A massive… cloud -  if it could even be called that - is rolling in. Peter sees flashes of lightning inside the massive cloud.

“Yea okay. Morgana, help Peter take the chairs inside?” Tony stands up and stretches, before moving to the yacht sails. The gesture seems unconcerned but Peter can see a line of tension in Tony’s expression when he looks at the cloud.

Peter’s spidey senses tingle when he looks back at the cloud, and he gets a dark feeling which sends goosebumps up his arms. “That storm seems pretty big.”

Tony smiles at Peter reassuringly. “Don’t worry about it. I outfitted this ship myself. She has nanotech in her walls, along with FRIDAY. If all else fails, I can call a suit.”

~ ~ ~

An hour later, everything is decidedly not okay. The yacht is swaying side to side in the ten foot waves, each time coming closer and closer to flipping over. Pepper, May and Peter are huddled together on the sofa, while Tony taps angrily at the yacht’s interface. The storm was interfering with FRIDAY’s connection. 

Morgan presses her nose against the door staring outside. Peter supposes that if he could get past the dark feeling from his spidey senses, the dark scene with waves crashing and lightning flashing would’ve made quite the enjoyable scene.

As if on cue, Pepper looks up and spots Morgan. “Morgan! Come here!”

“No! I want to watch the lightning!” 

“Morg-” Pepper’s response is lost as something dark flies and knocks the door open. A large branch slides into the center of the room, quickly followed by gallons of water. Morgan falls and screams in terror. 

The room instantly explodes into chaos. Tony, Peter and Pepper instantly jump up and lunge to grab Morgan. The yacht sways in the opposite direction, and the branch and ocean water slide out, along with Morgan. Tony and Pepper’s fingers scantily miss Morgan by centimetres. Peter jumps up to the ceiling, sticks there for a millionth of a second and then throws himself at Morgan as she slides out the door.  

He catches her - in fact he nearly lands on top of her. He has a moment of relief, where he wraps Morgan in his arms tight. A split second later, he realizes his mistake. He used too much force, and now the momentum, along with the yacht’s slick deck sends them both over the yacht rail into the roaring ocean. 

He hits the water head first and it’s agony. He feels like someone with his strength had punched him in the head. The next sensation is ice. The water is ice cold, and he instantly feels frozen to the core. Dazed, he opens his eyes underwater and realizes that Morgan is no longer in his arms. Morgan isn’t anywhere near him, from what he can tell with his limited vision.

 He frantically kicks until he reaches the surface. He sucks in a breath of fresh air and yells, “MORGAN!” before another wave yanks him back under. Peter’s lungs burn as he swallows ocean water. He frantically kicks upward again, trying to get back to the surface. Peter doesn’t see the same tree branch floating on the surface, right above his head. He smashes into it, head first, and the world goes dark. 

~ ~ ~

Peter wakes up coughing. He rolls onto his side and spits out ocean water and bits of seaweed, before throwing up what was left of his birthday cake. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and slowly sits up.

Something digs into his side. He pats his side, and then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a red, metal swiss knife just slightly bigger than his thumb. He tries to remember where he got it but he comes up blank. Peter sticks it back into his pocket and looks around. 

Peter’s on a sandy beach. The sun is slightly angled in the sky, and isn’t quite scorching hot yet so Peter estimates that it's sometime in the morning. There isn’t a cloud in sight. Waves peacefully lap at his feet. 

Shakily, Peter stands up and turns away from the ocean. He stumbles a few times before righting himself. Several meters in front of him the beach slowly transitions into sandy dirt with a few shrubs, and then into what seems like a thick jungle.

Peter touches his head, and hisses in pain. His fingers come away clean, if not a little sandy. Based on the sharp sting that's now fading and the underlying throbbing, Peter knows he has a head injury. 

What happened?

It comes back to him in pieces. His birthday, The swiss army tinker knife gift in his pocket. The yacht. May. Tony. The cake. The storm. Morgan.

Oh god, Morgan.

Peter swallows and forces tears back. He’s no use to Morgan if he allows his emotions to overcome him. He needs to stay positive. Peter and Morgan had fallen in the ocean at the same spot. Maybe there’s a chance Morgan washed up on the same shore as him?

Peter stumbles across the beach squinting in the sunlight, looking for Morgan’s figure. He tries to stave off his panic. Why did the sun have to be so… intense in the Caribbean? He knows the answer to that, of course. The tilt of the earth in combination with the curvature of the earth causes the sun’s rays to be more concentrated over~

The sight of a figure lying in the sand, close to shore in the distance stops Peter’s train of thought. Could it be?

Peter sprints towards her, and practically falls beside her. Carefully he rolls her over - and yes, it’s Morgan. She’s pale and there’s sand and seaweed covering her face, but it's definitely Morgan. 

Peter shakily holds his hand over her mouth. She’s breathing. Peter sits back on his heels, closes his eyes and sighs in relief. Morgan’s okay. Something in Peter relaxes. Morgan’s going to be okay and he’s okay. All he has to do is send up some type of flare or signal so that Tony can find them. A dark thought passes through Peter’s mind. What if the storm had been too much? What if Tony and Pepper and May-

Through sheer force of will, Peter stops the thought in its tracks. Tony is the strongest superhero, the strongest person he knows (maybe aside from Pepper, May and MJ). Not even Thanos or the Infinity Stones (arguably the strongest weapons in existence) could kill him. Tony definitely survived the storm, which means that May and Pepper survived as well. 

Peter focuses on Morgan. He puts a hand to her head. Her forehead is hot, but not worryingly so. He carefully picks her up and looks around. To his right, he spots a huge tree with large branches hanging over the beach, casting shade over the area. Perfect. 

Peter walks over and gently lies Morgan underneath. He rips off a piece of his shirt, soaks it in water, and gently places it on Morgan’s forehead. She wrinkles her nose and softly huffs, but doesn’t wake up. Peter kisses her head and sits down next to her. 

In the sandy dirt, he makes a plan. His first priority is to find shelter. Peter looks at the tree he and Morgan are taking shelter underneath, and decides that it’s good enough for now. Next on the list is to find water, followed by making a signal for Tony and then finding food. Peter sincerely hopes they won’t have to stick around on the island too long. He has never had to hunt for food before, and he isn’t quite sure what’s poisonous and what’s safe. He regrets not taking MJ up on borrowing her survival guide.

First things first, Peter needs to find water. He goes to stand up, but then looks back at Morgan. She’s especially vulnerable like this, and Peter doesn’t want to leave her alone. He figures carrying her around is an option, although it’s not one that he likes. There’s too much that could go wrong. 

Peter scans the shoreline, looking for inspiration to a solution, when he spots a palm tree several meters away. His eyes follow the trunk. Twenty feet up, Peter spots a few coconuts. He smiles. This should be easy. 

Several minutes later, Peter sits back down next to Morgan, looking slightly worse for wear with a few bug bites and three coconuts. He pulls out the army knife and begins carefully hacking away at the top of the first coconut.  

After what seems like forever, Peter finally cuts through the coconut shell. He carefully pours a bit of coconut water on his palm, and then sniffs it. It has a faint odor, but more importantly, it doesn’t trigger his spidey senses. Peter raises the hole in the coconut to his mouth and takes a sip. The taste is a little weird, but to Peter, it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever had. He’s halfway done drinking the rest of the water when he hears Morgan stirring. 

Carefully, he leans the coconut upright against the other coconuts, and then rushes to Morgan’s side. 

“Hey Morgan! Are you waking up? Morgan?” Peter gently taps Morgan’s shoulders.  

Morgan opens her eyes and squints at him. “Wha - Petey?”

Peter’s face breaks out into a huge grin. “Hey Morgan!” He helps her sit up.

“Where are we? Where’s Mom and Da-” Her raspy voice breaks off into a cough. 

Peter hands her the coconut. “Here, drink.”

She takes the coconut with two hands and drinks. Peter nearly chuckles at the sight. It's adorable. 

“What do you remember?”

Morgan frowns for a moment, before her face clouds and she looks on the edge of crying. 

“Hey- nono! We’re going to be okay! Don’t cry!” 

Morgan’s lip trembles, and Peter pulls her into a fierce hug. “I promise you, Mr. Stark-Dad is out there looking for us. And he’s going to find us as soon as… as we complete our mission.” 

“M-mission?” Morgan still looks scared, but the threat of tears are beginning to retreat.

“Yea! The first step was getting coconut water.”

Morgan makes a face. “Coconut water tastes weird.”

Peter laughs. “It does! But it’s part two of the mission. We have to drink coconut water whenever we get thirsty.”

“Fine… But I’m only doing it so Dad can find us.” Morgan looks oddly determined for a kid. “What else do we have to do?”

“Hmm, let’s see. Find coconuts, drink coconuts…” Peter makes an exaggerated thinking face, and Morgan giggles. “Next is making a signal!”

“A signal?”

“Yea! Mr. St- Dad is already looking all over for us. But he doesn’t know where exactly to look, so we have to tell him!”

“How do we do that?”

“Well, I’m fresh out of flares, what about you? Are you hiding any under… here?” Peter lunges at Morgan and tickles her sides.

“Hey!” Morgan giggles and starts squirming. “Petey stop it!” 

Peter withdraws his arms with an exaggerated thinking face. “No flares then. I guess we’ll have to make a smoke signal. See those pieces of wood?” 

Peter points to the driftwood lying around the beach, presumably dragged in by the storm. “We’re going to use it to build a bonfire, and then cover it in leaves!” 

Morgan claps her hands in delight. “Ooh just like the fire I built with Dad! We wanted to make it as tall as the sky but Mom said no.” Morgan looks disappointed.

Peter laughs and agrees. “Just like that, except the smoke will be as tall as the sky!”

Morgan’s eyes widen in excitement. She jumps to her feet. “I want to start now! Can we build it now, Petey?” 

Peter stands up next to her. “Sure! But you have to promise me that if you feel tired, you’ll come back to this tree and take a break. And if you get thirsty, you’ll tell me so I can open another coconut.”

Morgan nods eagerly. “I promise! Can we go now?”

Over the course of the next few hours, Peter instructs Morgan on how to tell if the driftwood is dry. He shows her how to pile the pieces of wood together, so that they don’t immediately fall over. When the pile gets too tall for her to stack pieces of wood on, they take a break and finish off another coconut, and part of the third. He tells her to use rocks to spell out “SOS” in the sand, while he piles the bigger pieces of driftwood- some the size of Morgan - on their pile, along with some fresh branches he broke to create smoke. 

They finish around midday, and Peter sends Morgan under the tree to rest. In the end, the pile is nearly as tall as Peter. He takes out the army knife and pulls out the two small magnifying glasses. He arranges them so that the sunlight is directly shining through both glasses and onto the wooden pile, and then goes under the tree to wait. 

It doesn’t take long for the wood to catch on fire. They cheer and hug. Peter retrieves his army knife, and they watch in satisfaction as their pile of wood catches on fire, sending black smoke billowing up into the air. 

They settle back down underneath the tree with the last coconut. Just as they finish it off, Morgan spots something in the ocean, near the horizon. As it approaches, the shape becomes more distinguished until Peter can tell it's a ship.

Morgan and Peter run out onto the beach and start waving their hands above their heads, trying to get the ship captain’s attention. Slowly, Peter watches as the ship veers off its course, and begins heading towards them. Morgan cheers and hugs Peter, but Peter doesn’t share the same sentiment. His spidey senses are giving him a dark feeling and sending goosebumps up his arms. 

Peter’s in the middle of trying to convince Morgan to wait beneath the tree when a shot rings out. Driven by instinct, Peter immediately tackles Morgan to the ground. Barely a second later, something hits the ground a few feet away from them. Peter turns back to the ship, and spots a glimmer of a sniper’s scope in the sunlight. 

“Petey!” Morgan cries out in fear, as Peter practically lifts her to her feet.

“Come on Morgan!” Peter’s pulling her off the beach, towards the jungle as fast as he can. “We have to hide!” 

Morgan stumbles after him. Another bullet hits the sand a few feet to their right, and they both flinch.

“Wai- NO!” As they reach the tree, Morgan jerks her hand out of Peter’s. “I don’t want to go in the forest! It’s scary! And Dad… how’s Dad going to find us in there?”

Peter pulls Morgan behind the tree so they’re temporarily hidden. He looks at Morgan. She’s terrified, shaking and there’s a few tears falling down her cheeks. He softens his tone. “Listen, Mr. S-Dad is going to see the bonfire, and then he’ll search every inch of this island, okay? But now we have to go-” Both Peter and Morgan flinch as another shot rings out. “-right now. Okay?”

Morgan nods, and Peter doesn’t waste any time. He picks Morgan up and runs as fast as he can through the jungle, crashing through the undergrowth. 

After what seems like an hour of running, Peter slows down, and then stops when he comes across a moderately small stream. He sets a strangely quiet Morgan down, kneels next to the river and splashes his face with water. To his surprise, it doesn’t smell salty. 

He cups some of the water in his hands and brings it up to his face. When he doesn’t get a warning from his spidey senses, he takes a sip. The water is cool and soothing. 

“Morgan, here.” Peter gently helps Morgan to the edge of the stream. “Cup your hands like this, and then drink.”

Morgan makes a face. “Isn’t the water mucky?”

“Uh, nope! I mean, probably not? But it’s a freshwater stream, and we really need to stay hydrated with this heat…” Peter takes another drink of water, and then looks around. His path of running through the jungle is clearly outlined with trampled plants and vines and branches snapped, and pushed out of the way. He had essentially led whoever was on that ship to their current location. 

“Petey, what are we going to do?” Morgan’s tearful brown doe eyes stare up at him. 

Peter rubs her head and stands up. “We just have to add a few steps to our plan.” He tries to sound confident. 

“What steps?”

“I’m not sure yet.” 

To his left, Peter sees a tall, sturdy looking tree with large branches and fairly thick leaves. To his right, there’s a few old branches with dried leaves falling off. Peter moves towards them, and lifts one up. There’s a large hole, maybe ten feet deep underneath.

Peter smiles. “We’re going to set a trap.”

~ ~ ~

Almost two hours later, four armed men enter the small clearing by the steam. Grunt number one turns to the guy at the back and says, “The trail ends here, sir.”

The boss snarls in anger. “Spread out and find them! We’re not letting those two Stark brats get away! We need the ransom money!”

Grunt numbers one, two and three spread out around the stream, looking for clues. 

After a few moments, grunt two spots a shoe lying on top of a few branches to the right. “Hey bo-” He steps closer to pick up the shoe, but the ground disappears, and he falls down, into a hole. 

At the same time, grunt number three spots a shoe lying on top of a couple vines to the left. He steps closer, and picks up the shoe. All of a sudden, a large rock with vines wrapped around it falls down and the vines jerk up, sending the man flying upwards in the air… in a net made of vines. He drops his gun in the commotion and starts swearing. 

The boss and grunt number one immediately move together so they are back to back and raise their guns. “What the hell…”

A large figure swings from the top of the tall tree that grunt number three is hanging in and crashes into grunt number one. They roll on the ground, and the figure manages to disarm the grunt and loop the vine around him, immobilizing him.

The click of bosses’ gun safety turning off stops the figure in his tracks. The boss has his gun trained on the figure’s forehead. “Don’t move! I’ll shoot!”

The figure stops moving and yells, “Now!”

A bright light is shone directly into the boss’s  eyes. He stumbles back disoriented and raises an arm to shield his eyes. The figure takes the opportunity to disarm the boss and tie him up in vines. 

Peter grabs the boss and drags him to the ten foot hole. He holds the guy by his arm and dangles him over the pit, in such a way that the boss can’t see beneath him. 

“Wait - no please! What-what do you want?”

“Why did you attack us?” 

“You’re Stark’s kid, right? He’s looking all over for you, there's suits flying everywhere. He’s looking in the wrong area though, any experienced sailor can tell you that. We figured we’d grab you guys and make some cash.”

Peter’s face is stone cold. “How many of you came here?”

“Just us four, kid. Now let me go-”

Peter smiles. “Okay.” And lets him fall into the pit. The boss screams, and then presumably falls on top of grunt number two. There’s a lot of muffled cursing. 

Peter looks up to the tall tree. “Morgan! You can climb down now!”

Morgan carefully climbs down and runs to Peter. “Petey! He said Dad’s looking for us!”

“That’s right! Good job with the light!” Peter takes the Swiss army knife from her, guides her around the traps and tied-up grunts and back to the path in the jungle. “We’re going to see if their ship has a radio we can use to call Dad.”

Morgan stops walking and turns to Peter. “But… I don’t want to go aboard the ship. It’s scary.”

Peter kneels down next to her so they’re face to face. “We defeated all of them back there, Morgan. They can’t hurt us anymore.”

“But what if they escape? Or if-if there’s more bad guys on the ship.”

“Then I’ll protect you, Morgan. Always.”

Morgan hesitates. “Pinky promise?”

“Pinky promise.” Peter stands back up. “You know… Dad always told me that you loved adventures.”

“I do! Me, Mom and Dad always go on adventures!”

“Yes? Well think of this as another adventure. We’re pirates and that ship on the beach has treasure!”

Morgan stares at Peter, her eyes glinting in delight, before she grabs Peter’s hand and pulls him toward the beach, “Come on Petey! We have treasure to find!”

~ ~ ~

A few hours later as the sun is setting, one very stressed-out Tony Stark steps out of his iron suit on the beach. Peter and Morgan immediately hop out of the ship to meet him. 

“DAAAAAAD!” Morgan runs up to Tony and hugs him. Tony kneels down and catches her and presses a kiss to her forehead. “You’re never going to believe what happened! Me and Petey had the best adventure ever! We drank coconuts and made a bonfire and then we raided the ship-”

Tony pulls back slightly without releasing Morgan from their hug to look at her. “Hold on, what?” Then he spots the black bandana on her head. He tugs at it. “Morgana, what is this?”

“We’re pirates! ARRRRRRRR!”

Tony looks up at Peter in confusion. “What?” Then he spots the chicken leg Peter’s eating.

Peter just smiles and responds, “We’re pirates.”

Tony shakes his head and picks Morgan up with one arm. He steps toward Peter, wraps an arm around him and kisses his forehead. “Mom’s on her way, and May is waiting with Happy in the Quinjet.” Tony pauses for a moment. “I’m just glad you guys are okay.” 

Peter relaxes into the hug, in a way he hasn’t since he arrived on the island. The same feeling of happiness and warmth he felt on the yacht while sitting with Tony is back. “Me too.”

“Hey Morgan,” Peter starts. “Do you want to show Dad your pirate key?” Peter feels Tony tense slightly and he realizes what he just said. Dad. Shit-shit-shit-shit-

“Yea! Look Dad!” Morgan pulls a key attached to a string from around her neck. “Me and Petey found it on the ship-” Morgan is interrupted with the sound of another suit flying by. The trio looks up, and its-

“Mom!” Morgan starts wiggling and Tony puts her back down on the beach, but he still keeps a hand on her shoulder until Pepper lands. Morgan runs up to her, and Pepper catches her and wraps her up in a tight hug. 

Peter steps away from Tony awkwardly. “Sorry about uh, calling you Dad-” 

“Hey, no it’s okay.” Tony gently pulls Peter back to him. “I know I’m not your biological dad, and I wasn’t the one to raise you, but I still think you as my kid. I wasn’t just worried about Morgan, I was worried about you too.”

Peter feels his face heat up. He wraps his arms around Tony and buries his face in the side of Tony’s neck. Tony chuckles, and runs a hand through Peter’s sandy curls. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.” 

[meetthetank]

Cruciamen Chapter 6: The Bog

Rating: Mature Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Categories: F/M, Other Fandom: NieR: Automata (Video Game) Relationships: 2B/9S (NieR: Automata), A2/A4 (NieR: Automata) Characters: 2B (NieR: Automata), 9S (NieR: Automata), A2 (NieR: Automata), A4 (NieR: Automata), Emil (NieR: Automata), Kainé (Nier) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, genre typical violence, On the Run, Monster of the Week, 9S is a half demon, 2B and A2 are shapeshifter Dragons, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smut in the future, inaccurate depictions of medical procedures, Fantasy Biology, A2 is Nonbinary

A2 has never flown this fast in all their life. A horrible blistering wind whips behind the gelatinous demon that soars ahead of them. No longer the searing heat of the desert (they lost track of when the terrain changed from sand to swamp), it stings their eyes even through their second eyelids, but that is of little concern to them now. All they want is to sink their teeth into Hegel's flesh and spill its tainted blood onto the earth. They push their body to its limit, each wingbeat pushing them as far and as fast as possible.

The demon employs all manner of foul defenses to keep A2 from reaching it. Whenever they close in, it expels a burst of air that threatens to knock them out of the sky. Each time they maneuver in place for a dive, it either lashes out with one of its tentacles or fires off energy beams at them. Though the wound has since healed, the phantom sting of burnt flesh is strong. They’d rather swerve out of the way and be set back than suffer that again.

That changes once they manage to tear at Hegel’s flesh with a talon.

The moment they feel their claws pierce the demon’s skin something snaps within them. Fury and hate consume their body and sings through their blood. Their muscles scream against the surge of raw power that courses through them. They put all their energy into a frantic burst of speed, closing the gap between them and Hegel. A flurry of panicked blasts of energy singe their wings and scales, but the pain fails to stop them. In fact, the more their body begs for them to stop, the harder they push themself. The pain fuels the bloodlust in a violent feedback loop.

With a burst of speed A2 closes the last few feet between them and Hegel. They don’t slow down, not even when they make contact with the demon’s flesh. Their beak pierces through the skin of one of its bulbous sacks, their whole head sinking inside. A rush of foul air escapes through the tears A2 leaves with their teeth and claws. It stings at their eyes and makes their stomach turn violently, but still they persist.

They wrench their head free from the deflating sack of air as the demon screams. It begins to sink in the sky, having lost some of its buoyancy. Good, they’re on their way to grounding the demon, but it’s not enough. Not even close. They need to make this thing bleed. A2 claws their way to another sack of air and sinks their teeth into it before Hegel can recover from the first impact. A strip of the membranous tissue remains stuck in their beak, a small bit the demon’s blood dripping down their throat. It tastes sickly sweet, like overripe fruits.

Hegel bellows, a horrid sound that shakes A2 to their core. The sound itself seems to make the wind tremble. If it weren’t for this hysteric strength A2 wouldn’t have been able to hold onto the demon. Its tentacles whip and slap at them as much as it can, but only the tips can reach them for now. 

Neither A2 nor Hegel notice the fast approaching treeline till the demon crashes into the canopy of mangrove trees. Both launch forward into the mass of vegetation and dead branches. Disoriented, A2 throws their wings and legs out to slow their fall but the world spins around them. They can’t see anything beyond blurs of green and brown. Occasionally their claws will rake against the bark of a branch or trunk but the speed of their fall rips them from the tree.

A splash reaches their ears just before they hit the surface of a stagnant pool of water. They thrash against everything, the vines and roots, the mud, the water itself, and their own body, to breach the surface. The moment they do they inhale as much as they can, but only gulp down mouthfuls of mud and water. Their claws catch on a thick bundle of roots and pull themself up out of the muck. It sticks to their feathers, pressing them down against their skin. They shake themself off as quickly as they can and scratch the grime from their eyes so they can get their bearings. Trees, water, lots of hanging vegetation, and the bulbous mass of Hegel rising out of the murk.

With a roar, A2 launches at the demon, leaping from mangrove trunk to trunk. With the mud caking on their feathers and how dense the trees are it's impossible for them to fly. It’s much slower but it’s their only option. Well, the only option they can think off with bloodlust clouding their mind.

“FOOL!” Hegel screams, exposing rows of flat teeth, “Do you realize what you’ve done?!”

The only answer the demon gets is a roar. A2 didn’t expect Hegel to speak in any capacity, much less in a language they could understand. It didn’t matter what this beast was saying anyway. A2 is deaf to anything besides the thunder of blood in their ears.

“Idiot reptile! You’ve killed us both!!”

Hegel’s teeth grind together, the sound rattling through A2’s bones. Whether it was just how the vile creature spoke or if it was preparing some sort of audio attack, it didn’t matter. A2 lunges at its body, forcing it to stumble backward into the mud once again. It rockets for the treetops with A2 close behind it, but the foul air that propels it sputters out well before it reaches its destination. They slash and bite at its tentacles and flesh, trying to cripple it further. A thick primary tendril slams into A2’s neck, sending them falling back to the mud. They fight to right themselves before Hegel can put more distance between them. Plants roots and long grasses bind their legs down in the mire, slowing their escape. Hegel loops its fleshy tentacles around the branches to pull its body along since it can no longer fly-

Suddenly the mud roils and rises up in an impossibly huge shape. A2’s body seizes. Muscles and bone lock together as they watch the earth itself swell around the body of some insane creature. The bloodlust and rage is quickly replaced with primal fear. They see a line of rocks… no, teeth. A snout with two nostrils that expel a geyser of swamp water. An eye larger than Hegel itself, colored an evil yellow with a single slit pupil. Hegel spins around as fast as it can but its body betrays it. The demon isn’t built for anything but flight. Without air giving it buoyancy it’s as helpless as a beached whale. In a flash of movement, the great beast that lurks under the mud, an alligator larger than any living thing A2 had ever seen, slams its jaws shut on Hegel. The demon doesn’t even have time to scream.

As quickly as the enormous alligator appeared, the beast drags itself back into the mud along with its prize. The only sign that something broke the surface of the water at all is the displaced duckweed and bubbles that emerge from the depths.

Before A2 can process what just happened, the swamp explodes with sound and movement. Something latches onto their leg, teeth cutting through their scales and hide. The water begins to roil around them. What looks to be hundreds of small fish with serrated teeth barrel towards them and their bleeding leg. With all their frantic strength they pull themself up by their claws and wrap their wings around the trunk of a mangrove. They barely have time to rip the distressingly sized leech from their ankle before the jaws of another monstrous alligator lunges at them. A2 scrambles up the tree trunk, just barely out of reach of gator’s teeth. 

A2’s claws sink into something thick and fleshy. One of the branches has a different coloration than the light grey bark of a mangrove; it’s a dull green, scaly to the touch, and shines in the light of the setting sun. A great snake whips its head around to face A2, its fangs glinting with dull yellow venom as it lunges for their wing. Without thinking A2 lets go of their grip and flails away from the snake. They plummet back into the watery mud and instantly feel more leeches attach to their body. 

Again A2 bursts from the mud, this time not stopping to catch their breath on the trunk of a tree. It isn’t often that they admit to themself that they’re in over their head, but fear overrides any sense of pride that remains in them. They pick a direction and jump from tree to tree, scattering birds, reptiles, and huge insects that flee from this large predator and whatever they may be running from. Every move they make puts them in the path of one ornery animal or another; a slip of their foot almost gets that foot bitten off by a lazy snapping turtle disguised as a boulder, a misplaced claw rips open the walls of a nest of yellow and black stinging insects the size of their head. 

They have no idea how long they’ve been jumping between trees in an unknown direction; they can’t even look towards the sun, not with the dense canopy blocking the sky from view. A2 could have changed directions so many times that they’ve been going in circles and not even know it. With the mud and leeches dragging them down, they can’t simply fly away, especially not with how thick the mangrove forest is. 

A break in the treeline appears before A2. They almost miss it in between scanning their surroundings like a prey animal. It’s salvation to them, the exit to this hellish swamp. They’d take the blistering desert over the bog any day. They could go back to Kaine and Emil, if they’d let them stay again. They wouldn’t complain this time, not about anything. Not after seeing this place.

The break grows larger; they can see where the treeline grows thin. They even see grass and wildflowers growing on the ground instead of mud. A2 throws themself towards the light of the setting sun, hoping to any higher power that would listen that it isn’t just a clearing.

Suddenly a shadow in the shape of a great beast lunges at A2 from another tree, soon followed by a second and a third. The creatures talk to each other in a violent language of chattering and barks… no, not the creatures, whatever is riding them. Three giant rats carry three women dressed in bark, leather, and bones. Each woman draws a crude bow and notches an arrow dripping with black liquid and takes aim at A2. The women bark something at them, perhaps a warning, and are met with a frightened hiss from the mud soaked Coatyl. A moment later the women loose their arrows, one of them landing just above A2’s head. They smell the sharp, acrid stench of whatever the women are coating their arrows with, and they don’t want to stick around to find out what it’d do to a body. 

A2 leaps to the left, seizing a gap in the women’s formation and makes a dash for the treeline once again, but the large rats the women ride are far more nimble than A2 gave them credit for. One of the rats cuts them off and hisses at them, exposing yellowed fangs and festering sores on the inside of its mouth. A2 can smell its breath, like a rotting corpse, and recoils away. Again, they try to dart for freedom only to be outmaneuvered by the rats and the riders, all while avoiding arrow after arrow. The women cackle and bark in their foreign language, and though A2 can’t understand them, their tone is mocking. They’re making fun of them.

Faced with these three women blocking their only path out, A2 makes what might be the worst decision they’ve ever made.

They turn around and dive back into The Bog.