#his fear is being stagnant and settling for less

[slushiepizza]

if it's not obvious already, i headcanon that there's something severely wrong with guy that's masked with his upbeat personality

[kitsantoss]

[Andre Lamoglia, Cis Man, He-They ] — whoa! Kit Santos just stole my cab! not cool, but maybe they needed it more. they have lived in the city for 8 YEARS, working as a WRITER. that can’t be easy, especially at only 29 YEARS OLD. some people say they can be a little bit SNARKY and YAPPY , but I know them to be ENERGETIC and CHARMING. whatever. I guess I’ll catch the next cab. hope they like the ride back to BROOKLYN! — (Juicy, 21+, est, any, n/a)

tw: cancer, death

Life can be pretty fucking shitty, and that all rings especially true when you’re young and think of nothing but the future, of growing up, never truly appreciating the time of your youth. Kit had learned this lesson early on, a child of the system, the byproduct of high school sweetheart love, two so enamored yet unprepared for the harsh reality of the world, so that baby that came out of spurious love would never know his parents, or at the very least those he shared DNA with. Not that it mattered as he never really lived in the system for long as some hopeful couple had wanted a baby for so long, but they just didn’t have any luck, so in some ways Kit was their miracle child. Besides the somewhat cautionary tale that was his birth, life was pretty normal for him, he was good in school, was an honor roll student all the way up until senior year when he was ready to venture out into the world and become a professional. At least, that was the plan, that’s what most young adults did once their high school career was over, go into higher education, get a degree, and make a career out of it. But on a night out with friends, one of the many that he’d come to know a night that was supposed to be like any other, his world turned upside down. Kit had passed out during one of the school’s football games, walking into the parking lot with his friends as they all celebrated the victory, he collapsed as he fell to catch up to them, and that was all he could recall as the darkness that was trying to invade from his peripheral took over.

The diagnosis was adenocarcinoma, and the fainting spell was brought on due to dehydration probably from the upchucking that he had done at home prior, thinking it must’ve been the corn dog he had ate that just didn’t sit with right him. They told him and his family about the available procedures and all that they could offer, and Kit couldn’t think, he couldn’t say a single word, all he could do was sit there and listen as the fear hit him like a truck. It dashed all his hopes and dreams of the future, as it looked grim, but he was up for the fight, as they call it. As if this thing was just another type of battlefield that he was wholly unprepared for, but he wanted to live, so what other choices were there? After a year in treatment, things started to take a turn for the worse, the doctors were giving up hope, and the look on his parents face as they tried to assuage the news didn’t help. Kit was left in that hospital bed looking at all the stories from his friends, moving on with their lives, going off into college, and he was just stagnant, deteriorating, as if his own body was waging a war with itself. After being told he only had maybe less than a year, he decided to spend his few remaining days in a place he had found online. A place that housed kids like him, kids who were terminal and wanted a better way to spend the rest of their remaining days. So as his bags were packed, he ventured off to what might be       the best time in his life.

It felt like Hospice, except all the inhabitants were young, about his age, just young adults that for better or worse, lived their life as best as they could within this abode. He settled in quickly, made friends with the other kids and found in them a second family. They would all do everything together, they’d all tell the wildest stories that they could come up with, say what they would do if they ever got out that place. They’d steal alcohol, drink together, find themselves in the woods making a little bonfire, and Kit figured that it might not be so bad to go if you were surrounded by people who truly loved and cherished you, and knew exactly what you were going through. Kit met a boy, and their feelings for each other sparked quickly, it was beautiful and wild and real, and all the things’ people wish for, so he thought of himself as lucky in that aspect. That he got to experience what felt like love, real love, at least if only even for a little while. They promised they’d marry if they ever got out, but as the story goes, the good times can’t last. It should’ve been obvious given all their circumstances, but it still hurt, hurt like hell to know that seat at the table would never be filled by that person ever again. Here, he began to write, began to immortalize the people he loved in his stories, gave them all the grandeur and fantasy that they deserved. In his stories they got to live, carry out their lives, he gave them adventures, romance, every other amazing thing he could think of that he knew they’d enjoy. Little by little all these stories became a book, the first of many that he would never publish, at least, he didn’t think about it at first, didn’t think he’d ever get to see his work out there in the world. These were just stories he made for his friends, of his friends, and ones that he would keep for life…or at least until his time. Kit experience heartache many other times, as a lot of the faces he knew and loved had vanished, and their big group had dwindled, but even so they never truly left, not while there were pages and lips that said their names.

Then another miracle happened, the miracle baby of his parents got one for himself, new results that said he wasn’t terminal, and that while not fully recovered it meant he could put his life back on track. He was happy, sad, guilty, angry, confused, so many things all at once because…why him? Survivor’s guilt is common, and he knew that, be he didn’t know how visceral it would truly be until he was one himself, a survivor. After he left, he promised to himself to keep them all alive, and he did, his book got published and a bestselling author he became. That one book spawned an entire series, and he had made his friends ever living in those pages that millions of others now read, they fell in love with the same people he did, but they would never truly know how amazing each of them were, not like he did. Now he lives comfortably, playing the same video games one of his friends would’ve raved about, as if he had had kept something each of them loved and carried it with him forever, or as long as that could be. Still, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever find love, or a love as beautiful as his first, survivor’s guilt is a bitch, but it’s the bitch that he carries deep within his heart, and he doesn’t know if there’s anybody who could mend it, those battle scars.

[hxesandruin]

Walking through the picturesque streets of Cardinal Hill, you find ( Christopher "Kit" Blackthorn ), the (33) year old ( Author ) originally from ( Cardinal Hill ). Living alongside them in such a small town, you know that they're ( fun loving ) and ( vexing ), but what you might not know is that they are a ( human ), and that they’re hiding something… ― Logan Lerman, gay, cis man, he/they.

tw: death, cancer

Life can be pretty fucking shitty, and that all rings especially true when you’re young and think of nothing but the future, of growing up, never truly appreciating the time of your youth. Kit had learned this lesson early on, a child of the system, the byproduct of high school sweetheart love, two so enamored yet unprepared for the harsh reality of the world, so that baby that came out of spurious love would never know his parents, or at the very least those he shared DNA with. Not that it mattered as he never really lived in the system for long as some hopeful couple had wanted a baby for so long, but they just didn’t have any luck, so in some ways Kit was their miracle child. Besides the somewhat cautionary tale that was his birth, life was pretty normal for him, he was good in school, was an honor roll student all the way up until senior year when he was ready to venture out into the world and become a professional. At least, that was the plan, that’s what most young adults did once their high school career was over, go into higher education, get a degree, and make a career out of it. But on a night out with friends, one of the many that he’d come to know a night that was supposed to be like any other, his world turned upside down. Kit had passed out during one of the school’s football games, walking into the parking lot with his friends as they all celebrated the victory, he collapsed as he fell to catch up to them, and that was all he could recall as the darkness that was trying to invade from his peripheral took over.

The diagnosis was adenocarcinoma, and the fainting spell was brought on due to dehydration probably from the upchucking that he had done at home prior, thinking it must’ve been the corn dog he had ate that just didn’t sit with right him. They told him and his family about the available procedures and all that they could offer, and Kit couldn’t think, he couldn’t say a single word, all he could do was sit there and listen as the fear hit him like a truck. It dashed all his hopes and dreams of the future, as it looked grim, but he was up for the fight, as they call it. As if this thing was just another type of battlefield that he was wholly unprepared for, but he wanted to live, so what other choices were there? After a year in treatment, things started to take a turn for the worse, the doctors were giving up hope, and the look on his parents face as they tried to assuage the news didn’t help. Kit was left in that hospital bed looking at all the stories from his friends, moving on with their lives, going off into college, and he was just stagnant, deteriorating, as if his own body was waging a war with itself. After being told he only had maybe less than a year, he decided to spend his few remaining days in a place he had found online. A place that housed kids like him, kids who were terminal and wanted a better way to spend the rest of their remaining days. So as his bags were packed, he ventured off to what might be       the best time in his life.

It felt like Hospice, except all the inhabitants were young, about his age, just young adults that for better or worse, lived their life as best as they could within this abode. He settled in quickly, made friends with the other kids and found in them a second family. They would all do everything together, they’d all tell the wildest stories that they could come up with, say what they would do if they ever got out that place. They’d steal alcohol, drink together, find themselves in the woods making a little bonfire, and Kit figured that it might not be so bad to go if you were surrounded by people who truly loved and cherished you, and knew exactly what you were going through. Kit met a boy, and their feelings for each other sparked quickly, it was beautiful and wild and real, and all the things’ people wish for, so he thought of himself as lucky in that aspect. That he got to experience what felt like love, real love, at least if only even for a little while. They promised they’d marry if they ever got out, but as the story goes, the good times can’t last. It should’ve been obvious given all their circumstances, but it still hurt, hurt like hell to know that seat at the table would never be filled by that person ever again. Here, he began to write, began to immortalize the people he loved in his stories, gave them all the grandeur and fantasy that they deserved. In his stories they got to live, carry out their lives, he gave them adventures, romance, every other amazing thing he could think of that he knew they’d enjoy. Little by little all these stories became a book, the first of many that he would never publish, at least, he didn’t think about it at first, didn’t think he’d ever get to see his work out there in the world. These were just stories he made for his friends, of his friends, and ones that he would keep for life…or at least until his time. Kit experience heartache many other times, as a lot of the faces he knew and loved had vanished, and their big group had dwindled, but even so they never truly left, not while there were pages and lips that said their names.

Then another miracle happened, the miracle baby of his parents got one for himself, new results that said he wasn’t terminal, and that while not fully recovered it meant he could put his life back on track. He was happy, sad, guilty, angry, confused, so many things all at once because…why him? Survivor’s guilt is common, and he knew that, be he didn’t know how visceral it would truly be until he was one himself, a survivor. After he left, he promised to himself to keep them all alive, and he did, his book got published and a bestselling author he became. That one book spawned an entire series, and he had made his friends ever living in those pages that millions of others now read, they fell in love with the same people he did, but they would never truly know how amazing each of them were, not like he did. Now he lives comfortably, playing the same video games one of his friends would’ve raved about, as if he had had kept something each of them loved and carried it with him forever, or as long as that could be. Still, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever find love, or a love as beautiful as his first, survivor’s guilt is a bitch, but it’s the bitch that he carries deep within his heart, and he doesn’t know if there’s anybody who could mend it, those battle scars.

[duckygoncalves]

Full Name: Declan James Goncalves

Nickname(s): Ducky

Age: 28

Date of Birth: October 31st,

Hometown: Ottawa, Canada

Current Location: Sunny Shores

Gender: Cis Man

Pronouns: He/they

Marital status: Single

Children: n/a

Orientation: click here

Occupation: Author

Language(s) Spoken: English, Spanish, Portuguese

Face Claim: Andre Lamoglia

tw: cancer

Life can be pretty fucking shitty, and that all rings especially true when you’re young and think of nothing but the future, of growing up, never truly appreciating the time of your youth. Ducky had learned this lesson early on, a child of the system, the byproduct of high school sweetheart love, two so enamored yet unprepared for the harsh reality of the world, so that baby that came out of spurious love would never know his parents, or at the very least those he shared DNA with. Not that it mattered as he never really lived in the system for long as some hopeful couple had wanted a baby for so long, but they just didn’t have any luck, so in some ways Ducky was their miracle child. Besides the somewhat cautionary tale that was his birth, life was pretty normal for him, he was good in school, was an honor roll student all the way up until senior year when he was ready to venture out into the world and become a professional. At least, that was the plan, that’s what most young adults did once their high school career was over, go into higher education, get a degree, and make a career out of it. But on a night out with friends, one of the many that he’d come to know a night that was supposed to be like any other, his world turned upside down. Ducky had passed out during one of the school’s football games, walking into the parking lot with his friends as they all celebrated the victory, he collapsed as he fell to catch up to them, and that was all he could recall as the darkness that was trying to invade from his peripheral took over.

The diagnosis was adenocarcinoma, and the fainting spell was brought on due to dehydration probably from the upchucking that he had done at home prior, thinking it must’ve been the corn dog he had ate that just didn’t sit with right him. They told him and his family about the available procedures and all that they could offer, and Ducky couldn’t think, he couldn’t say a single word, all he could do was sit there and listen as the fear hit him like a truck. It dashed all his hopes and dreams of the future, as it looked grim, but he was up for the fight, as they call it. As if this thing was just another type of battlefield that he was wholly unprepared for, but he wanted to live, so what other choices were there? After a year in treatment, things started to take a turn for the worse, the doctors were giving up hope, and the look on his parents face as they tried to assuage the news didn’t help. Ducky was left in that hospital bed looking at all the stories from his friends, moving on with their lives, going off into college, and he was just stagnant, deteriorating, as if his own body was waging a war with itself. After being told he only had maybe less than a year, he decided to spend his few remaining days in a place he had found online. A place that housed kids like him, kids who were terminal and wanted a better way to spend the rest of their remaining days. So as his bags were packed, he ventured off to what might be       the best time in his life.

It felt like Hospice, except all the inhabitants were young, about his age, just young adults that for better or worse, lived their life as best as they could within this abode. He settled in quickly, made friends with the other kids and found in them a second family. They would all do everything together, they’d all tell the wildest stories that they could come up with, say what they would do if they ever got out that place. They’d steal alcohol, drink together, find themselves in the woods making a little bonfire, and Ducky figured that it might not be so bad to go if you were surrounded by people who truly loved and cherished you, and knew exactly what you were going through. Ducky met a boy, and their feelings for each other sparked quickly, it was beautiful and wild and real, and all the things’ people wish for, so he thought of himself as lucky in that aspect. That he got to experience what felt like love, real love, at least if only even for a little while. They promised they’d marry if they ever got out, but as the story goes, the good times can’t last. It should’ve been obvious given all their circumstances, but it still hurt, hurt like hell to know that seat at the table would never be filled by that person ever again. Here, he began to write, began to immortalize the people he loved in his stories, gave them all the grandeur and fantasy that they deserved. In his stories they got to live, carry out their lives, he gave them adventures, romance, every other amazing thing he could think of that he knew they’d enjoy. Little by little all these stories became a book, the first of many that he would never publish, at least, he didn’t think about it at first, didn’t think he’d ever get to see his work out there in the world. These were just stories he made for his friends, of his friends, and ones that he would keep for life…or at least until his time. Ducky experience heartache many other times, as a lot of the faces he knew and loved had vanished, and their big group had dwindled, but even so they never truly left, not while there were pages and lips that said their names.

Then another miracle happened, the miracle baby of his parents got one for himself, new results that said he wasn’t terminal, and that while not fully recovered it meant he could put his life back on track. He was happy, sad, guilty, angry, confused, so many things all at once because…why him? Survivor’s guilt is common, and he knew that, be he didn’t know how visceral it would truly be until he was one himself, a survivor. After he left, he promised to himself to keep them all alive, and he did, his book got published and a bestselling author he became. That one book spawned an entire series, and he had made his friends ever living in those pages that millions of others now read, they fell in love with the same people he did, but they would never truly know how amazing each of them were, not like he did. Now he lives comfortably, playing the same video games one of his friends would’ve raved about, as if he had had kept something each of them loved and carried it with him forever, or as long as that could be. Still, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever find love, or a love as beautiful as his first, survivor’s guilt is a bitch, but it’s the bitch that he carries deep within his heart, and he doesn’t know if there’s anybody who could mend it, those battle scars.

[duckycarvalho]

Full Name: Declan Carvalho

Nickname(s): Ducky

Age: 29

Date of Birth: October 31st,.

Current Location: wilmington, nc

Gender: Cis Man

Pronouns: He/they

Marital status: Single.

Children: n/a

Orientation: click here

Occupation: author

Language(s) Spoken: English, Spanish, Portuguese

tw: cancer, death

Life can be pretty fucking shitty, and that all rings especially true when you’re young and think of nothing but the future, of growing up, never truly appreciating the time of your youth. Ducky had learned this lesson early on, a child of the system, the byproduct of high school sweetheart love, two so enamored yet unprepared for the harsh reality of the world, so that baby that came out of spurious love would never know his parents, or at the very least those he shared DNA with. Not that it mattered as he never really lived in the system for long as some hopeful couple had wanted a baby for so long, but they just didn’t have any luck, so in some ways Ducky was their miracle child. Besides the somewhat cautionary tale that was his birth, life was pretty normal for him, he was good in school, was an honor roll student all the way up until senior year when he was ready to venture out into the world and become a professional. At least, that was the plan, that’s what most young adults did once their high school career was over, go into higher education, get a degree, and make a career out of it. But on a night out with friends, one of the many that he’d come to know a night that was supposed to be like any other, his world turned upside down. Ducky had passed out during one of the school’s football games, walking into the parking lot with his friends as they all celebrated the victory, he collapsed as he fell to catch up to them, and that was all he could recall as the darkness that was trying to invade from his peripheral took over.

The diagnosis was adenocarcinoma, and the fainting spell was brought on due to dehydration probably from the upchucking that he had done at home prior, thinking it must’ve been the corn dog he had ate that just didn’t sit with right him. They told him and his family about the available procedures and all that they could offer, and Ducky couldn’t think, he couldn’t say a single word, all he could do was sit there and listen as the fear hit him like a truck. It dashed all his hopes and dreams of the future, as it looked grim, but he was up for the fight, as they call it. As if this thing was just another type of battlefield that he was wholly unprepared for, but he wanted to live, so what other choices were there? After a year in treatment, things started to take a turn for the worse, the doctors were giving up hope, and the look on his parents face as they tried to assuage the news didn’t help. Ducky was left in that hospital bed looking at all the stories from his friends, moving on with their lives, going off into college, and he was just stagnant, deteriorating, as if his own body was waging a war with itself. After being told he only had maybe less than a year, he decided to spend his few remaining days in a place he had found online. A place that housed kids like him, kids who were terminal and wanted a better way to spend the rest of their remaining days. So as his bags were packed, he ventured off to what might be       the best time in his life.

It felt like Hospice, except all the inhabitants were young, about his age, just young adults that for better or worse, lived their life as best as they could within this abode. He settled in quickly, made friends with the other kids and found in them a second family. They would all do everything together, they’d all tell the wildest stories that they could come up with, say what they would do if they ever got out that place. They’d steal alcohol, drink together, find themselves in the woods making a little bonfire, and Ducky figured that it might not be so bad to go if you were surrounded by people who truly loved and cherished you, and knew exactly what you were going through. Ducky met a boy, and their feelings for each other sparked quickly, it was beautiful and wild and real, and all the things’ people wish for, so he thought of himself as lucky in that aspect. That he got to experience what felt like love, real love, at least if only even for a little while. They promised they’d marry if they ever got out, but as the story goes, the good times can’t last. It should’ve been obvious given all their circumstances, but it still hurt, hurt like hell to know that seat at the table would never be filled by that person ever again. Here, he began to write, began to immortalize the people he loved in his stories, gave them all the grandeur and fantasy that they deserved. In his stories they got to live, carry out their lives, he gave them adventures, romance, every other amazing thing he could think of that he knew they’d enjoy. Little by little all these stories became a book, the first of many that he would never publish, at least, he didn’t think about it at first, didn’t think he’d ever get to see his work out there in the world. These were just stories he made for his friends, of his friends, and ones that he would keep for life…or at least until his time. Ducky experience heartache many other times, as a lot of the faces he knew and loved had vanished, and their big group had dwindled, but even so they never truly left, not while there were pages and lips that said their names.

Then another miracle happened, the miracle baby of his parents got one for himself, new results that said he wasn’t terminal, and that while not fully recovered it meant he could put his life back on track. He was happy, sad, guilty, angry, confused, so many things all at once because…why him? Survivor’s guilt is common, and he knew that, be he didn’t know how visceral it would truly be until he was one himself, a survivor. After he left, he promised to himself to keep them all alive, and he did, his book got published and a bestselling author he became. That one book spawned an entire series, and he had made his friends ever living in those pages that millions of others now read, they fell in love with the same people he did, but they would never truly know how amazing each of them were, not like he did. Now he lives comfortably, playing the same video games one of his friends would’ve raved about, as if he had had kept something each of them loved and carried it with him forever, or as long as that could be. Still, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever find love, or a love as beautiful as his first, survivor’s guilt is a bitch, but it’s the bitch that he carries deep within his heart, and he doesn’t know if there’s anybody who could mend it, those battle scars.

[malevolententity]

ITS BEEN A MONTH OH GOD PROJECT 10

i have ignored the results of the poll. i am still in unpacking hell, had more important projects to chunk at, and did not want to make a ghost so! blue chicken coaster! i havent been able to play stardew Also in about a month so blue chicken coaster... he is so silly and precious to me. he took a little less than an hour! i fear that i may eventually just work up an army of chicken coasters. i didnt put the optional hanger on him but i might down the road? or work up another one of these with the hanger with the Specific goal of using it as wall deco rather than a coaster.

SEASON THOUGHTS

we are still on e10 of segredo na foresta! arthur just fucking died what the FUCK. MY LITTLE GUYYYYS. absolutely fucked up to bring alex back to torment liz. we havent cut back to thaigo to see who his guilt is so m interested to see if it ends up being daniel or if its someone we havent seen before. either way this is incredibly fucked up and i am enjoying every second of it.

also yall m so sad that i havent been able to drill my portuguese as much as id like too. moving sucks AOP kinda carries my learning of portuguese with being able to rewind and listen back and read and i am throwing Hands that this month has been kinda stagnant because of my life. now that m more settled again ill get back into the swing of it but man. i really missed being able to crochet and watch aop for like an hour or so a day to test my very very basic toddler portuguese

[kitblckthrn]

✦ THOMAS WEATHERALL, CIS MAN, HE-THEY✦ CHRISTOPHER “KIT” BLACKTHORN the TWENTY-FIVE year old has been in Hidehill for HIS ENTIRE LIFE and was a FORMER STUDENTS to Miyeon Kang, the murder victim. Whispers on the streets are that the WRITER who lives in HARLOW ESTATES are said to be FLIRTY and SARCASTIC but I guess we’ll find out for ourselves.

tw medical, death

Life can be pretty fucking shitty, and that all rings especially true when you’re young and think of nothing but the future, of growing up, never truly appreciating the time of your youth. Kit had learned this lesson early on, a child of the system, the byproduct of high school sweetheart love, two so enamored yet unprepared for the harsh reality of the world, so that baby that came out of spurious love would never know his parents, or at the very least those he shared DNA with. Not that it mattered as he never really lived in the system for long as some hopeful couple had wanted a baby for so long, but they just didn’t have any luck, so in some ways Kit was their miracle child. Besides the somewhat cautionary tale that was his birth, life was pretty normal for him, he was good in school, was an honor roll student all the way up until senior year when he was ready to venture out into the world and become a professional. At least, that was the plan, that’s what most young adults did once their high school career was over, go into higher education, get a degree, and make a career out of it. But on a night out with friends, one of the many that he’d come to know a night that was supposed to be like any other, his world turned upside down. Kit had passed out during one of the school’s football games, walking into the parking lot with his friends as they all celebrated the victory, he collapsed as he fell to catch up to them, and that was all he could recall as the darkness that was trying to invade from his peripheral took over.

The diagnosis was adenocarcinoma, and the fainting spell was brought on due to dehydration probably from the upchucking that he had done at home prior, thinking it must’ve been the corn dog he had ate that just didn’t sit with right him. They told him and his family about the available procedures and all that they could offer, and Kit couldn’t think, he couldn’t say a single word, all he could do was sit there and listen as the fear hit him like a truck. It dashed all his hopes and dreams of the future, as it looked grim, but he was up for the fight, as they call it. As if this thing was just another type of battlefield that he was wholly unprepared for, but he wanted to live, so what other choices were there? After a year in treatment, things started to take a turn for the worse, the doctors were giving up hope, and the look on his parents face as they tried to assuage the news didn’t help. Kit was left in that hospital bed looking at all the stories from his friends, moving on with their lives, going off into college, and he was just stagnant, deteriorating, as if his own body was waging a war with itself. After being told he only had maybe less than a year, he decided to spend his few remaining days in a place he had found online. A place that housed kids like him, kids who were terminal and wanted a better way to spend the rest of their remaining days. So as his bags were packed, he ventured off to what might be       the best time in his life.

It felt like Hospice, except all the inhabitants were young, about his age, just young adults that for better or worse, lived their life as best as they could within this abode. He settled in quickly, made friends with the other kids and found in them a second family. They would all do everything together, they’d all tell the wildest stories that they could come up with, say what they would do if they ever got out that place. They’d steal alcohol, drink together, find themselves in the woods making a little bonfire, and Kit figured that it might not be so bad to go if you were surrounded by people who truly loved and cherished you, and knew exactly what you were going through. Kit met a boy, and their feelings for each other sparked quickly, it was beautiful and wild and real, and all the things’ people wish for, so he thought of himself as lucky in that aspect. That he got to experience what felt like love, real love, at least if only even for a little while. They promised they’d marry if they ever got out, but as the story goes, the good times can’t last. It should’ve been obvious given all their circumstances, but it still hurt, hurt like hell to know that seat at the table would never be filled by that person ever again. Here, he began to write, began to immortalize the people he loved in his stories, gave them all the grandeur and fantasy that they deserved. In his stories they got to live, carry out their lives, he gave them adventures, romance, every other amazing thing he could think of that he knew they’d enjoy. Little by little all these stories became a book, the first of many that he would never publish, at least, he didn’t think about it at first, didn’t think he’d ever get to see his work out there in the world. These were just stories he made for his friends, of his friends, and ones that he would keep for life…or at least until his time. Kit experience heartache many other times, as a lot of the faces he knew and loved had vanished, and their big group had dwindled, but even so they never truly left, not while there were pages and lips that said their names.

Then another miracle happened, the miracle baby of his parents got one for himself, new results that said he wasn’t terminal, and that while not fully recovered it meant he could put his life back on track. He was happy, sad, guilty, angry, confused, so many things all at once because…why him? Survivor’s guilt is common, and he knew that, be he didn’t know how visceral it would truly be until he was one himself, a survivor. After he left, he promised to himself to keep them all alive, and he did, his book got published and a bestselling author he became. That one book spawned an entire series, and he had made his friends ever living in those pages that millions of others now read, they fell in love with the same people he did, but they would never truly know how amazing each of them were, not like he did. Now he lives comfortably, playing the same video games one of his friends would’ve raved about, as if he had had kept something each of them loved and carried it with him forever, or as long as that could be. Still, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever find love, or a love as beautiful as his first, survivor’s guilt is a bitch, but it’s the bitch that he carries deep within his heart, and he doesn’t know if there’s anybody who could mend it, those battle scars.

[buildingunderstanding]

I have been incredibly hesitant to get back to trying to have any kind of spiritual practice since the end of last month. A lot happened, I went back to visit my very Christian family, found out that a dream I'd had was, in fact, from Lady Athena, and became very ill for around three weeks.

And I think I feel more hesitant now than I did when I first started all of this.

I have never been good with change. It has always scared me deep into my bones and I know that there does tend to be a lot change that happens when you start doing things like shadow work and when you invite new deities into your life, even if it is only for worship and not for work.

But as I was thinking about it, I think fear of change is only part of my struggle right now. Yes, the idea of change is scary and moreso because I am in the closet and I fear being outed by my change, but also the amount of shame that the church I was in tied to spiritual growth.

Whenever the subject of spiritual growth, or a relationship with God/Jesus was preached on it was always with reasons like "God sacrificed his son to have that relationship with us", "Jesus suffered and died so we could have that relationship with him", it was very often framed as us "owing" God a relationship. Moreso because salvation was taught to be by grace, a gift we could never earn and could only accept. We accepted the gift of salvation and as a thanks we owed it to it God have and maintain a relationship with him. And not doing so displayed a lack of gratitude for his gift.

Beyond that, not growing was also supposed to show your dedication to God to literally everyone else. Christians were supposed to see your growth and be inspired to grow as well, non-Christians were supposed to see your growth and want what you had. A lack of growth could drag other Christians down and even send non-Christians to hell because of a bad testimony. A stagnant Christian was a bad Christian. Even if that wasn't the exact wording, the sentiment was there.

If you weren't praying enough, reading the Bible enough, performing enough acts of service to God, or trying to worship incorrectly, then you were a bad Christian and worse, potentially a stumbling block to literally everyone. But also you could never truly do enough of those things because God had given us everything when he gave us Jesus.

If ever there seemed to be distance between you and God/Jesus, it was always framed as "that's our fault. God doesn't ever leave us, so we have to examine ourselves and find whatever sin has come between us and deal with that". Things like not doing enough Bible reading and prayer were framed as sins and were often talked about as a wall we put up between us and our relationship with God and it was up to us to ask his forgiveness and then show we meant it by increasing those things, any backwards movement on them displayed a lack of sincerity.

If you weren't constantly growing, then you were a bad Christian.

At a certain point you just kind of want to give up. And in some aspect, I honestly had. If I was struggling to pray, I'd just give up. After all, I didn't deserve God's forgiveness again. I never deserved it in the first place and if I was struggling then clearly I didn't want it enough in the first place, clearly I wasn't as sincere as I thought I had been. If I was then I shouldn't be struggling. And I gave up on truly being able to grow as a Christian and settled for maintaining appearances. Even though I was taught that eventually I'd be outed as bad Christian, that others would be able to see my lack of growth, that I'd be a disappointed to God and the church, it felt less shameful than trying and failing to be able to maintain constant growth. Or at least a more bearable type of shame. After all I might be a disappointment to God, but at least I wasn't slapping him in the face with my failed attempts to be better. If I just stayed the same then his disappointment in me also stayed the same. I didn't risk letting him down by trying and failing to be better.

That shame is still deep within me in regards to spirituality and it's, quite honestly, paralyzing. Sure, I can do things like wear my jewelry that reminds me of deity that I feel drawn to or that holds a place in my heart, that I feel a connection to via the things they represent or are under their domains, but I struggle to do anything actionable, to truly try to get to know them because I am so deeply afraid of letting them down.

I want to honor them, but anything else feels like a risk. If I don't do enough or if I do something wrong, a wall will go up between us, I'll be cast off and have to ask forgiveness and prove I mean it by never messing up in the same way again, by only ever doing better.

And the objective knowledge that outside of Christianity sin doesn't exist as concept only does so much good in the face of a fear that is so deeply rooted in me. Not to mention the deeply rooted concept that humans are inherently worthless beings who truly don't deserve to interact with divinity in any regards.

I don't know how to let go of that shame because it was taught to be a means of growth. It was through wanting to avoid shame that we would grow spiritually. But all it does these days is drive me away from any spirituality and I don't want that to be the case.

I don't want my baseline for spirituality to be feeling ashamed and I don't really think it's a good foundation for anything. But the more I consider things the more it feels like that's the foundation of my whole life, if not shame directly, then trying to avoid shame, which at it's bones is truly no different. It's just a different flavor of shame. And I'm afraid to let it go. Shame was supposed to protect me from sin, to keep me on the right path, because I would do the right things to avoid shame. Because I didn't want God to be ashamed of me, ashamed to call me his child because of my sinful reputation. So I would only do those things that pleased him.

It's really hard to let go of something your taught is a protection. Even when I can look at it now and see where it actually harmed me, where it held me back, it's still hard to let go of. And it's making me afraid to try again, to try anything new. After all if being sick was all it took for me to stop then I wasn't actually that serious about it in the first place, right?

In some ways the concept of there being no sin is more intimidating than it is comforting. At least with a concept of sin it feels like there are solid boundaries. Being honest, without the concept of sin, and with so many "your gods aren't mad at you calm down that's not how this works" type posts about, I feel like I'm not allowed to bring up feelings of messing up to them, like I'm not allowed to apologize when I desperately want to.

I feel like the person told "stop apologizing/you apologize too much" and not knowing how to respond but to apologize.

I feel ashamed for feeling ashamed and it's making me to not want to bother with things, but the idea of giving up also stirs up feels of shame. I just can't seem to shake it.

[americandadrps]

Life can be pretty fucking shitty, and that all rings especially true when you’re young and think of nothing but the future, of growing up, never truly appreciating the time of your youth. Kit had learned this lesson early on, a child of the system, the byproduct of high school sweetheart love, two so enamored yet unprepared for the harsh reality of the world, so that baby that came out of spurious love would never know his parents, or at the very least those he shared DNA with. Not that it mattered as he never really lived in the system for long as some hopeful couple had wanted a baby for so long, but they just didn’t have any luck, so in some ways Kit was their miracle child. Besides the somewhat cautionary tale that was his birth, life was pretty normal for him, he was good in school, was an honor roll student all the way up until senior year when he was ready to venture out into the world and become a professional. At least, that was the plan, that’s what most young adults did once their high school career was over, go into higher education, get a degree, and make a career out of it. But on a night out with friends, one of the many that he’d come to know a night that was supposed to be like any other, his world turned upside down. Kit had passed out during one of the school’s football games, walking into the parking lot with his friends as they all celebrated the victory, he collapsed as he fell to catch up to them, and that was all he could recall as the darkness that was trying to invade from his peripheral took over.

The diagnosis was adenocarcinoma, and the fainting spell was brought on due to dehydration probably from the upchucking that he had done at home prior, thinking it must’ve been the corn dog he had ate that just didn’t sit with right him. They told him and his family about the available procedures and all that they could offer, and Kit couldn’t think, he couldn’t say a single word, all he could do was sit there and listen as the fear hit him like a truck. It dashed all his hopes and dreams of the future, as it looked grim, but he was up for the fight, as they call it. As if this thing was just another type of battlefield that he was wholly unprepared for, but he wanted to live, so what other choices were there? After a year in treatment, things started to take a turn for the worse, the doctors were giving up hope, and the look on his parents face as they tried to assuage the news didn’t help. Kit was left in that hospital bed looking at all the stories from his friends, moving on with their lives, going off into college, and he was just stagnant, deteriorating, as if his own body was waging a war with itself. After being told he only had maybe less than a year, he decided to spend his few remaining days in a place he had found online. A place that housed kids like him, kids who were terminal and wanted a better way to spend the rest of their remaining days. So as his bags were packed, he ventured off to what might be       the best time in his life.

It felt like Hospice, except all the inhabitants were young, about his age, just young adults that for better or worse, lived their life as best as they could within this abode. He settled in quickly, made friends with the other kids and found in them a second family. They would all do everything together, they’d all tell the wildest stories that they could come up with, say what they would do if they ever got out that place. They’d steal alcohol, drink together, find themselves in the woods making a little bonfire, and Kit figured that it might not be so bad to go if you were surrounded by people who truly loved and cherished you, and knew exactly what you were going through. Kit met a boy, and their feelings for each other sparked quickly, it was beautiful and wild and real, and all the things’ people wish for, so he thought of himself as lucky in that aspect. That he got to experience what felt like love, real love, at least if only even for a little while. They promised they’d marry if they ever got out, but as the story goes, the good times can’t last. It should’ve been obvious given all their circumstances, but it still hurt, hurt like hell to know that seat at the table would never be filled by that person ever again. Here, he began to write, began to immortalize the people he loved in his stories, gave them all the grandeur and fantasy that they deserved. In his stories they got to live, carry out their lives, he gave them adventures, romance, every other amazing thing he could think of that he knew they’d enjoy. Little by little all these stories became a book, the first of many that he would never publish, at least, he didn’t think about it at first, didn’t think he’d ever get to see his work out there in the world. These were just stories he made for his friends, of his friends, and ones that he would keep for life…or at least until his time. Kit experience heartache many other times, as a lot of the faces he knew and loved had vanished, and their big group had dwindled, but even so they never truly left, not while there were pages and lips that said their names.

Then another miracle happened, the miracle baby of his parents got one for himself, new results that said he wasn’t terminal, and that while not fully recovered it meant he could put his life back on track. He was happy, sad, guilty, angry, confused, so many things all at once because…why him? Survivor’s guilt is common, and he knew that, be he didn’t know how visceral it would truly be until he was one himself, a survivor. After he left, he promised to himself to keep them all alive, and he did, his book got published and a bestselling author he became. That one book spawned an entire series, and he had made his friends ever living in those pages that millions of others now read, they fell in love with the same people he did, but they would never truly know how amazing each of them were, not like he did. Now he lives comfortably, playing the same video games one of his friends would’ve raved about, as if he had had kept something each of them loved and carried it with him forever, or as long as that could be. Still, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever find love, or a love as beautiful as his first, survivor’s guilt is a bitch, but it’s the bitch that he carries deep within his heart, and he doesn’t know if there’s anybody who could mend it, those battle scars.

[animezinglife]

I think Elain and Azriel are different in ways that matter long-term, just as I think she and Lucien are similar in ways that matter long-term.

Azriel would absolutely be an upgrade from Graysen (and I do mean this as a compliment to Az even though it's objectively not saying much), but I do think where he and Elain are incompatible would start to wear on them both over time. They're different on a fundamental level whereas she and Lucien are not.

I can see Az being too much for Elain not in the sense she'd ever have need or reason to fear him or that he wouldn't be sweet to her, but simply in how differently his mind and values have been forged.

How differently he acts and reacts.

I think they could have a good relationship while it lasted, but I don't think it would last. If it did, I could see it lasting only out of habit and comfort zones--stagnation and unwillingness to change or take risks.

I think Azriel would eventually tire her, and that it would become grating and stagnant given she would always feel that pull towards Lucien whether she wanted it or not. Unless, of course, it somehow was severed completely.

With Lucien, there's a fundamental similarity in values and temperaments. Lucien may have a bit of a mouth on him at times, but he's gentle. He's kind, witty, snarky, and warm. He can be a little wild, but generally has some of the best self-control in the series when it comes to not allowing himself to be goaded into an action that will cost him.

I think the blood dual line embodies that perfectly. Even if Elain hated Lucien (which she doesn't), she would never wish for him to be harmed or for him and Azriel to fight.

Azriel likes competition. Thrives in it. He likes his space and quiet, even though he can do both. It would wear Elain out, and I think between his nature and demands his role requires, Elain would start to feel neglected (attention-wise) over time. While I fully believe everyone underestimates her fortitude and what she's willing to accept among people, I believe Az's brutal profession would start to wear on her.

Elain was social as as human. She liked her parties, and she had friends. She wants both simplicity and the chance to do something greater; to test the waters and see who she can become. While both Az and Lucien believe she's capable of it, I can see her flourishing and thriving far more with Lucien.

With someone who can both utilize and weaponize relationships and connections through people and words.

Whereas Azriel is very much established in his life. His life and choices could change, of course, but old habits die hard and it's difficult to imagine leaving his spying and warrior upbringing behind.

Hypothetically, it's in all these ways where someone like Gwyn would be a better fit for him. Gwyn is a warrior herself. She's sharp and resourceful and thrives in environments where she can push herself to the limits and beyond them physically and mentally. She brings her own light into a room in a way similar to Elain, but Gwyn's is less of a warm sun's glow and more like a firecracker. She too likes her quiet; is used to working in the dark and quiet and settling her own mind in those moments.

Azriel also wants a mate. While it wasn't Elain's choice to be mated, it's worth noting that fact isn't anyone's choice in this series. Even if we look at a couple like Viviane and Kallias who arguably had the most convenient and comfortable bond scenario (in which they were already in love with each other, had decided to spend their lives together, and were newlyweds when it snapped), they still didn't necessarily have a choice in the bond itself.

Even if Elain and Azriel pursued each other, Elain's bond has snapped with someone else. As of right now, we can only assume Azriel has never had that (and I think his actions and internal conflicts support the idea).

If Azriel did end up having a bond snap into place, it wouldn't be with Elain.

It would be with someone else, and I wouldn't wish that on either one of them. They both deserve better (and Lucien does, too).

I want to see them all experience the highest form of love in their world and for that love to thrive.

Azriel would never intentionally hurt Elain, but he's often blinded by his own nature and ambitions where Lucien is not.

Azriel reacts. It's his method of survival and getting a job done.

Lucien considers. That's his method of survival and getting a job done.

Neither are this way all the time--Az can be silent and menacing, and Lucien can run his mouth and get himself into trouble.

But the differences in those tendencies matter.

At the end of the day, though, it will be Elain's choice, but value and temperament alignment are always worth considering.

Lucien wouldn’t even call a blood duel and if Azriel somehow called it I am 100% sure he would not participate. He abhors violence. He did not kill Graysen, the man who disrespected his MATE. He did not seek revenge for Jesminda’s death even though I know he wants to. He would not participate in it, tradition be damned.

But Azriel would.

Even if it hurts Elain. Even if it scars her. Even if losing her mate potentially messes her up. And we know that because of his eager response to Rhys. We know that because he liked the idea of Lucien killing Greysen even when Elain asked to spare him. He did not care. But Lucien understands this, Lucien understands Elain and their morals align.

That’s the whole point.

[peace-for-levi]

Happy 600!!! SO proud of you! 🖤

For your event, I’d love to have my boy Levi & the prompt: “Don't look at them, look at me."

I’d love for this to be canon.

Levi gets a serious injury in the field for the first time and You can’t keep your relationship a secret anymore from the Scouts while Levi fights oncoming unconsciousness.

You just want to comfort Levi and be there for your baby before he gets the medic, talkng him through it and keeping him with you. If he mentioned “it hurts,” I will cry. Bonus points.🥲

Levi has fear in his eyes for the first time in his life and he just needs You to save him.🥹

so you and i sorta talked and to those of you apart from alla reading, we settled on recreating the after-effects of the thunderspear incident! this isn't my best but i do hope you sorta like it? focused more on the feelings rather than dialogue.

w/c: 3,842

content and warnings: descriptions of drowning, self-hatred and shame, and canon-typical gore/injuries. Slight canon-divergence in the sense that I wrote Levi with a stomach injury on top of his face being slashed open. Implied secret relationship. Reader goes berserk at Floch momentarily but i don't blame them tbh.

The soul of the heavens arrives in generous pellets of water. In downpours this heavy, one might feel cleansed and humbled. The mud on the ground is putted, washed clean of any footprints.

The crashing and roaring waves of the river – with no thanks to the rain making and pushing and pulling so merciless – are no less inviting than the pure Titan transformation he spots for a split second before his brain slows to a sudden halt. His eyes are shut as he's airborne, unable to brace himself.

There is a crash upon the impact: the impact of Levi being catapulted into the river. It's a heavy blow, he feels, and suddenly he's still; in limbo.

The water is murkier underneath than the surface. He feels it seeping in, keeping him snug as he plummets further. The dull ache in his right hand is gone.

He sinks further. It's slow, stagnant.

He feels like he's rotting now. The comforting lull, the darkness all around… It was eerily hypnotic and he feels his heart slow.

Death, right now, seemed so inviting.

I failed you Erwin and Hange, he says as he falls.

There's a feeling of decay building within him. His limbs feel heavier than a few moments ago.

[F/n], I… I failed you, too, he admits. He opens his eyes a bit at this realization.

Drowning was such a bitch of a way to go. Panic, fear, and then nothing. The stray hairs of his undercoat float up. Absent-mindedly, he reaches for something. He thinks he sees a hand – your hand – reaching for him; he wants to see your hand reaching for him.

[F/n], please…

Who's he begging to? More specifically, why was he begging to you? He's so far down below, he's a deadman.

He reaches forward some more. Is that the light of the sun he sees, or is this the light people talk about as you're about to cross over?

Death, right now, seemed so inviting… but not today. Not for him.

Not yet!

Levi does not get to rest easy.

He feels his lungs seize and he gasps. His throat burns and eyes snaps open, blearily blinking through grime and dirt. With whatever he could muster and before his lungs give out, he starts to swim upwards. It’s a struggle, even for someone like him, to try to swim in these conditions.

He heaves in massive strokes once he breaks the surface and thankfully, he’s not too far from the banks of the river. He fists onto one of the reeds sprouted by the river’s edge and pulls himself ashore. He braces his weight to the heels of his palms, but he buckles. He catches himself in time and lands on his back.

Everything feels heavy and dirty and wrong. He raises his right hand to dab at his face, and– oh.

His lips part. His index and middle finger– where did they–?

Before he can even contemplate where the fingers may have fallen to, he’s clutching his stomach in pain. Bile is building up in the back of his throat. Even as he lies dead still, blood is gushing out of whatever arteries were severed in great surges. Every time he blinks to try to clear his vision, his right eye will not adjust.

He tries again, and again, and again.

Eventually, it all clicks to him.

Defeated – he truly feels defeated. Zeke was probably long gone. Even if he was nearby, it'd make no difference; Levi's in bits, his ears are ringing and drowning out everything and he is in no position to fight.

Still, he relents and tries again to prop himself up again for he can't let Erwin down like this. It has been four painstakingly slow years and he was so fucking close, and it blew right up in his face. Literally.

He failed Erwin, again; he let the Beast Titan slip away, again.

I failed, I failed, I failed…

With shaking hands and shuddering breaths, he is left to lie there in his misery.

I'm sorry…

His eyes snap shut and he gasps in deep strokes. This is the closest he has ever been to Death's doors since he was a kid. Is this what it feels like to be left behind while you are too weak to go on?

I'm… terrified, he admits. Letting out another choked sob as he succumbs to his fragile emotional state, Terrified of dying and of dying so slowly, terrified of letting people down again. Terrified of leaving you behind in this crazy, unsafe and new world, and that you may have to navigate it without him.

But he can't just leave you behind… not when there's still a slim chance he can still push through this. He can't just toss in the towel now – he still has to fulfil Erwin's final order.

He just can't help it that he's tired.

Even so, he refuses to close his eyes.

He will get through this.

For you. For Erwin. For Hange. For the kids. People are counting on him; depending on him.

For a while the world stills and slows, though, and as a harsh gust blows through the coniferous trees, he swears he can hear your agonized screams.

.

.

[F/n]...

.

.

[F/n], please…

.

.

I'm so terrified…

.

.

It all hurts…

.

.

He briefly comes to his senses when he feels warm hands cup his bloody cheeks. At this point, he's running out of energy to keep himself conscious. He can just breathe and stay calm. But when the fingers gently shake and rub away some of the grime from his face, he focuses his gaze a bit. He hears agonized sobs piercing the air.

A gasp. "...[F/n]?" He blinks more, surely he's dreaming.

He snapped his gaze over to the footsteps he hears.

Jaegerists.

"Don't look at them. Look at me." You whispered hastily, tapping at his cheek as if to keep him awake. "Levi… Oh, Levi…"

It was such a sobering sight to see Levi Ackerman like this. What could have happened… He looked like death. You hurriedly pressed two fingers to the pulse point on his neck.

Slow and shallow.

You continued to whimper, silently begging to the goddesses above ��� would they help you now?

Hange rushes up beside you, a hand on your back as they move to assess him. You bury your eyes in your hands, unable to stay remotely professional.

Any more theatrics and Hange might find out about you two, after all. And what would that mean for the Jaegerists? A close association to Humanity's Strongest? That didn't spell good news.

You hear footsteps behind you.

"Is that Captain Levi?"

Fucking Floch, traitorous bastard. What could he possibly want? You peer up behind you and your eyes zero in on the shotgun in his hand.

No way, he wouldn't–

"Heh, I don't know what happened but we're lucky it did. The biggest threat we faced is lying in a bloody heap," he said.

A soldier beside Floch stepped forward, clearly very eager to use his shotgun. "We should put one in his head just in case."

You gasped and immediately rose to your feet. Adrenaline surged followed by a swift kick and the man was disarmed, shotgun kicked far out of reach. You reach for his arm and twist it behind his back and just as you go to bend it:

"There's no need, he was caught in a thunderspear explosion at point blank range. It shredded his guts… killed him instantly…"

The soldier who was once at your mercy is dropped and you fall to your knees opposite Hange. You rest your hand an inch above his mouth. Strange; for a dead man, he was breathing semi-regularly. That's when Hange gave you the quickest look; had you blinked, you would have missed it.

Stay quiet, their eyes seemed to say.

"Floch!" a Jaegerist cries out.

You and Hange snap your heads to the commotion, the strange sight unfolding has you both stunned silent. There was a small class Titan probably no more than thirty yards away, hunched over as if in pain and steam that is normally excreted from a dead titan is being sucked back in.

This had to be an abnormal.

"Is it disappearing? Did it die?" Floch cried out, still holding his weapon from before. Though it was not like bullets would do much against a Titan anyway.

"No. Titans don't normally suck in steam like that when they disappear." Hange replied.

Eventually, the Titan's carcass did break down and evaporate. Rays of light shone through the clouds, like spotlights shining down on what was to be unveiled. You heard a rattled breath pass through Levi's lips as a figure fell unceremoniously to the ground.

Your teeth gnashed together at the sight of Zeke standing before you. You don't know how, but Zeke was responsible for Levi's grave injuries; Levi wouldn't get this injured by mishandling a Thunderspear by himself.

The Jaegerists stare in shock while Hange turns to face you. You see them stare past you and towards the river. You quickly get the message.

While Levi is physically unable to protest as he is plunged into the icy cold river, his body screams out in pain. The murky water seeping into his injuries did him no favours.

The swift current takes Hange and him along; they expertly swim with the swift pull of the river.

Amidst the crashing waves, Levi cocks his head to the side trying to see what you'd do.

Waiting for you.

*****

It's in the evening by the time you find Hange again. They had mouthed a few numbers to you before they dove into the river with Levi. You made a mental note at the time to remember, but you initially didn't understand. Once they were far out of sight, it clicked: Hange was telling you coordinates of the map you two had followed to get here. Coordinates of where they'd take him.

Cryptic, but clever; that was Hange in two words.

There was a clearing in the forest where they laid Levi down. By the time you had arrived, they unfolded a spare blanket on the ground for him to lie on, and another laid over him to keep him warm.

Hange worked in silence to get the bleeding on his face under control. It was obvious his right eye would never work again, which was a shame. His right eye once the colour of liquid mercury now was bloodied and had a milky hue to it.

Hange had asked for mostly silence but as the situation settled, you two began to talk a bit more. Good thing for you, you could hardly stop rocking back and forth as your mind raced.

"Is he going to be okay?" you blurted out.

Hange looked at you anf back down to him. "Nobody would have survived something like that, normally. But that is it to say the Ackermans aren't built like the rest of us. He'll be fine, but... He won't be doing any fighting anytime soon."

You can only nod as you watch Hange expertly stitch up. Your eyes continued to well with unshed tears every time you looked over at him.

If only you had rode a little faster.

If only you had convinced him harder in trying to stay with him the past month.

If only you had searched the Jaegerists harder and inspected the wine...

It's not like you'd have known.

Admist your introspection, Hange spoke. "So... how long?"

"How long what?"

"How long have you two been seeing each other. Romantically, I mean."

Shit. Were you two going to be in trouble? No, hopefully not. Hange was one of you guys' closest friends. You had done your best to keep it under wraps, but as the war drew closer and closer, perhaps you two let some thing slip due to the sheer exhaustion of everything going on in the background.

"How did you know?"

"I'm not that stupid. But, if you must know... I always suspected something."

You gulp, but don't say anything.

Hange further clarifies: "It was your reaction to his injuries; you're a person who can normally stay reasonably composed. It was also the way Levi shifted beneath me when he heard you. And while his face was all bloody and battered, he... looked at you in a way I have never seen him look at someone before."

You nod. You figure it might be alright to tell them now. It wasn't as if you couldn't trust Hange – there was no one you trusted more after Levi – but it was purely so that there would be no outward bias and favouritism from Levi or you.

But also, because Levi was so vital to humanity's survival and victory – he couldn't afford to be chained down. As Humanity's Strongest, his duty was to humanity before it would ever be to you. But when he was just Levi? Was Levi allowed to be selfish, especially when the war was nearly over?

"A few years, around the start of 850 or so. Look, Hange–"

"--For what it's worth, I don't object," Hange interrupted. They continued to work on Levi's stitches. "I know people aren't meant to date superiors, but there is no one better suited for him than you. Look after him, okay?"

You blinked and sat back on your haunches. It was the first time that day you weren't craning your neck over to look him. Instead, you fixated on the bespectacled brunette.

"'Look after him, okay?' Hange, what do you–"

"...I just feel like this is it for me."

That was uttered so quietly, it was as if they were confessing a sin.

You're not sure if that was something you were meant to hear or not. Your lips parted and you blinked, owlishy. "Hange, no... What are you–?"

They are very quick to shut down whatever questions you had about their uncharacteristically morbid disposition. "Can you go check that we aren't being pursued? I had that we're just squatting here and there could be more Jaegerists looking for us."

Oh, you want to press further. But Hange was stubborn in every sense of the word; their stubbornness is what helped Humanity because they had to push Erwin to capture Titans and to study them more.

It's a later conversation, fine. You make your way to the entrance of the forest.

You feel a slight pressure in your head as you run. It builds and builds, and it's not long before your surroundings change. You were no longer in the forest but in a desert-like landscape. Your eyes widened at the sight of an aurora in the sky, myriads of root-like paths of iridescent light shooting out in all directions.

"To all Subjects of Ymir. My name... is Eren Jaeger..."

As Eren delivers his message, you sink to your knees and bring a hand to your forehead. Eren was actually going to ahead with this. What did this mean about Zeke? Was he still involved with this?

You scrambled to your feet and sprinted back as if you being chased by the marching Wall Titans themselves. That message was delivered to every Eldian and stunned them all silent.

"Hange!" you yell out. You hop over a few bushes and logs and push some brambles out of the way. "Did you see–?"

Levi was being pushed down by Hange as they spoke. That means he was awake, right? He was going to be okay, no? You ambled forward and plopped before him, sitting on your haunches. Levi reached a hand to you, wanting you near.

Hange smiled softly and stood up. "I'll give you two some space."

You smile at Hange as they walked away before you turned your attetion back to Levi. You gingerly cradled his bandaged face, thumbs smoothing under his cheekbones. His brows were knitted together; you initially assumed it was out of pain but he would have spoken up if that was the case.

He was devastated.

He was ashamed of himself.

Zeke was long gone now, but that didn't matter. He'd chase after him to the ends of the Earth in the name of fulfulling Erwin's final order. He'd fight to the bitter end if it meant making the world a safer place for you both.

"I failed." He finally admits.

How could he think that? He was a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. It was the only time he had underestimated the enemy. And Zeke was no ordinary enemy.

He was your safe haven; your release. It hurt you just as much to see him this way.

"I should..." he pauses to cough. You rest a hand on his tummy; his breaths are laboured. He has to catch his breath in between speaking. "I should have predicted the explosion."

"Levi, stop, you couldn't have–"

"It's been four years, [F/n]. Four shitting years. And I am no clo... closer than I was in Shiganshina." He said this through gnashed teeth.

You lean back and sigh. Even when he was gravely injured, he was still thinking about this damn promise. It's not that it wasn't worthy of being a promise, but it kept Levi awake at night (more than usual.) It was how Levi planned out every movement of every day.

"Erwin wouldn't want to see you struggling like this," you settled. Levi swallowed thickly. He looks towards the fire and tries to distract himself with the sparking embers. He begins to shiver a bit. With all the care in the world, you move him a little closer. "And neither would I."

He turns his head away. He has a bitter look on his face. He was probably pouting – as best as he could – beneath the bandages. "You heard 'em, [F/n.] They think I'm dead. I should be out there, fighting alongside you all. And I fucked up and now you and Hange and everyone in Shiganshina is paying the price."

He pauses, his eyes shutting.

"People's lives are on the line, and I could have been there."

It's a grumble. He's not looking at you, probably out of shame.

"Who says it has to be just you to take down Zeke, huh? Because Erwin said so?" You challenge. You are aware you're overdoing it and that you're cutting deep, but he is too stubborn and too familiar with shouldering everything that he has forgotten that sometimes even the strongest need a rest when they have been taken down. "You are not going after Zeke in this condition. Not until Hange gives you the all clear. Let us help you!"

"Tch, you don't–"

"–I don't understand?! Levi, I almost lost you today!" you choked. By now you have allowed yourself to – gently – slump over his body, trying to find some solace in his arms. You sit up again quickly, looking into his good eye. "I know killing Zeke is important, but you need to rest first, please! If I saw… If I had to see you that bloody and battered again…" you stop yourself from saying anything else.

It's not that you were arguing out of jealousy or anger. But it was likely Levi's first thought upon waking up was just Zeke. He was wholly consumed by this lofty goal. He wouldn't see himself as worthy unless Zeke was dead.

Levi Ackerman cannot afford to fail. Not now, not ever. At least that was how he disciplined himself.

You couldn't find it within yourself to continue the conversation. It just hurt. You were still reeling from seeing Levi so beaten up. Still reeling from the fact that if he wasn't an Ackerman, he would have died.

"I'm sorry, Levi. Sorry for… yelling. I just…"

He only nods, teeth chattering. "I know… It's okay. I know this must be a shock…" he says as he lifts up his right hand, looking at the missing fingers. "It is for me, too."

The silence that permeates between you two was initially palpable, but it becomes comforting the more you listen to his steady breathing.

Here's here now.

He's alive now.

And you would do anything to protect him.

"How are you now? Still cold?"

You hear him sigh through the bandages. He coughs before answering. "Sore."

"Where?" you ask, but that's a stupid question. Everything hurts from his head to his heart. You lean down and kiss his forehead, and trail a few kisses down his temples and uninjured cheek. "I love you so. You are no failure, Levi."

You swore you heard him inhale shakily, and that you saw his lips wobble.

"What about you?" he asked. How am I supposed to protect you in this state?

All you do is shake your head. No, stop it. Don't beat yourself up.

He relents. You weren't about to let yourself feel victimised. But also, you had to ease him of his doubts. If that was at all possible.

"You need not worry about me. Hange and I will come up with something, you just need to rest and heal."

He exhales, shakily. "Tch," he grunts in pain. "It all... hurts." You nod, smiling sadly. It was a smile that didn't - couldn't - make it up to your eyes. You smooth a thumb under his eyes, catching the stray tears that trickled down.

"Cry if you need to, I'll always listen."

You thumbed away every stray tear and listened to every worry the man had.

"Is there anything else I can do?" You ask him.

A shaky hand reaches out for you. He wants you closer. "...here. Stay. Stay with me."

Of course you would.

You'd follow Levi forever; loving him, listening and caring for him.

Hange, themself, had asked you to as well, and you were not about to let them down.

[vampkillr]

To Know — Bruce Wayne

m! vamp! reader — 2.2k words — angst — there's romance in this — SUGGESTIVE part towards the end you've been warned — battinson — spoilers for the new batman movie.

There was a calmness to my method. A beauty in chipping away piece by piece, carving out delicate beings from what was once a pillar of the strongest stone. Giving life to something so simple as rock. Creating flesh from earth. Shaping them in humanity's image. I was patient enough for this. Patient enough to seek out each detail with my chisel. Burying my tools into the stone and digging for every crease and corner of the body I was forming. Sculpting was an art that took time— and I was a man who had more time than I knew what to do with. "I can feel your eyes on me, you know." Something about a piercing gaze that made all of my senses jolt awake. He had been watching me for the past few hours—leaving every so often— but he'd always return. I knew who he was. What he was. Behind the scent of titanium and leather, the faint sound of blood being pumped through his heart. I don't think he knew I could sense him. I don't think he could tell what I was, but I knew better than to think my art was what intrigued him. "Do you speak?" My tone condescending.

"Only when I need to." His footsteps echoed from behind me, but I didn't make any effort to turn around and look at him. "You don't seem to sleep." My nerves began to cluster in my stomach from his statement. I knew I was stronger than him. Less fragile, but he was still the batman— and I knew the people he's defeated before encountering me. Would he have much of a challenge?

"Only when I need to." I used his own remark for myself, trying so desperately to turn my focus to my sculpture. The sound his steps made against the pavement, growing louder as he got closer to me— I was on edge. His breath was warm against the chill of my neck.

"I can make you human again," I wanted to crumble beneath the weight of the fear that froze me. The air of anticipation that settled sent me deeper into my panic. How did I want to play this out? Did I want to put up a fight even though he was offering me something I had yearned for? How could I trust him? "do you want that?" His voice snapped me out of my turmoil.

"No one can cure it." I straightened my back against him, trying to hide my weakening resolve. "Though the thought of living and growing old with someone is enticing, I know it's not possible, so please—" I turned around, doing my best not to falter under his gaze. "just don't tell anyone. I mean no harm." I knew I was pleading. I knew it was probably of no use. But I had to try.

"You don't think it's possible?" He stepped closer, trapping me between his own body and my sculpture. I shook my head. I knew all too well that it wasn't.

"Viruses lack self-sufficiency. But this one manages to survive even after the body kills itself trying to fight it." I sighed. "Even if you managed to help me, I would die. I wouldn't be human again." He brought his hand up to my face, thumb grazing against my cheek. I would never be able to let myself fall in love. I couldn't stay in one place forever. I couldn't have friends in fear I'd harm them out of desperation. My looks and my age were stagnant. I would never have the possibility of continuing my life. I would never see myself grow old. This wasn't living. It wasn't surviving. I just existed, unable to truly move forward and unable to ever go back. It was being stuck.

I rested my hand on his wrist, trying to gently coax his hold on my face, but he didn't budge. The feeling of being held was so foreign to me that my stomach began to twist the more I focused on it. I didn't know why I felt so pulled to him. Why I stopped being scared. Something about the proximity seemed to dull my senses. "Why have you been watching me?" He finally backed away, pulling a piece of paper out from his utility belt.

"I'm sure you've heard of the riddler." He handed me what looked like a halloween card, a cute spider drawn on the front.

Pity the recluse who prays the day away... I opened the card.

His story told through cold bodies and still eyes, they point to who next meets his demise. Underneath the text on the card, was a riddle written by hand.

Inaction can come with a cost, this empty reminder shows just what he lost. I hummed.

"I think this part is about one of my sculptures." I circled the first half of the riddle. "Cold bodies, still eyes... You assumed this card was specifically about me— what I am— but I haven't done anything wrong." It baffled me how he was right about the wrong thing. If part of the riddle really was about my sculptures, then I needed to think back to each one I've done. For the city, there were only three. And the one that pointed was a commission piece I did for the city. It was in the park, and given the direction.... My brows furrowed. "Bruce Wayne." He stepped away from me.

"What?" There was a strange amount of shock in his voice. "How did you..." It took only a second to gather what he had thought I discovered. He didn't sound scared, though. Just.... Surprised.

"I suppose there are no more secrets between us now, but that's not what I meant." I walked closer to him, closing the gap he made and showing the card. My finger underlined the front words. "Pity the recluse.... If I'm pitying, something must be wrong." I opened it. "I made a sculpture, the one in the park— it points to the heart of the city. Wayne tower isn't far off." I looked up at him, unable to discern the look on his face from the mask. "You're a recluse; and you've done nothing publicly for Gotham. Inaction. This empty reminder shows just what he lost...." I trailed off.

"The orphanage." His tone unreadable. Dark. The orphanage was abandoned and his own personal embodiment of becoming an orphan himself. The riddler wanted him to go there, but not as Bruce Wayne... Right? He couldn't have known something like that.... Could he? He had access to so many incriminating things about the mayor, the DA, the Commissioner— if his next target was Bruce Wayne, who's to say he hasn't figured out he was the Batman already?

"I guess you've got what you came for," I smiled through my worry. I had to trust his capability. "pleasant meeting you." I turned and walked back to my work, while he left without a word. We were bound to each other's secret, and held hostage by our own. Neither of us could say a word without our own truth being revealed.

Half of the city was underwater by the time we saw each other again, meeting on the roof of a building that there was no longer an entrance to. "Gotham needs more than what I am right now." He said, gazing off at the mess before us. "I need you to bite me." I sighed.

"There's more to it than just turning you, Bruce. I can't do that." He turned to me, ready to plead, but I spoke before he could. "You get so sick that you die. You wake up buried in a flashy suit and so thirsty that you'd kill literally anyone over the mere scent of them. It's an abyss." My hands went to his jaw and I took his mask off, relishing the sight of him. "Just because I haven't killed anyone in Gotham doesn't mean I've had this type of restraint forever. You're not ready for it." We stared at each other for a moment. Silence consuming us and yet so many words on our minds. I could see everything he wanted to say, everything he wanted to do— but neither of us moved any closer than we were.

"We can't be more than just this if you don't turn me," I couldn't tell if he earnestly wanted my love or if he wanted to use me for the immunity I could provide him. "I know you don't know me—" I cut him off.

"I know you more deeply than others, seeing you like this. Seeing you for who and what you are. For who you want to be." I traced the bat symbol on his chest lightly. "I know enough to believe I'd fall for you. But I can't stake your humanity for my own selfishness." I liked him. I liked his determination and his valor. I liked how he wanted Gotham to change, even if he was going about it in a strange way. But what he was asking of me was a cruelty to him. Especially if things didn't work out between us the way we were hoping.

"I'll stake it for you." He took the top part of his suit off. Baring his skin for me, Bruce pulled me towards him. "Do it." There was no choice. If this was what he wanted, if I was what he wanted— he'd find someone else to turn him. And knowing the type of people who turned me, there was a good chance he might be drained from lack of restraint. He'd die.

I leaned in closer to him, taking in the scent of his skin. One thing I truly did enjoy about my state was that humans didn't smell like how they smelled when I was one of them. Biologically, they changed from being my equals into being things I fed from. The blood that flowed through every inch of them, the pheromones they unknowingly released— every part of a human's body was something vampires were curated to crave. His scent was intoxicating, and I was positive separating myself from him would be one of the most difficult things I had to do. "I need to prepare myself for the taste of you." I muttered, feeling the way my breath grazed his skin with each word. My lips were practically touching the pale of his shoulder, my head dazed from the feeling of breathing him in. Bruce led my face to his, craning down to meet me— but he didn't move any closer.

"Wouldn't this be simpler?" He whispered. It was only then that I realized my fear that night was calmed by the lust I had for his blood. I've been driven into a hazy fog, completely malleable and his to manipulate. There wasn't one clear thought in my head that didn't completely revolve around him. But I didn't have to think anymore. I closed the gap between us and he pulled me further into him. I couldn't taste his blood like this, but I could feel his warmth and lose myself in it. The feeling of him pressing against me, the way he was holding me so desperately; I lost myself in him for just a moment. I pushed away from him, giving him the air he needed and taking the chance to move his jaw to the side. His neck was exposed to me, but I knew better than to bite him there. No matter how strong the urge to devour him was, my need to love and be loved was stronger.

I pressed my tongue to the skin I was so tempted to bite, drunk from just the taste of his flesh. “Lay down, I don't want you passing out in case I can't stop right away.” He followed my command only to pull me on top of him and into his lips. He was kissing me just for the sake of doing so. “Bruce,” His name slipped from my mouth in a whimper which seemed to only encourage him— but I backed off. I needed to cling to what little sense I had. If I let him go further with me while he was still human, I wouldn't have the ability to hold myself back. I could kill him, and I knew better than to let myself lose rationale.

“I'm sorry,” His face morphed with worry, hands reaching to hold me. “I shouldn't have—” I cut him off by biting into the muscle where his neck met his shoulders. I could feel the way he held my head closer to him, fingers buried in my hair. The moment his blood hit my tongue all of my thought was lost. He was so indescribably sweet that my brain couldn't wrap around the amount of pleasure I was in. My own euphoria was incomprehensible, and the only word I could think of was more. I wanted more of him, I needed more of him— all of him. And yet my arms pushed me off of him on their own, reluctantly I let him go.

The sight of him was beautiful. Orange hues painting his skin, blood flowing in smooth, rhythmic pumps from his vein, eyes captivating even through the smudged black liner. I pressed my hand firm against the wound, still straddling his lap from what we've done. Something in me knew that things would work out. That this wasn't some horrible mistake.

I could see on his face that he knew it too.

THIS WAS SO BAD IM SORRY💀 i had a vision right but i couldn't encapsulate it without multiple parts and we are Not having another beware situation — like and reblog pleasw😢🙏

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

I'd also love to see the thing of Foul Legacy Childe going feral to protect the person he loves 👀

*coughs* well, if you insist >:)c again, i'm not good at fight choreography but this one seems ok to me so i hope it's alright for you too!!

~ * ~ Abyssal Ballad

Foul Legacy Childe x Reader Gender Neutral (no pronouns mentioned) Angst Warnings: Injuries, gore, pain, blood, broken bones, mentally snapping, fear, potential death

~ * ~

You had never known much about the Abyss. How could you, as an ordinary, magic-less human, who toiled away at a standard researching position in the Liyue industry? While Celestia was often praised as being home to the archons and gods above, a sanctuary for only the finest heroes and the origin of elemental Visions, the Abyss was dark and mysterious, full of vicious creatures and an endless ocean, disturbed only by glassy waves and cold, twinkling starlight. While both held their infinite secrets locked tightly away, they were seemingly opposites, forever battling against each other in a plane the people of Teyvat wouldn’t dare reach. Fairytales and journals and books all held the same message: Celestia is day as the Abyss is night, and each will consume you, for better or worse.

The Abyss had always been “for worse”, something you had found difficult to believe when Childe reappeared. You had known him before, when he was a ginger-haired, Delusion-bearing Harbinger of the Fatui, but you knew him even better now as your fluffy and affectionate roommate, with endless curiosity and a love for dozing in the sunlight. You were cautious at first, but every time he curled up next to you for cuddles or pressed his forehead to yours with a happy trill, your hesitation waned, and it seemed every day grew brighter in this eternal summer.

But the Abyss never relinquishes anything it once kept.

It had been cloudy that day, rain looming on the horizon. But you, ever persistent, had set out with an umbrella, a report to deliver, and a mothlike monster by your side. He didn’t have to come with, but he insisted, something you found sweet and kind of him to do. The citizens of the city had gotten quite used to you and Childe, some even greeting you as you left for Wangshu Inn, just out of the Harbor and towards Mondstadt. The clouds looked suspicious, but remained a teasing gray instead of pouring rain onto you.

The walk was peaceful and quiet, only broken by Childe’s rumbles and your quick responses to them. Your umbrella was long enough to be used as a cane, and it tapped merrily with every step you took, never out of sync. The Inn was close, a faint outline in sight at the end of a winding path, soon to be reached by you and your companion.

It only took a moment.

Like all bad things, it happened at the first chance, quickly and efficiently.

Childe liked sparkly things, as did you. A couple of magpies, you often joked. A crystalfly had caught his attention, and he jumped up to chase it. He’d be back soon, as he always was.

Two minutes.

He was gone for two minutes, and two minutes was all it took for someone to grab the collar of your shirt and pull you back, immobilizing you with a simple yet effective hold. They whisper to you, and more whispers join them, ordering you to show them where “the monster” was, to do it, do it or else, because pain would be delighted to meet you. Unfortunately, for both them and for you, fear has never easily gotten a grasp on your senses, and you simply choke out a command for these people to leave you alone. They laugh, and take your right wrist between their fingers. They give you a choice: tell them, or have your wrist broken. Should be an easy choice, no?

There’s a sudden yelp of alarm and they turn, dragging you with them, towards the sound. Childe stands there, tense and furious. The person behind you laughs again, and someone moves closer to Childe, only to stumble back when he hisses at them. The grip around your wrist tightens, and they address Childe instead of you. Either come with them willingly, or your bone breaks; it’s his choice now. From your position, you subtly shake your head- don’t give into their demands- and he hesitates.

There’s an awful cracking sound as your wrist is harshly yanked to the side.

You grit your teeth from the pain, before whipping your head down and biting, biting hard, on your captor’s wrist. They yell in surprise and release you, and you scramble to get away using only one arm.

Then someone hits you with a blow to your ribs, and your breath vanishes as you fall.

Something in Childe snaps. There’s a deep, guttural growl, building slowly from his throat, before he leaps on your attacker, tearing off their head with horrifying accuracy.

Your captor’s companions hastily begin backing away, holding their weapons with trembling hands, pitiful little sticks that Childe easily flings away with a swipe of his talons. He lets out a shriek, a harrowing sound filled with rage and a terrible, eager anticipation, springing up and clamping his jaw onto someone’s arm to dislocate and rip it off.

Your vision swims as you blink, the edges of everything gray and fuzzy. Someone’s screaming- everyone’s screaming. It’s loud, so loud, and you wince in pain as howls of pain make your ears ring. There’s a stabbing sensation in your chest, and you vaguely wonder if one or more of your ribs are broken, the sound of bones crumbling beneath sharp, vicious fangs in tune with your thoughts.

Blood splatters on the ground, the tang of it making you nauseous, and there’s the sound of flesh being torn to shreds while you can almost hear a mocking, maniacal laugh.

You’ve heard that laugh, so long ago, in the fiery walls of a house of gold.

You close your eyes, letting your mind slowly go blank in a valiant attempt to ignore the cries and pleas of people before they die at the claws of the Abyss. The pain in your side remains, pestering you to stay awake, but quickly fades into the background as your mind detaches from reality, dulling your senses and thoughts.

Then everything falls silent.

The lack of noise hangs thickly in the air, deathly quiet and stagnant. The pond of eerie serenity ripples, heavy footsteps pressing the grass as they approach you, and a claw sticky with blood nudges your side. You tilt your head back, ever-so-slightly, and are met with an Abyssal gaze, filled with nothing but ice-colored stars; a cold, unfeeling anger.

And you.

Childe’s stare warms as he lays next to you, carefully draping an arm over your torso. There’s a wet sensation on your cheek, and you realize he’s licking the cuts you had unknowingly received on your face in an attempt to soothe you. He licks your wrist as well, despite the lack of open wounds, and your fear settles as you focus on breathing. You suck in a gulp of air, only to cough when your chest twinges in pain. Childe noiselessly tucks you closer to his side, supporting your head in the soft, blood-crusted pillow of his fluff, and your coughing lessens into sharp gasps for air. A warm liquid fills your mouth, the taste of metal and consistency of sticky syrup. Your vision becomes hazy, and the gray around everything turns to black. You think you can hear humming, a gentle rumble from the throat as a monster drowns in midnight waters.

Music plays, and an old ballad sings. Celestial skies and Abyssal waves, eternal twins, consuming the heart and mind forever.

[chainofclovers]

Grace and Frankie 7x1 - 7x4 thoughts

Meh? Like...I love them so much, but...meh?

(I did enjoy this line about brunch.)

I really loved season 6 of Grace and Frankie. I thought it was well-paced, largely very well-acted, generally well-written, and it culminated in a massive moment of character development for the title characters, who, having spent years growing closer and being there for each other when others could not or would not be, finally articulate to each other that they are the primary person in each other’s lives. Platonic gal pal soulmate BFF emotional support witches 4 lyfe!

I know progress isn’t always linear, and in fact is very rarely linear, but after a moment that significant, you’d think the writers on this show would maybe come up with some more interesting things for these characters to do than spin in circles?

@bristler and I watched on Friday night, and just this morning over breakfast had a good conversation about the first four episodes of the new season now that they have settled in our brains a bit. We concluded that the writing (often noticeably clunky, like the dialogue is responsible for more narration than usual) and the tone (aggressively wacky) feel really off, especially compared to the prior season. I think we diagnosed the big issue, which is that Lily Tomlin and Jane Fonda are by far the most talented actors on this show (if you disagree, fight me in the parking lot) and it feels surprisingly unfortunate that their characters have, to this point in the new season, pretty much figured out their perspectives on each other. No matter how people feel about Grace and Frankie’s sexualities, the whole show has been about them finding each other and getting in deeper and deeper, and it’s less interesting to watch other characters have realizations about that than it is to watch Grace and Frankie having realizations about themselves. If the title characters are now limited to reacting to other people’s actions, and the title characters are played by the best actors on the show, the whole show’s gonna suffer. And is suffering, very much so, at least for these first four episodes. I’m definitely still excited for the final twelve in 2022 (twelve! I cannot believe this season will have sixteen eps!), but I’m pretty disappointed so far.

Stuff I Loved:

The family brunch. These families have been entwined for so long, and the backstory for this particular brunch was so fun (even though I didn’t care for the effects they did to depict Grace and Robert 25 years ago; there was no need for a visual flashback in the scene). I love that Grace hit Frankie with a wiffle ball bat. I love that the two couples realized some of the emotional reasons behind their decisions to lie to each other about Bud’s Bunny and about M’Challah. I love the way Jane Fonda sounds uttering the phrase “Bud’s Bunny” with little to no irony. I love that Grace is able to recognize and articulate just how deep and miserable her anger issues were, albeit with the continued help of her omnipresent martini, and that Frankie told her she’d now make up a holiday in order to spend more time with Grace. I really, really hope Frankie does exactly this at some point in the remaining episodes of the season. I love that Grace is generally a pretty good person now, with aspirations of being a delightful person. I love that she and Frankie don’t have it in them to stay angry with each other, and I love all the evidence that they really, really talk to each other about everything now.

Frankie talking to the man at the office (I don’t remember who he was supposed to be? A toilet manufacturer? I didn’t mention this before, but I actually got pretty high while watching?!? Believe it or not, this was the first time I smoked pot and watched Grace and Frankie at the same time despite having enjoyed both activities on their own for quite some time. I would recommend the combo! And I think I still pretty much got what was happening) about paying for the toilet parts with candy. This whole subplot with the money laundering was absurd and not that interesting, but I loved this particular scene because it was finally evidence of some really thoughtful writing. The concepts aren’t enough! You have to write them into good dialogue! And the whole cash/candy thing was a moment of dialogue that only someone as hilarious as Lily Tomlin could pull off. Which she did, IMO.

In a show about super messy people, Coyote has stayed sober this entire time. He is sober, employed, in love, and preparing to buy a full-sized house with his partner. He hasn’t murdered anyone in his family. Hasn’t even attempted murder once.

In 2017 or whatever, Grace Hanson would have been furious about Frankie using obscure Beatles references like a treasure map when hiding the cash. But here in 2021, she cooperates and even gets in on the fun. The writing is very unsubtle this season, but that did feel like a reasonably subtle moment that shows how good of a partner she is for Frankie. (Platonic, of course! So platonic. Female friendship, amirite?)

Stuff I Did NOT Love and Felt Incredibly Negative About:

Brianna. I can only conclude that June Diane Raphael has decided she’s happy with playing a character whose primary role in life is to be hot and mean. She succeeds at being hot and mean, but I have reached my limit with this character. I realize we’re only a quarter of the way into the season, but I don’t think I can take another arc about her learning to compromise only to reveal to Barry that she never intended to compromise at all. At this point, it’s both abusive and boring. How?! The Grace/Brianna parallels aren’t interesting anymore, because one character has grown and the other is stagnant. I get that Brianna was raised in an emotionally stilted environment by two unhealthy people. But I think it would be very cool if she could learn something from her mother at this point. Grace has put a ton of effort into dealing with her “rabbit-killing, mad-at-the-world anger.” She’s put a ton of effort into figuring out what makes her happy, what she wants her life to look like. She’s even started accepting her age and abilities without shame. And that growth is believable; Grace is still short-tempered and she still slugs back way too many martinis and she struggles to articulate certain things, but she’s grown into a truly lovely human. And while, as a daughter with a mother, I can absolutely attest to the fact that it can be difficult and uncomfortable to learn lessons from one’s mother, Brianna really, really should. Grace spent decades letting anger and shame trap her in a small, miserable life. Brianna—and even Mallory, who just seems like a vapid idiot this season—are traveling that same path, but there’s someone right there who could really help, maybe even more than Frankie helped when the Hanson girls were first growing up.

The arraignment. The scene might’ve been salvageable if it was filmed from Grace’s perspective, and filmed to reflect how surreal and improbable it all was. But speaking of non-linear progress, this scene erased everything Nick Skolka has done to put himself in my good graces (LOL) over the past couple seasons. I mean, I tried, man. I even wrote fic about Nick, Grace, and Frankie making a genuine effort at polyamory. But the arraignment is so emotionally manipulative, such a slap in the face of everything Grace has worked for, and while we’re certainly “supposed” to feel the weight of the moment, I mean, it’s not like we’re supposed to be like, “Oh, cool, we’re in a rom com now! This is adorable!” it still felt bad and unearned and slapdash.

And I want Frankie to process these things with her! Frankie seems so happy to have all this information about Grace and how Grace feels, but I want to see scenes in which we can gain an understanding of how Frankie actually feels. Hearing Frankie talk to other people about how Grace feels is interesting, but it’s like there’s no room in these episodes for us to learn anything new about Frankie herself.

Grace’s transitional wig. Is so. Bad. It is. Such a. Bad wig. Oof. I mean, I like what they’re doing with Grace’s hair from a plot perspective, although (see one bullet up) I would really like to get more of an understanding of what’s happening in Grace’s head, not just on top of her head. And gosh, Frankie would be a really good person to talk to about this in a conversation that lasts longer than 30 seconds. But the wig! She’s in a wig in all four episodes, of course, since Jane Fonda went grey and cut her hair short before they started filming this season. The wig for episodes 1 and 2 is fine; it’s a good approximation of Grace’s typical hair, and of course we know that canonically Grace’s hair isn’t 100% her own hair anyway. But the wig with grey roots looks so weird. The part that’s growing out doesn’t look the same as the hair on the wig from 1 and 2. And the grey roots look like a yarmulke. I cannot wait to get to the point in the season when Grace goes all the way grey.

(One more thing about the hair. I can’t let it go. I paused the show while we were watching to rant, but I’m not done.) I had the great privilege of seeing Jane Fonda in person at a protest in 2019. She is an insanely beautiful human. She was growing her hair out and it was partially dyed blonde and partially grey. It looked really cool. I am not ashamed to say I spent that day learning many things about the climate crisis and about Jane Fonda’s hair. Having seen her in real life with her real hair looking that fucking great, I just have a an extra-large grudge against everyone involved in that horrible wig. The wig is necessary, but it didn’t have to be this bad.

What Do I Care About Now?

I am pretty intrigued by the way Grace threw out her real age in a conversation with Nick and Elena. She has nothing to fear anymore! She’s so chill about aging! What could go wrong? I assume that Nick and Elena maneuvering for Nick to be on house arrest in Grace's house specifically has to do with the fact that Grace is 82. She’s gonna find out that Nick is allowed to be with her because she’s ancient and helpless and the court took pity. Or something like that. She’s going to feel betrayed on top of feeling stifled and overwhelmed by Nick’s presence. I want to see where this goes for sure.

Other than that, and other than the fact that I really do continue to believe this show is moving in a direction in which Grace and Frankie will choose each other, I feel very whatever about this whole thing. I love this show and I will always appreciate this show for giving me some incredible characters to spend years of my life writing about, and for bringing me some pretty amazing friendships. Speaking of those friendships, yesterday @ellydash and @telanu and I were talking about some of the incredible TV we’ve watched recently, like Ted Lasso and Hacks and Fleabag and Killing Eve, and how great it feels to watch beautifully written TV crafted by writers who are profoundly—organically yet intentionally—attuned to even the most minor character’s rhythm. The disappointment of these first few episodes of the new G&F season feels like a mild disappointment rather than a sharp heartbreak, and that has a lot to do with being deeply invested in other shows that could also go in all kinds of different directions but with writing I fundamentally trust.

Also Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin are my forever faves and my appreciation for their performances and general awesomeness onscreen and in life is undiminished. So that’s pretty cool.

[delimeful]

the shapes in the silence (12)

warnings: dissociation, fighting, mild blood & injury, panic, another hopefully less bad cliffhanger

-

Puff woke up to a gentle hand down his back ridges, his hoard chattering above him, and an odd, high pitched note on the edge of his hearing.

His ears twitched in agitation at the noise, but his hoard took priority, so he took a moment to stretch before finally tuning into the conversation.

The three of them were arguing about another one of their screen viewings, trying to decide which one of their little stories to play. Each of them seemed to treasure very specific titles with passionate reverence, but for Puff couldn’t tell the difference between most of them. The screen was always too bright for his eyes to focus on for long, and the sounds often too loud.

As such, when the decision was left up to him, he simply stared at them blankly for a moment before settling back into a curled up shape to continue dozing.

There was a pause in the chatter (making the strange noise seem all the louder) and then they continued speaking in much more muted tones, indicating discomfort and uncertainty. Puff felt a twinge of discontent run through him and sighed grumpily.

This was the problem with a human-shaped hoard. They were so difficult to maintain.

Not that Puff would trade his hoard for all the shining things in the world. Each of them on their own were more valuable than any number of treasures combined. Every dragon probably felt that way about their hoard, but in his case it was true.

He let his eyes slit open, peering at the nearest of his collection.

Roman, who carried the smell of pigments and an appreciation for the finer things himself, was like a golden gauntlet. Ornate but handcrafted, painstaking care in every detail, and dripping with rubies.

Logan, who needed his hands occupied just as well as his mind, was like an illuminated manuscript. Pages draped in silver leaf edging, needing such a delicate touch to keep the ink from wearing away.

Patton, who watched them all with keen eyes and a warm gaze, was like a polished wooden music box. Inside, rose-colored clockwork met precisely placed metal prongs, together producing the notes to a nostalgic tune.

They were so precious, all of them, but never more than when they were shining their brightest with joy and contentment.

Puff was having a hard time making them happy, lately. Without Not-Puff, it was much harder to figure out which actions would keep his hoard from becoming dull with misery. His tail thrashed irritably as he once again felt the absence in himself.

Despite his constant presence as a part of their shared being, Not-Puff was assuredly not part of the hoard. He was like a rusty, chipped butterfly knife. All double edges and caked dirt from lack of care. Barely even worth looking at.

Still, Not-Puff was better at understanding which choices would make the hoard happy, which meant he was useful to have around. Puff mentally prodded at the barrier aiding in keeping the other half of him tucked quietly away, but there was no response. As the days passed, he’d only stirred when one of the hoard did something dangerous-stupid that went against all of their shared protective instincts, and even then, only barely.

It made Puff think that he didn’t plan on coming back.

It wasn’t like Not-Puff was a dragon, so maybe he simply didn’t care as much about the hoard. And even if he was gone for good, what did Puff care? That just meant more room for him in the empty, echoing space of their mind.

… Whatever.

Puff rolled over and got to his feet, stretching his wings out until they threatened to cramp. How irritating, thoughts like this keeping him up when all he wanted to do was take a nap.

If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well investigate the source of the noise.

He leapt easily to the floor, his hoard having already picked a glow story to watch in subdued silence. Patton called out a parting caution, and then Puff was off, trotting over to the stairs.

He passed Not-Puff’s room with barely a glance down the darkened hall. It was empty, obviously, though most of his hoard didn’t seem to realize. Logan and Patton often stood at the threshold, knocking and trying to coax Not-Puff out with sweet foods or concerned words, and while Roman generally avoided it, Puff had caught him staring more than once.

No matter what they tried or didn’t try, it remained locked up, silent and dark inside. Just like its former resident.

Puff could still get in, though he refrained from using the small flap-like door when others were watching. It wouldn’t do to make his hoard feel excluded, after all.

His dagger, the obsidian one with the gilded edges and honeyed words, could get inside, too.

His dagger-- Puff couldn’t quite recall the false name he used-- spent a lot of his time locked in that room, which was a bit foolish of him. It couldn’t be pleasant. Even Puff could feel the stagnant, fearful aura that lingered there, and dragons weren’t known for being affected by such things.

Not-Puff had complex, many-edged feelings towards their dagger, but it didn’t really matter, because Not-Puff had complex feelings about all of the hoard. He was a strange one like that.

In any case, it didn’t stop Puff from occasionally tromping off to go curl up in his dagger’s lap, letting the silly creature talk at him. He always talked when Puff came to bask with him, trying to coax Not-Puff out with lies and threats and even apologies that made his voice crack.

None of it ever worked.

He wasn’t in Not-Puff’s room now, though. Puff felt around curiously, and found his dagger was out in the real world, playing pretend.

He did that more and more often these days, dressing up to masquerade as Not-Puff for their Thomas. It was a strange practice. Puff much preferred his dagger as himself, all shining scales and black velvet.

Thomas was the crown of their little hoard, of course. It only made sense.

The odd tone grew in intensity, and Puff shook off his distractions, ears flattening against his skull. He could curl up with his hoard later, once this irritating buzzing was-- as Roman would say-- vanquished.

He passed the doors in the hall one after another, listening carefully at each one. After such a thorough inspection, the answer became clear.

Puff studied the portal-like entrance to the imagination, head tilting back and forth as he listened carefully to the noise. Not-Puff’s fear of this realm had kept Puff from wandering into it alone up until now, but the painful buzzing was definitely coming from it.

It was Not-Puff’s own fault for not being around to stop him, he decided, and stepped through.

-

As Puff trotted down cobblestone paths and dirt roads after the sound, it only seemed to grow more and more intense, enough so that he had to stop a few times to shake his head agitatedly, trying to get rid of the ringing headache.

At least those irritating shadow projections Not-Puff spawned weren’t present. The woven thread around his neck seemed to do well enough preventing them, which was good, because Puff wasn’t in the mood to go scampering around avoiding the trifling things. Not when there were noises to attend to.

“So it worked, after all.”

The strange, lilting voice made him spin around, wings flaring defensively.

Up in the twisting boughs of an old oak, the stranger cocked their head, bird-like. “I wasn’t sure it would,” they continued. “You’re a strange one, aren’t you?”

They tossed a hollow stone in their hand, the strange noise emanating from it. The scales along their cloak rattled with every movement, and Puff’s hackles rose in response. He remembered them. The Witch that tried to turn him against his own hoard.

“Now, don’t be rude. I’ve skinned beasts much larger than you with barely a snap of the fingers, you know.” They slid down to the ground, and Puff skittered back a few steps. “Halt.”

The compulsion took root firmly in him, keeping his feet glued to the ground. He hissed viciously, furious that their magic had such a hold on him. They sauntered closer and dropped to a squat.

“So my thrall does affect you… perhaps before was a one-off? I suppose it’s still interesting enough that you somehow keep your mind.” The eyes of their mask were dark and hollow, sending a chill down Puff’s spine even as he continued to growl viciously. “Quiet, now. Keep your mouth shut.”

His teeth clacked together painfully as his mouth snapped shut, leaving an impotent glare as his only form of defense.

“Perfect,” they said, and plucked him up from the ground, calming his struggles with another pulse of magic and a hand down his spine. “His Royal Irritation has been rearing for fight after fight lately, so it’ll be nice to finally have some leverage on my side.”

A chill spread through him.

“How long do you think it will take for him to find you?” they mused, tone light and mocking as they continued to run their hand along his spine possessively. “Days? Weeks? I certainly hope I’ll have enough time to prepare for company.”

Puff felt as though the metal cuff around his leg had grown suddenly heavy. He had a sinking feeling that it wouldn't take them nearly as long as he might hope, not when his hoard had grown so used to having him constantly nearby. Not when there was a tracker to lead them right into the Witch’s trap.

“Don’t fret, little dragon,” they crooned, tapping a finger between his eyes. “Sleep. I’ll wake you for the fun.”

Unable to do anything else, he obeyed.

-

When he woke, it was on the floor of an ornate birdcage, with magic thick in the air.

He uncurled, limbs weak, and pushed himself up to see that not one, but three of his hoard were before him, standing there in the grand hall of an ancient castle, facing off with the Witch.

The sight sent a thrum of alarm through him. The three of them didn’t enter the Imagination together often, and the effects of their combined presence made the place feel more real, more lasting.

Seeing the way they were back to back, surrounded by vicious constructed monsters, that wasn’t a good thing. That was a very, very bad thing indeed.

Even from his position next to the Witch’s throne, he could make out the cut on Roman’s forehead that continued to drip blood into his eyes, the way Logan leaned his weight heavily on one foot as though injured, the exhausted shaking of Patton’s frame as he tossed away a monster at Roman’s back.

More than that, he could feel the strain of his mental connection to his hoard, the urge to keep them from harm nearly all-consuming. They were his, and he would not stand idly by while they suffered.

For the first time in weeks, there was a stirring inside of Puff, like a billowing of air on banked coals. A white-hot glow, expanding with nowhere to go.

A gloved hand flicked the bars of the cage, bringing all his furious attention to the Witch. Their invisible gaze rested intently on him, making his scales prickle.

“Enjoying the show, small one?”

If looks could kill, this battle would be long over. The Witch laughed lowly at him.

“You look at me so fiercely, but this wouldn’t have been possible without you, you know?” They turned their gaze back to the battle with a darkly satisfied tint to their voice. “All three of them, right here in the palm of my hand for the sake of such a tiny, helpless creature. I’d almost think there’s something genuinely special about you. Too bad you probably won’t survive the heartbreak when I kill them.”

The snarl Puff let out seemed too small, too weak to even begin to express the amount of vitriol inside of him. The Witch didn’t even glance at him before rising to their feet to join the battle themself. His body trembled oddly.

He was afraid, he realized with a startle. He was more afraid than he’d ever been before.

That internal stir rose up again at the emotion, but it still felt as though a wall of thick mental fog separated Puff from it, like reaching through a haze. Bracing himself, he pushed past it anyways, dizzy with the effort.

For the first time since they’d been separated, Not-Puff was reaching back. Puff hesitated for the barest of moments.

If they did this. There would be consequences.

If they didn’t do this…

Nothing could be worse than losing them, one of them answered, and the other agreed. Which one was which didn’t really matter, in the end.

He took the anger and the fear that bubbled up inside of him and let them grow, welling up into one singular drive to protect. And, as the empty space around him seemed to vanish, he realized that he was growing, too.

The bracelet was the first thing to go, the connecting thread snapping at the pressure of his changing form. The tracer cuff followed easily, metal crumpling, and then the bars of the birdcage bent until they snapped, and then he was free of every restraint at last.

Virgil half-expected to come back to a human shape at that very moment, but Puff was still more than present in their mind, and as much as he loved their humans, there was clearly a superior option to better keep them all safe.

He flickered up like the flame tongues of a rising bonfire, or a bolt of energy connecting the earth and heavens, until he was big enough that his wings spread and met the adjacent walls of the throne chamber.

Every eye in the room was upon him, and when he growled, it was like the rolling crashes of a thunderstorm. Some of the monsters cowered away from that alone, turning tail and fleeing.

The Witch looked up at him and cackled, exuberant where they should be terrified.

“I knew there was something there, something different! You may have changed shape, little dragon, but my thrall isn’t so weak as to be influenced by size. You’ve only made your hoard’s end that much easier for me!”

Virgil could see the three of them behind the Witch, crowded together and staring up at him with equal parts apprehension and hope. His hoard wouldn’t be hurt a single moment longer. Not by the Dragon Witch, and certainly not by him.

The Witch lifted their arm and snapped their finger at him.

“Stop all that noise, little dragon,” they commanded, and the compulsive magic washed over him and rolled right off.

Slowly, deliberately, he took a step forward, and his growl rose in volume, echoing off the vaulted ceiling.

There was a heady feeling of satisfaction at the way the Witch stumbled back, the mask barely hiding their shock. “I said stop, right now.”

The magic passed, easier and easier to ignore. The Witch would never control this body again, no matter what form it took.

With a howl of wordless anger, they vanished from sight, and all the monsters that remained turned to him with aggression writ in every line of their bodies. An unfamiliar sensation welled up in his chest, waiting to be released.

Might as well see what this familiar-unfamiliar form could manage.

Working off Puff’s instincts, Virgil opened his mouth and let something click in the back of his throat before exhaling what looked like thick, rolling smoke. It filled the air, clumping together dense and heavy, and Virgil blinked, recognizing the form of it.

Huh. Storm clouds.

In the next moment, lightning sparked, shooting down and lancing straight through every attacking creature. Virgil darted a few steps closer, somewhat alarmed that friendly fire might hit the others, but even as they hunched down in surprise, any electricity that neared them seemed to simply veer away.

Of course it did, the more draconic part of him crowed smugly. No magic of his would hurt his hoard.

He went to his humans anyhow, moving slow so as to not startle them. He was the oversized one, now.

He needn’t have worried. As soon as he lowered his head into range, Patton lunged forward, wrapping his snout in the best hug he could manage. He was clearly sniffing back tears. “Oh, kiddo, we were so worried!”

Roman was attempting to casually lean on his sword, but there was clear relief in his gaze, too. “We should have known better than to believe the Dragon Witch would get the better of you, huh, Puff?”

Virgil huffed a cloud of colorless vapor into Roman’s face. Affectionately.

“We should celebrate our reunion later, once we’re safely out of here,” Logan pointed out over Roman’s faux-indignant complaints.

Despite his own words, Logan took a moment to reach out, gently placing a hand on the side of Virgil’s head as though to reassure himself that he was real. Virgil leaned into the touch slightly, an odd pleased chur bubbling up from his chest.

As his eyes slitted nearly shut in happiness, he caught movement from the corner of his vision.

The Witch, holding one hand aloft and casting something that made his skin prickle, aiming not at him, but at the other Sides.

Quicker than he could think, his body was moving, curling around his precious people with only a second to brace himself before the attack struck him solidly in the back.

It seemed a simple strike at first, barely breaking skin, and he regained his footing as the others rose to his defense with a ferocity that made his chest feel strangely pressurized. Between the three of them, the Witch was more than outmatched, and they were finally forced to flee.

It was only then that Virgil noticed the feeling of rot and fever spreading along his skin.

He stumbled, and then lay down heavily as his energy dipped well below what was sustainable. The others fluttered around him like moths, trying to figure out what was wrong.

Virgil let out a sigh, almost too exhausted to be panicked. He’d really thought for a moment that he’d pull it off, that he could deal with the backlash of the huge, energy-draining form on his own in private and maintain this fragile balance. So much for that.

On his next exhale, there was a flash-crack as the transformation came crashing back down on him, leaving him snapped back into the form he’d abandoned. Anxiety.

Around him, there was a stunned silence to replace the earlier clamor. He forced himself to blink his eyes open, resisting the urge to squint and see them more clearly. He didn’t really want to see what kinds of expressions they were wearing.

Whatever the Witch had cursed him with was still active, burning him up from the inside-out like the awful fever Thomas had gotten when he was ten. If the others weren’t going to take the opportunity to discorporate him, the poisoned injury would manage just fine on its own. And he’d just gotten back, too.

At least the others weren’t in danger anymore. Hopefully, Thomas would be okay until he reformed.

… Who was he kidding? Thomas had managed fine all these days with him gone. He would probably be better off without Anxiety, just like everyone had always said.

Still, he was leaving the others without being punished for the deception he’d been subjecting them all to for so long. He was leaving them without any real answers at all.

“Sorry,” he managed to grit out, barely able to think past the blood rushing in his ears. It seemed to break the fragile silence, because the others all began speaking at once, creating an indecipherable tangle of noise.

Soundlessly, Virgil passed out.

[hotdogct]

blooms in adversity ||| n.jm

pairing: na jaemin x reader genre: angst-ish, fluff. words: 1.8k a/n: you ever get rejected from a job and have a complete meltdown over your future hahahahahhaaa just asking for a friend :) title is an obvious nod to ‘mulan’, i listened to way too much hippo campus while writing this. enjoy!!!

network tags: @czennienet​

At this time we have decided to move forward with other candidates in the hiring process. Thank you for your interest and we wish you the best of luck in the future.

The rejection email might’ve landed in your inbox late in the afternoon, but you had been anticipating its arrival all day long - the thought of it lingering, stagnant, weighing heavily on your brain like a storm cloud that refused to pass. 

Jaemin knew this, anticipated it. It’s why the two of you were outside, taking full advantage of the warmth the sun was providing this late spring day. After noticing the neglected planter on your balcony in the early days of your relationship, Jaemin wouldn’t stop nagging you about his ‘legendary’ green thumb. As soon as winter began to fade to spring he began to wax poetic,  explaining the overwhelming benefits plant ownership has on a person and pretty please can-he-take-you-to-the-nursery and-

It’s not that you didn’t appreciate flowers. Some of your fondest memories of the early stages of your relationship were the bouquets Jaemin would spoil you with at each date - how you used to keep them on display prominently in the kitchen, a silent reminder of his newly blooming affection towards you. Even after they wilted, lost their petals, there was seldom time to mourn. A new bouquet would always take its place, and the absentminded cycle could continue.

Absentminded. That was your whole problem, the reason for the sad remains of dead flowers residing in the neglected planter. You had started off with the brightest of intentions when moving into your first apartment - wanting to establish routine and create the perfect place to unwind at the end of the day.

Nervously you had browsed the outdoor section of the nearest hardware store, shaky hands brushing over begonias and marigolds, before settling on a flat of dusty pink petunias to take home. None of these names meant anything to you, no terms familiar. Equipped with extra gardening tools courtesy of your mother, you spent that afternoon carefully digging into the soil. Gently sitting each starter petunia into place and covering their roots as if tucking in a child for the night. For the next few days, you’d make sure to have your daily nightcap of wine out on the balcony, watch the sunset and water the planter. 

But one day you forgot. The next you were tired. Then you went out of town for the weekend. And at that point, shame left you frozen. Rather than attempting to salvage your petunias, you passively let the entire idea and label of “plant mom” slip from your brain.  A pattern that followed you your entire life - never quite being able to follow through, see something to completion. Sometimes you almost feel as wilted as the abandoned petunias themselves.

This was why Jaemin, with his prince-like features, his romantic gestures and bouquets, swept you off your feet almost instantly. Rather than nagging you about a drawer being left open in the kitchen, a light left on in the living room, the messy dining room table after a night of arts and crafts, he would simply take care of whatever chaos you had left in your wake. You might’ve been a storm, tremendous and unpredictable. Yet Jaemin thought there was nothing more beautiful, and decided he was up for the thrill of the chase. 

So it was only fair to humor him, to try again at the “plant mom” thing. After his consistent nagging reached a crescendo that rivaled only the oncoming cicada brood in terms of volume, you found yourselves strolling through the nearby nursery bright and early on a weekend morning. 

“You’ve put this off all Spring long,” Jaemin lamented, gesturing wildly with his hand at the expanse of greenhouses before the two of you. “And look! Now there’s nothing pretty left!”

“What are you talking about, Na?” You could easily spot at least three to four different flats of colorful starters that had already caught your eye, and started to walk tentatively over in their direction. Before you could get too far, Jaemin’s firm grasp on your wrist prevented you from moving much further, a pout apparent upon his features. Instead he pivoted you both in the opposite direction, towards the more complex greenery and shrubs. You shot Jaemin a confused glance, which only led to a small laugh escaping his lips, followed by words that left your cheeks as crimson as the nearby roses:

“Those flowers weren’t nearly pretty enough for the balcony, let alone pretty enough for you.” 

It had been Jaemin who had pushed you to apply for this job. You were blinded by the familiarity of the stressful retail gig you held long before the two of you even met. The ever changing schedule, along with the grueling work and constant understaffing was your unshifting reality. But you had health benefits and a small, but earnest 401K started - what could you really complain about?

Turns out, quite a bit. It wasn’t until one late night in bed, where Jaemin was massaging your back and shoulders wordlessly after a brutal shift - doing his best to water and tend to you, his most beautiful flower. Silently pressing his hands firmly on, around, all over your shoulder blades in a busy pattern, he tried his best to keep his anger contained to the intensity of his movements. How could they neglect you so? A flower of your caliber needed full sun - and Jaemin didn’t need to feel the tight knots your muscles had twisted themselves into to know that you were wilted. While he was especially gifted at keeping his mouth shut, a brief look at your pained, exhausted expression was all it took for him to slip, speak up.

“You deserve better than this.”

Immediately wide eyed despite how tired you were seconds before, Jaemin realized the vagueness of the previous thought, and clarified, pulling away from your body so that you could roll over, sit up. “N-not like that. This job is going to kill you.” 

Your face softened. While stubborn to a fault, even you could admit Jaemin’s argument was sound. When was enough enough?

And then, doubt. Before you could even begin to imagine the possibilities, the blue sky ideas that could await you. Instead, you immediately hone in on the skills you don’t possess, requirements you don’t meet. The idea of not running on automatic, the thought of having to try, of doing something new. The overwhelming fear of rejection. Pulse racing now, each shallow breath in only made the thorns that had grown around your ego constrict themselves further, pressing in uncomfortably.

Jaemin’s arms find their way around your trembling body seconds later, his added weight bringing you back down to earth. You periodically feel his lips leaving gentle kisses, pressed with the utmost care along the back of your neck, the curve of your shoulder. In between, ghost whispers of comfort land reassuringly in your ear.

“You have so much to offer the world.” 

“You deserve to be somewhere where you can shine.”

“Let's get you blooming again, yeah?”

The smile that graced Jaemin’s face when you told him you had a second interview scheduled was so bright it could probably be seen from outer space. True to his word, over the last month he helped revise your resume, hunt for job listings, prepare for interviews late into the night. There was gradually less and less tension in your muscles when Jaemin would massage almost nightly. Buds slowly began to appear on your stems, where rot had once been. 

The second interview went great - or so you had thought. Then the hours after turned into a day, then two, then the week passed without hearing back. Your expectations had plummeted like a sagging helium balloon, days past its prime. The subject went unmentioned by both you and Jaemin, the silence instead speaking volumes.

The two of you were out on the balcony, music blaring. You’re sitting on an uncomfortable stool watching Jaemin below you, donned in a gardening visor and bright pink gloves. He was planting the flowers you were absolutely frightened to take care of, when the rejection email arrived, unceremoniously. 

You blink once, twice, comprehending the words on your phone screen individually. Move forward - are you now set back? Other candidates - no, that’s you, you feel like the “other”, luck - you’ll need it, alright-

Deep breath. 

You look over and down. Jaemin is so heavily invested in covering a starter daisy just right with soil that he missed your initial reaction, your brief show of raw emotion.  Sensing your eyes on him, he looks up at you, squinting into the sun, smiles bright. If autopilot didn’t fail you now, the small smile on your face would convince him you’re fine, everything was fine. 

But Jaemin was intuitive, he was smart, and he knew better. The speaker was playing some cheerful pop song, the weather was cooperating and tolerable. His nail beds were caked with dirt and soil, a favorite feeling of his from childhood that comes with the satisfaction of gardening. His wide eyes were still studying you. There you were, his radiant flower, sitting in the fullest and brightest of sun, and he had nurtured you back to growth.

So why weren’t you blooming?

“Are you okay?”

A small chuckle leaves your lips, knowing the truth and the inevitability of it all. This time when you blink once, twice, in an attempt to avoid Jaemin’s overwhelming gaze, you can feel hot liquid streaming down your cheeks, taste the saltiness of the tears once they hit your lips. You can hear the clatter of gardening tools being abandoned, plastic flats of flowers being shoved aside, and you can feel Jaemin’s broad frame envelop you seconds later, almost knocking both of you off the stool. 

You lose track of the time, sobbing into Jaemin’s chest. An exaltation of the saddest manner, but necessary when coming from someone as normally stoic as you. His tight grip around you never wavered, the softest of rocking motions to settle you down, his familiar hands massaging at your weary frame. Loving words on loop from his lips.

“This is just a minor setback...it’s alright...”

“They don’t know what they’re missing.”

“We’ll get you back out there tomorrow.”

Eventually your brain stops screaming, though a headache remains. Your breath steadies into a slow rhythm. As quickly as it had arrived, the overwhelming anxiety courtesy of the rejection email disappeared.  The once raging storm had subsided.

And still, Jaemin thought, there was nothing more beautiful.